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inky-duchess · 1 month ago

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Fantasy Guide to Fashion of the Victorian Era

(Yes, all of it)

Since I started these historical fashion references, one that seems to be the most popular is the Victorian era and for a while, I put it off because its a big undertaking. I mean, its sixty odd years and fashion changed so much. But I have an afternoon free and a cup of coffee so fuck it, we ball.

Undergarments

Undergarments fundamentally remained mostly the same throughout the era but due to changing silhouettes, certain things changed.

Women

Chemise: This is the underdress worn by all women under everything else. It would have made of linen and cotton and like most of the clothes of the Victorian era, changed with the times. In the early period (1837-40s), the chemise was loose and commonly knee length. The next twenty years, 1850s-1870s, the chemise got slightly more fitted. In the 1880s, due to the changing shape of evening gowns which we will discuss later on, sleeves chemises started being worn. Became more fitted as corsets tightened. Some chemises featured lace or embroidery for elegance.

Pantaloons: These are linen or cotton pants like items of clothing. They weren't really popular in the early end of the era but after crinolines started being used, they became a staple. Toward the end of the era, the pantaloons became wider and more flared.

Combinations: This is an undergarment worn from the 1870s on that combined the upper and lower layers into a single unit - almost like a longer version of a bodysuit. The crotch was split to allow the lady the freedom to use the lavatory.

Corset: Corsets are the structured garment that is worn on the upper body to support the breasts. It wasn't all about giving a lady a snatched waist. The corset started out longer in the 1830s-40s and the boning was commonly whalebone (Not actually bones of whales) if your lady can afford it or a substitute. In the 1850s-60s, corsets were shorter, the boning was replaced with steel which lent to the more rigid figure ladies were after. In the 70s-80s, corsets adopted a more prominent curve at the waist in order to support the bustle of the decades. The 90s, saw corsets becoming less restrictive and more breathable with more flexible options for boning.

Corset covers: Were like short vests worn over the corset to protect the fabric of the dress from the eyelets and fastenings of the corset worn from about 1840 on.

Hip pads: Worn tied around the hips to take the pressure off the hips frol the corset and bustle, worn around the 1870s-80s.

Stockings: Stockings essentially stayed the same but different fabrics and ways of securing them did change over time. The 1830s-40s, stockings were secured by a garter ribbon and usually made of wool or cotton. Wealthier women could opt for a patterns or a higher quality of fabric. The 1850s-60s, saw the rise of the silken stockings for wealthier women but the way of securing them remained the same. The 1880s-1901, saw the appearance of elastic garters and plain black stockings became more popular than colour.

Crinolines: A crinoline was a hooped petticoat that made skirts wider. These were made of linen and horsehair at first but crinolines were soon fashioned out of light spring steel. Working class women did wear them but they were much less pronounced and lighter. In the early Victorian era, crinolines were not used. But in the 1850s-60s, women started to wear them and by the late 60s, the biggest crinolines would span the skirts to almost five feet. Crinolines are so tied to our idea of the Victorian era but they were really only around for a short period of time.

Bustles: Bustles were there to add more junk to a lady's trunk, if you will. They were padded cushion like things or frameworks used to enhance the back of a lady's gown. Wealthy women had very prominent bustles while working class women would have worn them less pronounced. Bustles were worn in the 1870s-80s, just on the heels of the death of the crinoline. But once the 90s hit, the bustle lost popularity and skirts became slimmer.

Petticoats: Petticoats are lighter skirts of linen and cotton worn in layers over structured garments and under the main dress. They were worn for warmth and for structure. Before the dawn of the crinoline and the bustle, multiple layers of petticoats were used to add volume to the skirts. But during the crinoline and bustle eras, petticoats were no longer worn for volume but to keep the layers from snagging on each other. Women from wealthy classes and working class women both wore petticoats, but working class women wore much sturdier ones while the wealthier women would have worn lighter and more decorated versions.

Men

Shirts: Under-shirts were worn as a base layer for men. The shirts were usually made of cotton or linen and had long sleeves. In the early Victorian era, shirts were longer and worn tucked into trousers and had high collars. In the 1850s-60s, shirts became stiffer; they were pleated at the front and the collars were lower and stiffened. By the 1870s-80s, shirts became even more stiffer thanks to the trend of starch and worn with detachable collars which would be held in place with pins. By the 1890s-1901, shirts became a part of outerwear rather than a base layer retaining the starch and detachable collars.

Drawers: These are linen/cotton underpants. In the 1830s-40s, they were loose and worn long at the knee. Drawers in the 1850s-60s, became more fitted and flannel was beginning to become a popular fabric. In the 1870s-80s, drawers got even longer, reaching mid-calf and were now secured with buttons at the waist. Drawers remained popular for wealthier men past this point.

Union Suits: Union suits were a singular item of clothing that combined the underwear to a long-sleeved shirt. They were mainly worn by working class men, especially men who worked outside. Though invented in the 60s, they were not popular until the end of the era. And yes, they could go to the bathroom in them. There were two helpful flaps.

Stockings: Stockings were worn by men, usually made of wool or cotton and held in place by garters. Wealthier men opted for silk stockings around the 1850s-60s. Like the women, elastic stockings emerged around the later part of the era. Stockings were also secured by stocking suspenders, which were clipped to the waist for support.

Suspenders: Men did not wear belts in this era so suspenders were the only way to hold up one's pants. They were worn under waistcoats. In the early period from the 1830s-1850s, suspenders were made from leather or woven fabric and attached with buttons. In the 1860s-1880s, suspenders became elasticated and thanks to Mark Twain, yes that one, they became adjustable. From the 1890s to 1901, suspenders were still popular but belts were taking over and suspenders were mainly worn by the upper class as a symbol of sophistication.

Day Wear

If the undergarments only changed a little, the outer layers changed significantly. Fashion really took off in this era, giving us some of the most recognisable silhouettes.

Women

Day wear for women changed with each decade due to changing status symbols and expectations. I'm going to break it down to skirts, sleeves, hats and bodices to show the differences between each era.

Skirts:

1830s-1840s: Wealthier women favoured dresses that sported wide skirts. Working class women had less voluminous skirts.

1850s-1860s: Wealthier women wore very large crinolines that expanded the skirts into an extreme bell-shape. Working class women wore crinolines too but their skirts did not reach the volume of the wealthier class, mainly out of practicality.

1870s-1880s: As I mentioned above, wealthy women wore very prominent bustles which sort of pulled back the skirts giving it a flat shape to the front and a larger bump in the back (the mullet of dresses if you will). Working class women also wore bustled skirts and they were far less pronounced.

1890s-1901: Skirts became simpler in shape for both classes and now could be worn as part of a two piece suit or as a dress.

Bodice

1830s-1840s: Bodices of this era featured high necklines for day wear and ended in a V-shape, to make that waist look snatched.

1850s-1860s: Bodices started to become more structured and the necklines began lower slightly, taking on square or more rounded shapes.

1870s-1880s: High collars came back into fashion and bodices became longer. The tailored jacket look started to become popular for both upper class and working class.

1890s-1901: Bodices became longer and the tailored jacket and skirt combo was still alive and well worn by both upper and working class women.

Sleeves

1830s-1840s: The gigot or leg o' mutton sleeves became popular in the 1830s. Theses were very large at the upper arm and slimmed down as it reach the wrist. Toward the end of the decade, sleeves became a little more fitted. Pagoda sleeves were also popular in this decade, where the sleeve was more voluminous toward the elbows. These were worn by both classes, with the working class women wearing far more understated versions while the wealthier ladies went a bit crazy with it.

1850s-1860s: This decade saw the rise of the bishop sleeves. This sleeve was gathered at the shoulder and slimmed toward the wrist for a close fit. Bishop sleeves slimmed down at the decade came to a close but the pagoda sleeves became even wider. Working class women would wear versions of them but much more refined versions.

1870s-1880s: Sleeves began to adopt a little puff at the top with a slim sleeve that gradually grew larger as the decade drew to the close. Both classes of women would have worn them but working class women would wear slimmer fitting sleeves.

1890s-1901: The leg o' mutton sleeves emerged again and they were back and bigger than ever at the early part of the era, large and in charge at the top and gradually thinning as it reached the wrist. As the decade closed out, the puffy shoulders started to get way slimmer.

Hats

1830s -1840s: Bonnets were worn by both classes, usually of straw or cloth. They would cover the ears and all the hair. By the 40s, velvet and silk was starting to become a popular fabric for the upper class. Working class women would also wear bonnets. During the end of the decade, bonnets began to pull back from the face. Working class women might wear a mob cap while working. Neither class of women would leave the house without a bonnet. Hats could be decorated with ribbons and cloth flowers.

1850s-1860s: Bonnets were still worn but hats became taller with and higher crown. The upper class became to make decorations more ostentatious, with fabric flowers, feathers and jewelled broaches. Working women would still wear their hair under caps when working but would wear simpler versions of the bonnet and the newer taller versions. By the end of the decade, hats began to get smaller and sailor hats and toques started to become popular. This was mainly due to large hairstyles worn by the 60s but hats were still heavily decorated.

1870s-1880s: Bonnets grew higher-crowned with wider brims that turned upwards from the face, by the end of the decade ladies were wearing larger and flatter designs. The embellishments got even more excessive. Working class women would wear less extravagant versions while out and about, wearing caps while working. To keep these often heavy and cumbersome hats in place, women would secure hats with pins, which were long needle like implements that doubled as tools for self-defence.

1890s-1901: Wide-brimmed hats were popular and decoration got every out of hand for upper class ladies. The demand for feathers saw to the extinction of many birds. But as the decade ended, some women especially the working class started wearing much smaller and flatter versions of the brimmed hats like boaters so they could be more active.

Men

Day wear for men did change over the decades, but the changes were more subtle than the ladies.

1830s-1840s: In this era, men wore trousers, shirts and coats. Frock coats was the most popular style of coat for during the day and as the decade wore on, they became longer and more fitted for the wealthier set of men. For working class men, simple coats of wool were popular. Waistcoats were often worn in this decade by both classes, the working class would wear them far more simpler while the wealthy class favoured louder patterns and fabrics. Trousers were high-waisted and slim for the wealthy class, it was even popular to wear them with instep straps to keep the trousers as straight as possible. The working class favoured a straight leg and also. Shirts for the wealthy class would have high stiff collars, worn with stock ties and cravats. Working class men would also wear cravats but their collars wouldn't be as high. Wealthy men would pair it with a top hat while working class men favoured flat caps.

1850s-1860s: The frock coat was still in fashion for the wealthy class but the fabrics changed over time and men favoured double-breasted coats in this era. The paletot was also worn in this era, featuring a peaked lapels and was worn unbelted. Working class men stuck with the same style of coat. Working class men stuck with the same waistcoats and trousers. Shirt collars were lower for both classes and both continued to wear cravats and ties.

1870s-1880s: This era featured more change for the men. This was the era of the morning coat and tailored suit, frock coats started to become less popular. Working class men wore sack suit jackets, which were less fitted and easier to move in. Trousers started to get slimmer again for both classes. Wealthy men started to carry walking sticks along with their top hats and gloves while working class men carried on with their flat caps.

1890s-1901: This is the era of the three-piece suit, where the jackets, trousers and waistcoat would all match. Trousers remained slim and jackets got shorter. The working class wore three piece suits also but these were more practical and made of sturdier fabrics.

Evening Wear

The Victorian age was still an age to party and evening wear was different to what anybody would wear outside on the street.

Women

1830s-1840s: For the wealthy, evening gowns sported large skirts, tight bodices and short sleeves that bared the shoulders. Wealthy women would accessorise with long gloves, fans and decorative combs for their hair. Working class women would stick to a simpler silhouette but the skirts would be as thick as they could afford and often sported high waists. Working class women had higher necklines for their evening wear and would usually wear whatever jewellery they had.

1850s-1860s: For the wealthy, skirts were even wider thanks to crinolines, necklines were lower and usually square or sweetheart in shape. Sleeves were puffed and short. Again women would carry fans and wear gloves. Working class women again would stick to a simpler silhouette with long sleeves though they could wear shorter sleeves if they wanted. They would style it with whatever jewellery, usually a nice broach.

1870s-1880s: For the wealthy, with crinolines gone and bustles in, skirts were less bell shaped and now, flat at the front with the bustle in the back to add volume. Décolleté necklines showed off the shoulders and upper chest. Gloves were a must. Working class women again kept it simpler, their bustles much smaller. Necklines were lower but far higher than that of the wealthy class.

1890s-1901: For wealthier women, evening gowns grew slimmer and the décolleté styles neckline remained popular. Gloves were a must. For the working class, women would wear slimmer gored skirts with square or v-necklines, still higher than that of the wealthy class. Again they would pair this with whatever jewellery they had.

Men

1830s-1840s: Wealthy men would wear tailcoats, with waistcoats of rich pattern and fabrics. Trousers like daywear remained narrow and might have featured a stirrup to keep them straight. Cravats would be of richer fabric and often pinned with more expensive pins. Cufflinks would also be worn. Top hats tied the look together. For the working class, men would likely wear a clean outfit very much like they would wear during the day.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy men still hung on to tailcoats but this era saw the rise of the tuxedo jacket, waistcoats got shorter and it was popular for them to be double-breasted. Cravats were abandoned for bow ties and men adopted leather shoes to tie the look together. Top hats were still a must. Working class men began to adopt the sack suit jacket for evening wear but they typically wore day wear suits on evenings out.

1870s-1880s: The wealthy men started to wear waistcoats with lapels, bowties became standard for evening wear and dinner jackets overtook tailcoats. Working class men stuck to the sack suit jacket and their day wear.

1890s-1901: Wealthy men's waistcoats started to get more fitted and started sticking to plain white or cream. Bow ties got smaller and tuxedos became the prominent style of evening wear. Opera hats overtook top hats both both would still be worn. Working class men still stuck to using a clean day wear suit on a night out.

Bed Wear

The Victorians also had a whole wardrobe to go to bed in.

Women

1830s-1840s: Both classes of women wore nightgowns, that featured high-necklines and long sleeves. Nightgowns were loose and comfortable for both classed but wealthy women could afford finer cotton and linen and had more elaborate decoration while working class women had simpler versions. Nightcaps would be worn to protect the hair.

1850s-1860s: Nightgowns were still worn by both classes and the working class version remained the same but wealthier women started to opt for more opulent versions with ruffles, trims and embroidery. Nightcaps are still worn.

1870s-1880s: Wealthy women started to wear nightgowns with more fitted waists while working class women stuck the same style.

1890s-1901: Wealthy women's nightgowns became much lighter and delicate and working class women still stuck with the simple nightgown but sometimes adopted more softer fabrics and designs when available.

Men

1830s-1840s: Both classes would wear nightshirts which were basically oversized shirts. Wealthy men could afford finer fabrics and often paired their bed time gear with a robe, matching slippers and a dapper nightcap. Working class men would wear nightshirts of more sturdy fabric, like flannel and would wear nightcaps.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy Men began to wear more tailored and finer nightshirts while working class men stuck with the simpler version.

1870s-1880s: The nightshirt remained the same for both classes.

1890s-1901: The nightshirt remained the staple but pyjamas started to pick up popularity, for both classes all but taking over the nightshirt by the end of the Victorian era.

Children

Children experienced a boom in fashion during the Victorian age. It was in this era where children's fashion started to follow trends.

1830s-1840s: Wealthy young boys would wear something call a skeleton suit which featured a short jacket paired with high-waisted trousers. Young girls would wear similar dresses to adult women, only scaled down. Working class children would wear similar clothes to their parents also. Boys would wear dresses up until the age of 6 and then transition to shorts and then trousers when they reached their teens.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy Boys wore short jackets and knee-length trousers and wealthy girls would wear short dresses until their teens, where the hem would be gradually let down as they approached their teens. Working-class children stayed mostly the same. Boys would wear dressed until 5 and then moved to shorts, then to trousers as they aged.

1870s-1880s: Wealthy girls would wear bustle like dresses which were still short and were lowered as they aged. Wealthy boys would wear shorts and jackets until they aged toward trousers. Working class children wore the same style. Older girls would start wearing corsets.

1890s-1901: Wealthy children began to wear more practical clothes. Sailor suits were popular for young boys and girls started wearing looser dresses. Working class children started wearing less restrictive clothes but similar to the style of their parents.

Children's clothes used as a signal to show how close they were to adulthood by style and cut of their clothes. Working class children might adopt adult styles a little later but this is an average guide.

Boys

0-5/6: Boys would have worn dresses with pantalettes underneath.

6-8: Out of dresses, boys would wear knickerbockers/short trousers with shirts and jackets.

12-14: Boys started to wear long trousers and started wearing clothes resembling men's wear.

16-18: The boys would start to wear suits.

Girls

0-5/6: Girls wore short dresses with pantalettes.

7-10: Dresses would start to become slightly longer and would mimic adult styles.

12-16: Girls started would start wearing corsets, their skirts would start to be let down even more.

18+: By 18, a girl would start adopting adult fashions with all the trimmings.

Hair and Make-up

Victorians are known for being stiff and traditional so the idea of make-up was little scandalous for them, since make-up was associated with... women who were on stage *gasp, pearls clutched*. But make-up was still attempted and eventually became popular.

1830s-1840s: Women would have steered clear of make-up in this era but wealthy women did venture into discreet versions to make the skin paler and the lips redder, using rice powder and natural stains like beet to stain their lips. Working class women usually stuck to the ye olde pinching their cheeks to add colour.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy women stuck the subtle art of looking like they weren't enhancing their complexions. Pomade would add shine to the lips and oil to the eyelashes for more lustre. Working class women also went for subtler make-up, using make-up made from things they could find in the home.

1870s-1880s: Wealthy women started wearing rouge but a very light coat and tweezed brows started become popular too. Working class women stuck to the usual lip stains and powders but every minimal.

1890s-1901: Wealthy women started to veer toward natural and softer looks with more delicate stains. Working-class women still used home made make-up. Both classes would use things like rosewater for skincare if they could afford it.

This was make-up for 'respectable' women. But other women like actresses, singers in music halls, opera singers and ladies of the night wore heavy make up. The trends for them were:

Pale skin: Paleness was attributed to wealth since a sign of being wealthy was not going out in the sun or at least going out without a parasol. Women would achieve the look with rice powder, lead-based powders or zinc oxide. Sounds healthy? Nope.

Rouge: Rouge was applied to the cheeks and lips. Lips were dark, cheeks were very pink and everything popped. Rouge could be purchased over the counter but could be made at home with beets and other fruits and veg like berries.

Eye Make-up: Eye make-up was dark, eyes were lined with kohl or a the cheaper option, charcoal.

Eyebrows: Eyebrows would be shaped and darkened with soot, charcoal and even burnt cloves.

Lips: Lips were also applied with beeswax or oils to make lips look suppler and softer.

Hair

Hair is just as much as a tell tale sign of decade of this era and for class. Hair went a little mad during the Victorian era. Hair was another way of telling a young lady's age. If she's under 16, her hair would be down and styled simply but as soon as she reached that age, she could start wearing her hair up and styled. Note that working class children would probably tie their hair up earlier, especially if they were working in factories or in service.

1830s-1840s: Wealthy women wore their hair parted and styled over the ears with braids tucked around the ear, or in rolls and curls over the ear with a bun gathering the rest of the hair in the hair. Wealthy women would cover their hair with a bonnet when heading out and wore tiaras or hair jewellery or flowers in their hair for the evening. Younger girls might wear their hair with barley curls. Working class women wore very simple versions of these styles but usually kept it practical especially if they were out working. Bonnets would have been worn outside the home.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy women wore their hair with centre parts and ringlets over the ear. Chignons became popular, featuring low buns at the top of the neck and base of the skull. Working class women tended to keep their hair up, braided sometimes to protect the hair and keep it clean. Bonnets would be worn by both classes during the day.

1870s-1880s: Wealthy women began to style their hair more elaborately, with more braids and higher styles. Tight curls around the face were popular in evening styles. Wealthy women would style it with tiaras, flowers and hair jewellery in the evening while during the day, they would wear bonnets. Working-class women kept to practical styles like braids and low buns with bonnets during the day.

1890s-1901: Wealthy women started to opt for softer approaches. Hair was still worn up but women began to lean toward pompadours, low coiffures and the famous Gibson Girl style which was all very soft around the face. The evening styles would still feature tiaras, jewellery, feathers and flowers while ladies wore bonnets in the day. Working-class women emulated these styles when they could but they were simpler versions.

Hair Care

The Upper Class: Hair would be washed frequently with soap and for women herbal rises and oils, Empress Sisi used raw eggs and brandy to wash her hair. Men would wear their hair short but style it with oil and pomade. Women would wear their hair long. Brushing it 100 times a night was a ritual many women swore by to keep hair healthy and strong.

The Working Class: Hair would have been washed with soap and less frequently. Some women would bathe their hair in vinegar to kill any boarders on their scalp. Hair was brushed and combed and kept tidy for both men and women, with more emphasis on practicality than wow factor.

Facial Hair

Facial Hair also faced trends in the Victorian era. From moustaches, beards to sideburns, each decade saw their own way of styling them or whether wearing one was accepted.

1830s-1840s: Wealthy men wore their faces clean-shaven, preferring sideburns or moustaches. Working class men kept their facial hair mainly because the process of doing a full shave was painstaking and since they had to do it themselves, time consuming. If they worked in service, they may have been forced to keep their face clean shaven.

1850s-1860s: For wealthy men, beards started to become popular. They were kept trimmed and neat. Working class men kept their beards and facial hair for the same reasons as before.

1870s-1880s: Beards started to become more of an art form, along with moustaches getting shaped with wax. For working class men, they still kept beards and facial hair but neat and trimmed where they could.

1890s-1901: The beard craze was over and the clean-shaven look was back. Men started wearing handlebar moustaches, made popular by the Kaiser. Working class men started shaving their beards and adopted styled moustaches.

Shoes

We have gone head to ankle at this point. I have not forgotten about shoes.

1830s-1840s:

Women: Wealthy and upper class women wore kid leather boots during the day and slippers for the evening. Working-class women usually only had a singular pair of shoes and they were nearly always leather lace up boots, worn for their sturdiness rather than their fashion.

Men: Wealthy men wore polished leather shoes while working men, like the women, wore leather boots.

1850s-1860s:

Women: Button-up ankle boots became fashionable for wealthy women for day wear. These could be made of leather or suede. Working class women stuck to their leather boots which could now be lace up the side.

Men: Wealthy men started wearing the Oxford shoe. Working class men stuck with their lace up leather boots.

1870s-1880s:

Women: Wealthy and upper class women wore high-button boots with slippers for the evening while working-class women stuck with their own leather boots.

Men: Wealthy men's dress shoes started to become pointed at the toe in this era. Working-class men kept their heavy boots.

1890s-1901:

Women: Wealthy women still wore buttoned boots for day wear but heeled evening shoes started to pick up popularity. Working class women opted for boots with much lower heels.

Men: Wealthy men started wearing two-tone Oxford shoes started becoming popular along with regular leather dress shoes. Working class men still stuck with lace up leather boots.

Fabrics and Colour

What clothes are made of was a tell tale style of taste, wealth and class during their era. What colours and fabric you wore heavily relied on what you could afford and what was available to buy if you could. With the Victorian age an age of new innovations and the opening new channels of trade - *clears throat *stealing - new fabrics and dyes came on the market.

Women

1830s-1840s: Wealthy women could afford most fabrics at this time but favoured heavy silks, along with plush velvets and loud patterns. For summer weather and casual wear, light patterned muslin was popular. Working class women favoured cotton and linen and wool which was often patterned. Wealthy women spiced up their dressed with trim and lace at the collar. Wealthy women favoured golds, ivories, dark blues, pinks and greens in this era. Working class women favoured darker and neutral shades because they were easier to clean.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy women started to adopt fabrics like silk poplin, moire and faille. Fringes and flounces were popular embellishments and women tended to opt for darker pallets like navy, brown and purple. Working class women still wore cotton and wool. Favourite patterns of the time were stripes and plaid and they stuck to relatively solid colours like deep blues and navy.

1870s-1880s: Wealthy women preferred silk blends, satins and brocade in this era, often heavily beaded and embroidered. Rich colours were popular, like jewel tones like ruby red, sapphire blue and deep blues and greens. Working class women started adopting floral patterns in their cotton and wool dresses thanks to mass production of cheap cloth. Deep greens, yellows and deeper greys were popular in this era for the working class.

1890s-1901: Wealthy women started opting for softer fabrics, so silk, chiffon, lace, and gauze were heavily used. Ribbons and lace were favourite embellishments. Softer colours were used, such as pale pinks, blues, peaches. Working class women wore lighter cottons and wools, still patterned and beginning to favour lighter shades such as pale reds, blues, green, and pinks.

Men

1830s-1840s: Wealthy men favoured finer wool and broadcloth. Velvet and silk were used for formal wear. Working class men worn mainly wool, cotton and linen, of a coarse weave for heat. The colour palette favoured deep blue, black, fawn and plaid for the wealthier crowd while more muted colours, like browns, deep blues and greens and black were favoured by the working class.

1850s-1860s: Wealthy men favoured greys, blacks for the city and tweeds for the country side. Silk and moire would be used for evening wear. Lighter colours would be worn while on holiday. Working class men still wore wools, linens and cotton and stuck with practical shades in browns, blacks and deep blues.

1870s-1880s: Wealthy men wore more satin, brocade and silk for formal wear while sticking the wool for their suits for the city, linen suits would be worn by the sea side. Browns, blacks and navy were popular choices for the city while lighter shades were popular in while on holiday. intricate embroidery. Working-class men wore the same wool and cotton but now their shirts were decorated with small patterns like pinstripes.

1890s-1901: Wealthy men started wearing lighter wools, silks, linens thanks to new ways of making fabric giving them sleeker looks. Working class men also benefitted from the boom in textiles, brighter colours were more widely available but still stuck with wool and cotton. Wealthy men stuck with dark greys and blacks were worn for the city with lighter shades for the summer.

Tale of Two Wardrobes

The main thing about the Victorian age and clothes, is the clear disparity between rich and poor. From everything to colour, to fabric, to quantity and quality, you would know exactly who was who by what they were wearing.

Poorer families often made clothes by hand so most items would often be worn until they were either too small or worn away, with the scraps likely refused again. Families would hand down clothes to younger children, it wouldn't have been strange to see a child wearing boots too large or swimming in a shirt or dress. Clothes were often repaired rather than replaced. Due to the fact that making clothes was time consuming and cost money, rips were patched with other fabrics or sewn up and too short skirts were let down to give them a few more months of life. Most poorer families would have a limited range of clothes, usually two changes of clothes for day to day wear and an outfit reserved for occasions like going to church.

Wealthier families could afford to have clothes custom made by professionals. They would have had an outfit for every single need and undergone multiple changes per day, especially if they were in the upper echelon. Their clothes would be washed by servants so they tended not to mind discarding their clothes three or four times a day. They could pass clothes between siblings and from parent to child but these were often cut down to create new outfits by professionals.

Hygiene

You may imagine the Victorian age as a time for unsanitary conditions and terrible hygiene and you wouldn't be too wrong. This was the time of cholera, of rampant typhoid and consumption. But the Victorians, even the poorest of the poor did wash.

Personal Hygiene

The Upper Class: As mentioned before the wealthy did bath more often mainly thanks to the fact they had somebody else to fetch the water for them, had indoor plumbing in some cases and had more time on their hands. Teeth were cleaned with powder, mainly made of crushed seashells, chalk and charcoal for whitening. Perfumes were at their height for the era, with men and women wearing cologne and scents.

The Working-Class: The working class were not dirty because they were lazy or slovenly as many contemporaries thought. The main issue was a lack of water and time for regular bathing. This lead to people turning to public baths to wash in their spare time. Teeth were cleaned with salt or baking soda or charcoal but dental care was not a priority since most of them were working long hard hours. To keep fresh, they would have used soap and sachets of herbs.

Clothes

Upper Class: The upper class had servants to clean their clothes and care of them. Shoes were shined by hall boys and clothes were kept spick and span with regular checks. Men could get their suits and shirts pressed and starched in their own house.

Working-Class: Like I said before, water and time was in sort supply so clothes were washed a little less frequently. Very often the women or the house or if the family could afford, a washerwoman, would be in charge of washing the clothes by hand with a mangle, board and soap. It was very laborious work.

Mourning

And finally, we get to it. The biggest trend of the Victorian age was the visualisation of mourning. This was all thanks to (takes very deep breath) Queen Victoria herself who wore mourning for her husband, Prince Albert. Victoria's dramatic and intense mourning set a new trend for dramatic rules around what one could and should wear when mourning.

Stages of mourning

Mourning came in three stages each with their own set of does and don'ts. The upper class would have followed the rules religiously but the working class would cut the mourning time down, especially if it interfered with their survival and work.

Deep Mourning: Full black, every thing black, women might even wear thick veils. Women would wear minimal jewellery but it would all be pearls or jet. Men would wear black frock coats, jackets, waistcoats and trousers along with black cravats. Deep mourning typically lasted a year and a day.

Ordinary Mourning: Black clothing with very little trim. Women might add lace or beading, all in black to their dresses. Lasted about 6mths.

Half Mourning: This was the final stage of the process where the black could be put aside and colours such as greys, mauves, lilac and lavender could be worn. Lasted about 3mths.

Changes in the decades

Men

1830s-1840s: Full mourning suits for the upper class. Working class men would wear a black armband around their upper arm.

1850s-1860s: Mourning attire grew much simpler, men could now get away with black waistcoats and an armband on their upper arm. Working class men stuck with an armband on their arm.

1870s-1880s: Mourning customs got further relaxed, a wealthy man could get away with a dark suit. The working class still used a simple armband.

1890s-1901: Mourning attire was much more relaxed, men could now wear dark colours with dark accessories. Working class men still wore an armband.

Women

1830s-1840s: Very heavy black gowns, worn with black bonnets, and thick veils for wealthy women. Wealthy women would typically already have mourning outfits ready for any occasion. Working class women often had to dye old dresses black for funerals and mourning, some stuck with a black ribbon or armband around the arm.

1850s-1860s: Mourning dresses became more structured and were often permitted to be more embellished with details such as jet beads for the wealthy women. It was the same story with the working class woman, she would wear an existing black dress, dye an old dress or stick with a ribbon/armband.

1870s-1880s: Mourning fashion was more commercialized, letting wealthy women have more of an array of choice in mourning though they still had to follow the rules. Working class women could purchase cheaper black fabric to make a mourning gown.

1890s-1901: Mourning rules relaxed and the stages got shorter, allowing for more colour sooner than before. It was the same for working class women, who typically had already shorter periods of mourning.

Mourning Relationships

If a Victorian donned black every time a person died, the era would have been boring af. So the rules called for different relationships to be marked by set periods of mourning.

Widows: Would mourn for two years, with one year for full mourning, nine months of ordinary mourning and then three months of half mourning. A widow would not be seen often in public.

Widowers: Yeah, get this. Husbands only had to mourn 3-6mths.

Parents/Children: Parents would mourn children and children would mourn parents for about six months.

Siblings: Siblings would mourn for six months.

Aunts, uncles, cousins: Three months.

Friends: Six weeks.

Helpful Visuals

Comparison between 1850s-1880s - AstaDarling

Housemaid GRWM 1890s - AstaDarling

Fit for a Queen: Victoria GRWM - AstaDarling

Casual Day Wear 1880s GRWM - AstaDarling

Evening Wear Men and Women (Upper class 1850) -AstaDarling

Corset Myth - Asta Darling

Sitting in a Crinoline - AstaDarling

Formal Men's Wear Upper Class 1890s GRWM - Pinsent_Tailoring

Working Class women in 1890s GRWM - The Sewlo Artist

Working Class Women in the 1860s - HistoryIsBeautiful

Working Class Women in the 1850s - Katelyn Kearns

GRWM 1840s Working Class - Pour La Victoire

Working Class Men 1850s - CrowEyeProductions

1840s Gentleman GRWM - Prior Attire

1830s Gentlemen Day and Evening GRWM - Prior Attire

1870s Upper Class Lady Morning/Afternoon/Evening - Sew_Through_Time

1840s GRWM with Prince Albert - CrowEyeProductions

#fantasy guide to the fashion of the victorian era #victorian era #writing reference #writing resources #writeblr #writing advice #spilled words #writer's problems #writer's life #writer #writing #writing inspiration #writing community #wtw #wtw community #victorian fashion #historical fiction #historic fashion

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pathologicalreid · 7 months ago

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come home with me | s.r.

in which you are chosen as the member of the BAU who gets to retrieve Spencer from prison

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: post prison spencer, the events of green light apply, jareau!reader, kiss word count: 1.45k a/n: ohhhh she's listening to too much hadestown again. oh noooo.

The foreboding gray structure that stood before you was much more intimidating than you’d remembered Millburn Correctional Facility was written next to the door in a sans-serif font, still, boring, intimidating.

You hated it here. You despised everything that this building stood for in your life. Above all else, you hated that Spencer had been trapped inside for three months. There was little to no communication between you and Spencer during his incarceration, which wasn’t for a lack of trying. The one and only time you’d gone to visit him in Millburn, your appearance elicited a wolf whistle from one of the guards—Spencer’s discomfort was enough to keep you away.

Waiting outside with Penelope, Luke, and your sister, the four of you were lined up shoulder to shoulder, everyone too nervous to move forward. “I can’t go in,” Garcia said, looking between you and Luke while she shook her head. She hated going to visit Spencer, every time she came back from the prison, her mood had been negatively impacted.

Nodding assuredly, you quickly leaned your head on her shoulder, “We’ll go get him.” In your hand, you gripped a small canvas bag, you’d shoved everything you could think Spencer might need upon release—including some toiletries that had been completely untouched in the apartment, you weren’t sure if he’d been able to keep up with his usual hygiene routine in prison.

You assumed he hadn’t been.

Luke had some kind of ulterior motive in mind while entering the prison, so you and JJ linked pinkies at the same time he gave Penelope’s shoulder a squeeze and started making his way toward the steel doors of the prison. The three of you needed to shed your weapons, locking them up with the guards before Luke jutted his chin down the hallway and promised to meet up with you later.

Your head spun as you and JJ worked through clerical issues with the prison. Spencer was in solitary right now, finally receiving the protection that he should have gotten months ago, but he had to stab himself in the thigh to get there. No one else had been told, but Penelope handed Emily her resignation when she found out. The concrete building was freezing, and you hoped that Spencer had been staying warm enough during his time here.

Spencer, Spencer, Spencer.

Every waking moment for the last three months had been spent trying to figure out how to get him out of this, and the team had finally done it. You resisted the urge to pinch yourself. This was real, you were here.

“Only one of you,” one of the guards said, entirely disinterested in the emotional turmoil you were currently going through.

Your eyes met JJ’s briefly, and her blue eyes widened before she shook her head, “You should go,” she insisted, holding out a hand in the direction of the door.

Tightening your grip on the canvas bag, you nodded nervously and stepped through the metal detector, following the armed guard down the hallway until you reached yet another door. He swiped his badge through the stripe reader and opened the door, holding it open for you.

Against your better judgment, you faltered, scared of what you might see on the other side of the door. The guard cleared his throat impatiently and your feet thoughtlessly brought you forward.

Spencer was on the other side of the door, and you felt ridiculous for thinking you’d be met with anyone else except for him. Hauntingly familiar brown eyes were boring into yours expectantly, and even though you had promised yourself you weren’t going to cry, your throat was sealing itself with proof of a lie. Your eyes burned and you opened your mouth to speak before tears had a chance to fall, “Come home,” you beckoned.

You broke when he did, lips wavering between a smile and a frown as he broke free of the regulations he’d faced in Millburn, and the two of you snapped together like there was a magnetic pull between the two of you. The bag in your hands dropped to the ground as your arms went around each other. He smelled like antiseptic and generic laundry soap, you couldn’t pretend like you hadn’t seen the bandage around his arm from where they’d drawn blood, but you pushed it from your mind in the interim, focusing on repairing your memory. Reminding yourself of the edges of his body. There were more ridges than you remembered, and your chest clenched at the recognition that Spencer was inherently changed. It would’ve been foolish of you to cling to the idea that he could go to prison and come back as the Spencer that had been keeping your mind company—the memory of him that couldn’t match reality.

He sniffled and buried his face in your neck, his hot breath on your skin as neither of you faltered in your grip of each other. Spencer once told you that hugs were inherently healing because of the boost in oxytocin levels, and you’d taken that to heart just in case you ever faced this very moment. You tightened your grip around his shoulders, and he was holding you so tightly around your waist that your feet lifted slightly off of the ground. If it were up to you, you’d stay like this for hours intertwining your fingers between his shoulder blades and holding him together. You’d maintain your embrace until your body heat welded the broken pieces of him back together and his sharp edges were sanded down with time. You pressed your forehead into his shoulder and sighed three months’ worth of worry away, and as that worry ebbed, a new name echoed in your head.

Diana, Diana, Diana.

Spencer’s mother was missing, and he released his hold on you as you drew in a deep breath. Your feet were planted firmly on the ground as the two of you looked at each other, exchanging hundreds of thousands of words between your irises. “Spence,” you whispered, “I brought your things.”

You crouched down and grabbed the bag from the floor, holding it open for him to inspect its contents, his smile made you feel like you were floating. You were sure they were few and far between recently. More than that, you knew exactly what he was smiling at. Instead of picking out two socks for him, you’d grabbed a handful of them and put them in the bag, giving him the ability to choose a mismatched pair to wear out.

He wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his jumpsuit, “Thank you,” he breathed, his eyes flickering over to the guard that was still standing behind you.

Nodding, you carefully took his hand and let the guard lead you somewhere he could get changed, you planted your feet on the side of the hallway opposite of the guard. You narrowed your gaze at the guard, keeping your eyes open until they dried, and you had no choice but to blink. Other than that, your glare was unwavering.

“Y/N?” Spencer said, opening the door slightly, “Can you help me?”

You slipped through the door, alone in the bathroom with him as he gestured to his tie. You frowned for a moment before you noticed what the problem was, his hands were shaking. Each of them trembling uncontrollably with what was likely a melting pot of different emotions, and without giving it a second thought, you reached out and took both ends of the tie in your hands, deftly tying the double Windsor knot around his neck. You were careful when you tightened the knot, refraining from bringing it right up to the hollow of his throat in case he needed room to breathe. You looked up at him, studying the unreadable expression on his face before you whispered, “I’ve got you.”

Spencer’s Adam’s apple bobbed as his lips parted, and to your surprise, he craned his neck to press his lips to yours, kissing you with three months of pent-up emotions—good and bad. You gasped against his lips before kissing him back, matching his ferocity as your lips moved gently against his, a knock at the door was the only thing to pry the two of you apart.

You tried to get a read on him. You tried to understand the thoughts that were flashing behind his eyes at the speed of light, but you couldn’t get it. You wanted to ask, you wanted to check in on him, but he spoke first, “Let’s go get my mom.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

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nerdygirlramblings · 3 months ago

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cw: poorly executed accents, technological inaccuracies

Over the week between Laswell requesting you go off your scent blockers and the charity event, the barracks slowly carries lingering traces of sun-ripened berries and arid soil, your natural scent. The team is entranced. It hasn't escaped any of them how well your scent compliments theirs. You and Gaz smell like all the best parts of springtime. Simon's sharp acidic scent is tempered by your sweetness. When you and Soap are together, it's hard not to picture seaside picnics. And when Price is in the room with you, the others are remembering crisp, cozy autumn days.

Your natural scent grows as the blockers work their way out of your system, as does your control over it. "How'd ya learn that, Ren?" Price asks one night, back to you as he stirs his tea. As soon as you picked up on his steps, the strawberry sweetness in the air decreased.

The couch creaks as you shift to face him, turning away from the dossiers on the low table in front of you. "After I presented, Dad used ta pull me inta the kitchen for lessons. He told me ta picture my scent like the dials on an equalizer. Taught me how I could ground myself ta turn the volume down on any particular smell. Especially how I could dampen things like fear. And, of course, how to project certain scents."

Your eyes leave his face, looking at the wall instead. "Being an omega in the service is hard, so I used the blockers because conscious scent manipulation takes a bunch of energy, and I wanted ta focus my energy on the job." You drop your voice and whisper, "And I didn't want ta spend all my energy on something that essentially soothed an alpha's ego."

He comes over and sits with you. "Well, if ya choose, after this op, ya don't need ta go back on 'em. Ya don't gotta protect me and Ghost." He grins and bumps your shoulder, and if he's hoping that you off your blockers means the pack can have a proper scenting, he gives nothing away.

The night of the op finds you in a fancy hotel room somewhere in St. James, several floors above the charity event. You're set up into adjoining rooms: one for you and one for the rest of the team. The other room will serve as the communication hub while you and Gaz - because Price saw how your scent was affecting Soap, the doe eyes he turned on you when you weren't paying attention, and didn't trust him to be able to focus on the op if he were at your side - go to the auction to find Arella.

You'd gone shopping with Adam several days before, under Kate's orders to get appropriate attire. The dress he put you in is more extravagant than anything you would ever have selected, but after a few quick photos to Kate who deemed it perfect, it was off the rack and in your hands. Strapless with a fitted bodice with enough structure to hold you and a skirt that flowed like water, except because it's steel grey, it moves more like liquid metal. There's a sizable slit, up to your thigh but is mostly hidden in the folds of silky fabric, which allows you quick access to the tiny holster you strapped there.

Fashion was never something you were interested in, so Adam took it upon himself to find some simple YouTube makeup tutorials, then made sure you had all the necessary products. You were annoyed about the hassle with the makeup, so Adam made sure the hair tutorial was simple yet elegant and didn't require a mountain of products to pull off.

Though you were going in without scent blockers, Kate didn't plan to risk you, even with the support of a beta, to an alpha's teeth. She had Adam buy the most intricate collar necklace you'd ever seen. Geometrically structured with metal rods, it seemed more like a piece of art than a piece of jewelry. When you draped it across your neck and collarbone, it prevented an alpha from getting his teeth on your scent gland but still allowed you to project your scent unencumbered.

Being undercover didn't allow for the traditional communication hardware, so the boys had come up with an ingenious pair of earrings whose large geometric wrap both matched the necklace and served as an earpiece. They also fitted a mic into the structure of your necklace. The whole task force would be with you all night.

When you finish getting dressed and fixing both hair and makeup to the best of your ability to follow Adam's selected videos, you knock on the door between the room you'd been assigned and where the rest of your pack task force is preparing. You need both your escort and your comms before you head for the lift.

An hour later and you're on your second circuit of the room, Gaz at your elbow, holding your drink. There will be some expectation to drink while you're here, but Price had taught you ways to make it look like you were drinking or as though you did not need a refill during those trainings at the pubs around base. Static crackles in your ear and you hear Price's baritone come through as if he were standing beside you. You've practiced not reacting when the comms go off, but you're still a little startled. "No sign of Arella yet, but Spinner's on the far side a' the room, left a' the bar but looking out on the dance floor."

Neither you nor Gaz is in a position to see him, so Gaz lightly takes your hand and guides you toward the balcony door with a hand low on your back. It allows you both to get quick glimpses of the man, older, polished, and with a petite blonde dressed in ice white standing very close. Though you're too far to see any potential mating mark, she's wearing a collar necklace not dissimilar to yours.

"I think Spinner's got an omega with him," you say. "I might be able ta get information from her if I get her alone. "

"Appreciate the initiative, Ren," price rumbles, "but she's not our priority. Technically, neither's Spinner, but it's good ta keep eyes on 'im just in case." He pauses momentarily before coming over the comms again with, "Not going ta tell ya not to talk ta her if the situation arises, but stay on mission."

"Copy that, Captain," you respond.

Waiting for Arella gets frustrating especially as you watch people continually approach Spinner, who's taken up residence at a high top table on the outskirts of the party. You snatch the champagne flute from Gaz's hand and quickly tip the contents back. Squaring your shoulders, you look at him and say, "Dance wi' me." For a moment all he does is look at you, and you can't read the emotion in his eyes. You power through and tell him, "If we're dancing, we can get closer ta Spinner's table and pick up snatches of conversation. "

Pulling back, you search his face. "I know ya've got the hardware on yer phone ta clone Arella's device with some prolonged exposure, but is it possible fer it ta pick up short bursts a' data off other phones it's near?"

Gaz looks at you in awe. "Ren, that's brilliant! Cap, ya hear that suggestion?"

"Affirmative," Price replies, "but I'll be damned if I understand it."

"Just get the systems on yer end ready fer a massive data dump. It's gunna be fragmentary. Laswell's analysts are gunna have a hell of a time going through it. We may need ta send them some whiskey and good cigars, but honestly, if this pans out even a little bit, we'll be able to get a ton a' information on the kinds of people Spinner's meeting with. Maybe Arella's is not the only one who's dirty."

Once they get to go ahead from Price, Gaz pulls you close and takes to the dance floor. You'd learned how to dance once, long ago, but it's clear this man is trained. He waltzes you through the crowd near to the edge where Spinner's settled, and you hope to hell this idea works.

an: this is sort of what I envisioned for Ren's necklace, but more modernist straight lines

series masterlist | main masterlist

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden @mordacioust @bina-passion-fruit @kittygonap @wanderingoperator @ghost-is-my-bbg @wolfbc97

#cod #poly!141 #poly!141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #omegaverse #omegaverse 141 #omegaverse tf 141 #a/b/o #a/b/o 141 #a/b/o tf 141 #john price #simon riley #johnny mactavish #kyle garrick #nerdygirl says #fierce wars and faithful loves

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dina-winchester · 1 month ago

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Soldier Boy

Pairing: Soldier Boy x you

Summary: Just as you’d accepted death, he found you—the man who’d burn the world down for you.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of injury, Explosions, building collapse, Blood, PTSD implications, Protective violence, Angst with comfort, Intense emotional scenes, no use of y/n

The sun had been cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows earlier, washing the lobby in gold. You remember that. You remember the light. The hum of conversation. Laughter. The faint scent of coffee still clinging to your sleeves from the café downstairs. You were at work. Your day at the office had been uneventful—until it wasn’t.

Ben had kissed your cheek that morning. Told you he’d be gone for a few hours—something about helping Frenchie and Kimiko with some stolen Vought tech in Jersey. You’d rolled your eyes, told him to try not to blow anything up.

That had been three hours ago.

Now?

The building shudders under your feet. Light vanishes.

A blast ruptures from the upper levels.

Screams rip down the halls, and glass explodes from every angle, raining like razors as the floor tilts. You hit the ground hard, ears ringing, a deafening roar swallowing every sound. The fire alarms don’t even get a chance to wail.

They’re obliterated along with the power.

You crawl, coughing, smoke thickening as the ceiling groans above you. A woman stumbles past, blood pouring from her temple. She screams something—but the words are shredded by the building’s death rattle.

Another blast, closer this time.

You’re thrown forward, smacking into the tiled floor hard enough to bite your tongue. Copper fills your mouth. Your hand slips in a streak of blood that’s not yours.

Something is very wrong.

You drag yourself behind what’s left of a marble reception desk, trying to steady your breath—but your eyes catch the flicker of a red cape above through the smoke.

Homelander.

Hovering like a god.

Smiling.

And he’s looking directly at you.

“All this sympathy for traitors,” he says, voice cutting through the destruction like a blade. “Makes you wonder what kind of person you are.”

Your heart lodges in your throat.

Then—

He burns the sky.

Crimson beams tear through the building again, slicing clean through steel and stone. The floor buckles. Walls collapse. You barely have time to scramble under a fractured slab of marble before the whole world tilts down.

Crack. Shudder. Snap.

The ceiling above you splits.

You try to run—but your leg gives. You fall hard, the ground trembling, fire licking at the edges of your vision as you try to crawl—

But then you hear it.

That final groan of the structure giving in.

It’s coming down.

Your eyes lift.

A slab of the upper floor detaches—huge, heavy, death on its way down. You freeze. Body shaking. Every part of you screaming to move but you can’t.

And in that split-second before impact, as everything crashes toward you—you see him.

Ben.

Soldier Boy.

Bursting through the smoke like a cannonball from hell, arms out, suit half-charred, blood at his temple.

“I got you!” he roars—and then he’s above you, body slamming down over yours, arms caging your head, his chest pressed to yours as the ceiling collapses around you.

Everything goes dark.

Dust. Shrapnel. Heat.

But not pain.

Because Ben took it all.

His body shields yours completely, and all you can do is tremble, breath hitching in broken sobs as your fingers grip the fabric of his suit like a lifeline.

You stare up at him, vision swimming, ears ringing.

You thought you were dead. You’d accepted it.

But then—those eyes.

His eyes.

Locked on yours.

Wild and furious and terrified—not for himself. For you.

Silence, at first.

Not peace. Not calm. Just a stillness so thick it presses against your chest like another layer of rubble. The only sound is your heartbeat thudding against the cage of your ribs—fast, panicked, disoriented.

You blink through a cloud of dust.

Ben is still above you. Still holding you. His body is shaking—from exertion, maybe. Or adrenaline. Or the fact that he thought he might’ve been too late.

You’re both coated in ash, fine as snowfall. His shoulder is bleeding. There’s a deep gash over his temple where concrete must’ve clipped him, blood trailing through the grime on his face. But he doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t even register it.

His gaze is locked on yours.

Wide, unblinking, like he can’t believe you’re alive beneath him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, voice hoarse—barely a whisper.

You’re still pinned beneath him, his forearm braced over your head, body shielding every inch of yours from the debris now piled around you in a cocoon of ruin. His weight presses you to the ground, solid and grounding—but not crushing. Somehow, even in the chaos, he’s careful.

Your trembling fingers rise, almost without your permission. You reach up and touch his face.

Warm. Bloodied. Real.

“Ben…” Your voice barely makes it out of your throat.

He flinches at the sound of his name—like it cracks something open inside him. His mouth moves but no words come out. His hand cradles the side of your head, palm sliding behind your neck as if needing the contact to convince himself you’re alive.

“I wasn’t there,” he rasps, voice raw with rage and guilt. “I shoulda been there.”

You shake your head, the motion slight beneath him. Your palm presses more firmly to his cheek, thumb brushing his blood-smeared skin.

“You are now.”

The breath he exhales shudders out of him. He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, eyes squeezed shut. The world is still burning around you—sirens somewhere far off, the crackle of fire, the soft hiss of settling rubble—but in that small pocket of space beneath the wreckage, there’s only the two of you.

His chest rises and falls in heavy bursts, and you realize his arms are shaking from holding himself above you. You lift your other hand, cupping both sides of his face now, grounding him for once.

“I thought—” you whisper, voice breaking. “I thought that was it.”

His eyes open—green and glassy with something heavy and unspoken.

“It woulda been,” he says, jaw tight. “If I’d been ten seconds later…”

You don’t let him finish.

You pull him down, not for a kiss, but just to hold him—to feel him. Your arms wrap around his back, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit. He lets out a strangled breath and folds into you, the weight of him finally settling across your body like a living shield, like armor molded to your skin.

He’s never held you so tightly.

And you’ve never needed it more.

You don’t know how long you lie there with him—dust in your lungs, blood drying on your skin, sirens still wailing in the distance like a city mourning itself. Time doesn’t feel linear anymore. Not after something like that. Not with him wrapped around you like the world might still be trying to tear you away.

Then—footsteps.

Shouts.

Flashlights slicing through the smoke.

“Over here! We’ve got survivors!”

Ben lifts his head slowly, eyes narrowing like he’s ready to fight all over again. His whole body coils, still crouched around you, still shielding you like the wreckage might come back alive and try again.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, breath shallow as you brush your hand up his neck. “They’re here to help.”

He doesn’t move at first.

A pair of first responders come into view, covered in ash, their faces lit by harsh white beams. One of them stops short, eyes going wide at the sight of him—Soldier Boy, filthy and bruised and alive, hunched protectively over your body.

“Sir—she’s injured. We’ve got a stretcher coming in now—”

“What kind of place are you taking her to?” Ben growls, voice like thunder behind clenched teeth.

“Downtown Memorial. Clean trauma wing. She’ll be safe, I swear.”

You reach up, tug gently at his suit until he looks back down at you.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, trying to offer something close to a smile. “But I think my leg’s pinned. And—my side…”

He follows your gaze—and sees it. The blood soaking through your jacket. Dark. Slow, but steady.

“What the hell is that?”

You swallow hard. “I think—shrapnel. From the blast. I didn’t notice at first. I didn’t care. I just needed to get out, I needed to keep going.”

Ben’s face hardens.

His hands tremble once as he lowers his head and rests it briefly against your forehead—just for a second. Then, without another word, he lifts you into his arms, careful but firm. No hesitation, no flinching, just Ben gathering you up in his arms with a gentleness that would seem impossible from a man like him.

You scream.

Your body seizes from the pain, the pressure of movement pulling against the embedded metal—pain flaring through your side like lightning.

“Fuck—babygirl—sorry, sorry,” he mutters, pressing his face into your hair. “’s okay. I’ve gotcha. Just hold on.”

The EMTs try to take you from him, but Ben snarls something sharp and vicious and refuses to let you go until the ambulance doors are open and you’re inside with him. He cradles your head in his lap on the ride over, muttering low curses about Homelander, about whoever dared touch you.

“You’ve been walking around with metal in you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the soaked fabric of your jacket. “You didn’t stop.”

“I couldn’t,” you whisper, clutching his sleeve. “But I can now. You’re here.”

He bows his head, jaw tight, a fury burning behind his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“If you die on me,” he says low, “I swear to god, I will level this entire fucking world.”

#soldier boy #the boys #soldier boy x you #soldier boy fic #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy fluff #soldier boy angst #soldier boy the boys #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #dina writes

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slyandthefamilybook · 1 year ago

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okay because I'm seeing some misinfo, here's the story on the Key Bridge collapse

What was the Key Bridge?

The Francis Scott Key Bridge (also called the Key Bridge, the Beltway Bridge, and the Outer Harbor Crossing) was steel-arch continuous-through-truss bridge spanning the Patapsco River south of the Baltimore Harbor. The bridge took 5 years to build and cost an estimated $145 million ($735 million in today's dollars). The full bridge project (including approaches) was 10.9 miles long, but the stretch over the Patapsco was 1.6 miles long and 4 lanes wide, and comprised a length of I-695, the Baltimore Beltway. It traveled between Hawkins Point and Dundalk, and in addition to the I-895 Harbor Tunnel was the primary way for Marylanders to cross from the Eastern Shore to the West. The bridge carried an estimated 11.5 million vehicles per year. There is a lane for ships to pass under the Key Bridge with enough clearance.

Was it structurally sound?

The bridge received its latest inspection in 2022 and received a 6/9 score, which is considered "fair" by federal standards. There was a concern with one of its columns, which was downgraded from a health index of 77.8 to 65.9, but it is not clear yet if this was one of the columns struck by the ship. In 1980 the bridge was struck by a different cargo ship which destroyed a concrete support structure, but the bridge itself was unharmed. There is as of yet no evidence that the bridge collapsed because of poor condition. Experts say the lesson to be learned is about the size and weight of modern cargo ships, and that the bridge was not to blame. Engineers have noted, however, that the bridge's piers lacked protective devices such as fenders.

What was the ship?

The MV Dali is a container ship flying the Singapore flag. It is owned by Grace Ocean Private Ltd. and operated by Synergy Marine Group Ltd. The ship is currently being chartered by Maersk, a Dutch shipping company. It was built in 2015 by Hyundai. The ship is 980 feet long and 157 feet wide. The ship's gross tonnage (its internal volume) is 95,128 tons (190,256,000 pounds). Its deadweight (the weight of cargo it can carry) is 116,851 tons (233,702,000 pounds). The ship was carrying 3,000 containers. The engine is a MAN-B&W 9S90ME putting out 41,480 kilowatts (55,626 horsepower).

Over its lifetime the Dali has been inspected 27 times, and only 2 faults were ever found. On June 27, 2023 the Dali was held in port in Chile due to an issue with the propulsion system. According to an inspector the pressure gauges on the heating system were "unreadable". The fault was fixed before the ship left port.

The Dali is crewed by 22 Indian nationals including 2 maritime pilots.

What happened?

The Dali arrived at the Port of Baltimore on March 23, 2024. At 12:44 AM on March 26, 2024 the Dali left port, beginning its journey to Colombo, Sri Lanka. At 01:26 AM the ship suffered a "complete blackout" and began to drift out of the shipping lane. It is not yet known what caused the electrical failure. The backup generator did not power the propulsion system. At around 01:26 AM the crew of the Dali sent a mayday distress call to the Maryland Department of Transportation (MDOT) informing them of the loss of power and that a collision with the Key Bridge was possible. The anchors were dropped as an emergency measure to attempt to slow or stop the vessel. At the request of one of the pilots traffic flow over the bridge was immediately halted. Black smoke was seen coming from the Dali, which experts believe was the result of the crew managing to restart the power system to regain some maneuvering capability.

At 01:28 AM the Dali, traveling at 8 knots (considered to be a fast speed) collided with a support strut beneath the Key Bridge's metal truss at the southwest end of the bridge. A Baltimore resident said he heard the collision and that it "felt like an earthquake". Emergency teams began receiving 911 calls at 01:30 AM, and the Baltimore Police Department were alerted at 01:35 AM. One of the officers present radioed that he was going to go onto the bridge to alert the construction crew as soon as a second officer arrived, but the bridge collapsed seconds later.

What was the damage?

The Key Bridge has completely collapsed. The metal truss relies on structural tension from the bridge itself to maintain its rigidity. As soon as one of the support columns was destroyed, the rest of the bridge quickly followed.

The damage to the Dali is reported as minimal. The ship was impaled by the bridge's structure above the waterline, but has maintained watertight integrity. The crew has not reported any water contamination from its 1.8 million gallons of marine fuel. 13 containers carrying potentially hazardous material were damaged, and are being inspected by a team of Coast Guard divers. At least 5 vehicles including 3 passenger cars and a cement mixer were detected underwater, but authorities do not believe they were occupied

Who was hurt?

The crew of the Dali reports no casualties, except one crewmember who was hospitalized for minor injuries. There was a crew of 8 construction workers on the Key Bridge filling in potholes. 2 were immediately pulled from the water by rescue crews, with 1 being rushed to emergency care and the other reporting minor injuries and refusing treatment. The hospitalized worker has since been discharged. 1 of those rescued was Mexican. The remaining 6 remain missing. Of those 6, 2 have been identified:

Miguel Luna from El Salvador

Maynor Yassir Suazo Sandoval from Honduras

Of the remaining 4, 2 are Guatemalan nationals. Neither have been identified, but the Guatemalan Foreign Affairs Ministry has stated that they were a 26-year-old from San Luis, Petén, and a 35-year-old from Camotán, Chiquimula. The other 2 are presumed to be Mexican.

Rescue Efforts

The Coast Guard was immediately deployed for search-and-rescue operations. Military Blackhawk helicopters were seen over the river. Rescue efforts were ended at 07:30 PM on March 26, 2024 due to darkness, fog, and cold temperatures. Rear Admiral Shannon Gilreath said "Based on the length of time that we've gone in the search, the extensive search efforts that we put into it, the water temperature -- at this point, we do not believe that we're going to find any of these individuals still alive". Recovery operations resumed at 07:30 AM on March 27, 2024 with all 6 workers presumed dead.

No divers have yet entered the water underneath the bridge. Supervisory Special Agent Brian Hudson of the FBI's Underwater Search and Evidence Response Team said "the debris field is pretty sizable and I know that’s why they’re hesitant to send divers down because some of the debris is still shifting, the heavy weight of the rocks". The FBI has deployed Remotely Operated Vehicles (ROVs) equipped with cameras and SONAR.

Aftermath

At 05:08 AM on March 26, 2024 Transportation Secretary Pete Buttegiege posted on X (formerly Twitter):

"I’ve spoken with Gov. Moore and Mayor Scott to offer USDOT’s support following the vessel strike and collapse of the Francis Scott Key bridge. Rescue efforts remain underway and drivers in the Baltimore area should follow local responder guidance on detours and response."

At 07:30 AM on March 27, 2024 President of the Maryland State Senate Bill Ferguson posted on X (formerly Twitter):

"Over 15,000 in the Balt region rely on daily operations at Port of Baltimore to put food on the table. Today, with Del. @LukeClippinger and colleagues representing Port, we are drafting an emergency bill to provide for income replacement for workers impacted by this travesty."

At around 09:40 AM on March 26, 2024 Maryland Governor Wes Moore and Baltimore Mayor Brandon Scott declared a State of Emergency to take effect at 10:30 AM March 26, 2024, and to last 30 days. Baltimore's Emergency Operations Plan was put into effect.

More than 1,000 personnel from the US Army Corps of Engineers (USACE) have been deployed to assist with clearing the debris and rebuilding efforts. President Joe Biden has pledged that the federal government will pay for the entire reconstruction of the bridge.

Jennifer Homendy, the chair of the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) has recovered the Dali's data recorder, and will be inspecting both the Key Bridge and the Dali to determine the cause of the crash and the collapse. She says the investigation could take up to 2 years to complete.

Was it intentional?

According to William DelBagno, head of the FBI's Baltimore field office: "There is no specific or credible information to suggest there are ties to terrorism in this incident".

Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas said: "There are no indications this was an intentional act".

At least 3 people have been killed in accidents related to ships operated by Synergy in the past 6 years. In 2018 a person on board a Synergy ship in Australia was killed in an accident relating to the vessel's personnel elevator. In 2019 an officer aboard a Synergy vessel in Singapore fell overboard while performing maintenance. In 2023 at least one sailor was killed when a Synergy ship collided with a dredging ship in the Philippines. In the first two cases safety inspectors noted that proper safety procedures had not been adhered to.

Sources

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

#atlas entry #this is still a developing story but all the information herein is accurate and current at time of publishing #baltimore #baltimore bridge collapse #francis scott key bridge #key bridge #I spent an hour collating all this info please give it a reblog

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reportsofagrandfuture · 8 months ago

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#permaculture #solarpunk #green solutions #environmentalism #save the green save the planet

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mavlabajuri · 2 months ago

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What is Beskar? - A Breakdown

Beskar, also called Mandalorian iron, is a rare metal found only on Mandalore and its moon, Concordia. For Mandalorians, it's not just valued for its strength. Beskar is considered sacred, a holy material bound to identity, ancestry, and creed. The act of forging it is not merely a craft but a rite, performed by Mandalorian Armorers to bond warriors to their people through armor. Beskar is more than a metal: it represents resilience, heritage, culture, and soul.

Physical & Chemical Traits

Heat Resistance

What we know: Beskar can take direct hits from blasters and withstand lightsaber strikes without melting or deforming.

What that implies: It likely has an extraordinarily high melting point, higher even than tungsten (~3400°C). This places beskar among exotic, refractory metals or even unique energy-stabilized alloys. Canon also shows beskar resisting thermal shock (e.g., explosions) without shattering or fragmenting.

Durability & Toughness

“It’s beskar. It doesn’t dent.” - Medrit Vasur

What we know: It’s practically indestructible. Armor made of beskar resists slashes, blasterfire, lightsabers, crushing blows, and kinetic impacts. Even micronized forms can shatter bone.

What that implies: Beskar has immense toughness and impact dispersion. It doesn’t deflect energy like a shield; it spreads the impact across its surface. Think of it as a hybrid between metallic glass, Kevlar, and high-energy damping alloys. It doesn’t break, but the force still transfers to the wearer.

Malleability

“Mandalorians jealously guard their beskar-working skills and refuse to sell the formulas for any price.” - Imperial commentary on Mandalorian forging

What we know: Mandalorian smiths shape beskar into armor plates, wire, mesh, transparent film, foam, and even micronized particles.

What that implies: Beskar is incredibly workable when properly forged. Canon describes repeated folding (like Damascus steel), suggesting that its structural strength is enhanced through expert lamination and layering, a craft only mastered by Mandalorians.

Density & Weight

“Jaina examined her beskad; a blade forty-five centimeters long, maybe five or six centimeters wide, with a single cutting edge curving to a point—and much heavier than it looked, perhaps more than two kilos.” — Legacy of the Force: Invincible

What we know: “Full-density beskar” is heavier; alloyed forms with carbon or other materials are lighter but less durable.

What that implies: Pure beskar is likely denser than steel, possibly approaching the density of uranium or osmium. Alloying reduces weight and slightly lowers protective capacity. Export variants (like downgraded starships) use lighter, less refined beskar composites.

Corrosion Resistance

What we know: Beskar doesn’t tarnish, rust, or degrade over time, there’s no mention of upkeep for oxidation or weathering, even after centuries of use.

What that implies: It’s likely extremely corrosion-resistant, maybe through a naturally passivating surface layer (like titanium or stainless steel). That’s important for armor that’s expected to last generations, even in combat, salt air, or deep space.

Sound Signature

“Beskar had a sound like no other metal, all heavy dull solidity, no high tinny frequencies like durasteel when hit.” - Republic Commando: True Colors

What we know: When struck, beskar gives off a heavy, dull sound, different from the “tinny” sound of durasteel.

What that implies: This suggests high mass and excellent vibration damping. Materials that sound dull when struck often have lower resonance and greater ability to absorb kinetic energy, another point in favor of beskar spreading out impact forces instead of rebounding them.

Alloying Elements

“Anyway, this is top-grade beskar—full density, two percent ciridium, no fancy lamination or carbon-alloy.” - Kal Skirata

Known additives:

Ciridium (2%): A canon example from Skirata’s armor; Possibly a heat stabilizer or strengthener, unique to the gffa.

Carbon: Might lighten the material, increase flexibility, or improve strength (like real-word carbon steel).

The Shapes of Beskar

Plates - Ship hulls, traditional Mandalorian armor (beskar’gam)

Laminates - Layered armor, combining flexibility and protection

Wire/Mesh - Lightweight undersuits or integrated systems

Beskar-impregnated fabric - Beskar armorweave

Foam - Padding that still retains durability

Micronized particles - Used in crushgaunts

Transparent film - Rare; possibly used for HUDs or specialized optics

What’s in a Color?

"Armor colors and markings can indicate many things, from the clan or family to more ephemeral concepts such as state of mind or a particular mission." - Karen Traviss

Mandalorians don't just wear armor, they live in it. Beskar’gam is handed down, reforged, or remade, and each new generation adds their own mark. Painting one's armor is a declaration of individuality, experience, and lineage.

Cultural Significance

Declaration of identity: Some Mandalorian clans use distinct colors and markings to signify allegiance or heritage, including clan symbols or cultural symbols.

History and Feats: In some traditions, marks of honor, like jaig eyes, were painted on helmets to signify acts of bravery.

Expression and accomplishments: Sabine Wren, regularly painted and repainted her 500-year-old armor as both personal expression and symbolic evolution through her life’s stages and affiliations.

For Mandalorians, armor isn’t just armor, it’s a second skin. It's a visible oath to one of the six tenets of the Resol’nare: wearing beskar'gam. Choosing to paint one’s armor (or not to) says something.

Practical purposes: protection, camouflage, and preservation

While beskar is incredibly durable, painting it serves practical roles too, especially for older, heirloom and alloyed armor:

Corrosion control

Durasteel components, often used in place of beskar or to supplement it, can be vulnerable to environmental wear. Paint protects these surfaces from oxidation and corrosion, especially on long campaigns or in hostile conditions.

Camouflage & visibility

Mandalorians often operate in diverse terrain, paint lets them both blend in or intentionally stand out.

For stealth missions or ambushes, darker or terrain-matching colors can make a life-or-death difference.

Battle damage

A warrior's beskar'gam can take a hit, but it remembers every blow. Paint can mask surface damage, hide vulnerabilities, or maybe even accentuate past battlescars.

“The battles, the history, the blood all live within it. And the same goes for every Mandalorian.” - Sabine Wren

Painting Mandalorian armor isn’t merely cosmetic, it’s an ambulatory cultural mural, a testimony of paint and pigment. Every color, symbol, and stroke tells a story, and in true Mando fashion, it’s often one they’re not afraid to let you see coming.

K'oyacyi! // Mavla

If you have any comments, feedback, corrections or speculations, they are as always warmly welcomed!

#sorry din for showing ppl walloping you but it's for educational purposes #this is a bit more editorial than usual but I wanted to give it a go!#I know nothing about metallurgy beyond what google and wikipedia provides me #star wars #mandalorians #beskar'gam #beskar #mando'a #mandalorian culture #mandalorian language #mavla originals collection #the mandalorian #mandalorian #din djarin #mandalore #concordia #boba fett #captain rex #sabine wren

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sodapopboy · 1 year ago

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darry curtis, who sits at his parents’ graves on some of the nights where everyone’s at the drive-in

darry curtis, who sat in the church hours after the funeral was over

darry curtis, who blames himself for what happened to their parents, since he was the one who was supposed to be using the car at the time

darry curtis, who wishes it was him instead of his mom and pop whenever things get too rough because “they’d know what to do. they always did”

darry curtis, who didn’t get a moment to grieve. after enveloping pony and soda into a bone crushing hug, he was off to sorting out custody issues, preparing the funeral, and making sure the lights stayed on, the water ran cold and hot, and that there was food on the table

darry curtis, who not only gets angry when ponyboy doesn’t care much for his academics— but also scared since he knows his brother is meant for more than working at a register or roofing houses

darry curtis, who doesn’t let anyone into their parents room besides himself and his brothers

darry curtis, a man structured with bones of steel and hands sculpted to protect— to give and to never take

#me when they’re outside #the outsiders #darry curtis #ponyboy curtis #sodapop curtis #the outsiders 1983 #johnny cade #two bit mathews #dallas winston #steve randle #the outsiders hcs #darry the outsiders #ponyboy the outsiders #sodapop the outsiders

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jpscsolutions · 3 months ago

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fire retardant paint for cables

#fire stop mortar #fireproofing #fire resistant paint #steel structure fireproofing #passive fire protection india #fireproofing paint for steel structure #fire resistant paint for spray foam in india #fire resistant paint spray india #fire resistant paint india #fire retardant paint for cables

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xichilie · 4 months ago

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I love the Mydei’s secret friend fic so much

Remember what we talked about 😏 your idea you did not post?

I want to requast the part where they first meeting plus that reader is like the recarnation or looks exactly like his old friend cough lover cough

Since he's immortal, he is around for a while and his family was shitty to him and tried to kill poor boy but she stood by him but his side, so they killed her 🪦

But then DRAMATIC EVENT INSIDE THE RUINS AFTER THE BATTLE HE TOOK HER MASK OF AND BOOOOOOOM THE FACE HE MISSED THE FACE HE MOURNED FOR HEREEEEEEE AALIVE

And that's why he gets protective of her and doesn't like phainon interested in her

You tould me you won't write it because it's just a silly thought

I force ya too 😈

Youuuuuuu......Fine.... I've been working on it anyway ( ｡ •̀ ⤙ •́ ｡ )

_______________________________________

Mydei x (fem) reader

Mydei's secret friend (memories of the past)

The ruins of Kremnos stood in solemn defiance of time, their once-grand structures now mere skeletal remains of a forgotten age. The air carried the scent of dust and ancient stone, while the distant echoes of shifting debris whispered secrets of a bygone era. Y/N moved with purpose, her boots crunching softly against the ground as she navigated the crumbling pathways. The towering remnants of temples and palaces loomed over her, casting long, jagged shadows that danced in the waning light of the afternoon sun.

She had heard stories of this place—tales of an ancient city swallowed by war, its people lost, its history reduced to rubble. But legends often left out the details, the smaller truths buried beneath the grandiosity of myth. That was why she was here. To uncover what had been forgotten, to see with her own eyes what the world had let slip into obscurity.

The ruins were eerily silent, save for the occasional gust of wind that howled through the broken columns and shattered archways. But Y/N knew better than to assume she was alone. She had sensed it the moment she set foot inside—a presence, heavy and watchful, lingering just beyond her line of sight.

Then, the ground trembled.

Y/N barely had time to react before a Titan Kin emerged from the shadows, its hulking form towering over her. It was a massive, humanoid creature of living rock, veins of crimson energy pulsing through the cracks in its rough exterior. Its glowing eyes locked onto her, soulless and unrelenting. With a guttural roar, it raised a colossal fist and swung downward, the sheer force of the attack sending a tremor through the ruins.

Y/N leaped back just in time, the impact shattering the ground where she had stood moments before. Dust and debris filled the air as she steadied her grip on her greatsword, its steel glinting in the dim light. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, flames igniting along the blade’s edge as she struck.

The Titan Kin retaliated with a swipe of its massive arm, forcing her to pivot to the side. She moved with practiced precision, dodging its attacks while delivering swift, calculated strikes of her own. Every clash of her blade against its rocky hide sent sparks flying, the heat of her flames searing its surface. But it was resilient, absorbing the damage with little sign of faltering.

She needed to be faster. Stronger.

Summoning her energy, Y/N channeled her fire into a concentrated blast, slamming it directly into the Titan Kin’s core. The explosion sent the creature staggering backward, molten rock dripping from the wound she had inflicted. Seizing the opportunity, she charged forward, ready to end the battle—

And then she felt it again.

The presence.

It was closer this time, more distinct. A weight in the air, pressing against her senses like an unseen force. Her instincts screamed at her, warning of something far more dangerous than the Titan Kin before her.

And then he spoke.

“You fight well.”

The voice was deep, unwavering. It cut through the chaos like a blade, freezing her mid-motion. Y/N barely had time to register the words before the Titan Kin’s movements suddenly ceased, as if something had shifted in the atmosphere.

Slowly, she turned her gaze toward the source of the voice.

A lone figure stood atop a broken pillar, bathed in the dying light of the sun. He was shirtless, his muscular frame adorned with intricate crimson tattoos that pulsed faintly against his skin. His golden hair, tipped with red, caught the light in a way that almost made it seem ablaze. Heavy gladiatorial armor covered his arms and shoulders, gleaming with the remnants of past battles. But it was his eyes that held her attention—sharp, golden, and unwavering.

He looked like a ghost haunting the ruins.

Y/N exhaled slowly, gripping her sword a little tighter. “You’re watching me.”

His lips quirked slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “And you’re trespassing.”

Her brow arched. “Didn’t realize these ruins belonged to anyone.”

He stepped forward, descending from the broken pillar with effortless grace. “They don’t.” His gaze flickered briefly to the now-motionless Titan Kin before settling back on her. “Yet, you’re here. Fighting. Seeking something.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. She studied him, trying to piece together his intent. He carried himself like a warrior, but there was something else beneath the surface—a quiet intensity, an air of something ancient and unresolved.

Then, without warning, he shifted his stance.

A challenge.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You want to fight?”

He flexed his fingers, the golden armor on his hands glinting ominously. “I want to see what you can do.”

There was no room for hesitation.

The moment she moved, so did he.

Their clash sent a shockwave through the ruins, the impact of his armored fists against her greatsword ringing through the air. He was relentless, each strike fueled by raw power and precision. But Y/N met him blow for blow, her flames licking at his armor, forcing him to adjust his attacks.

It was a battle of endurance as much as skill. He fought with unyielding force, his movements refined, honed through countless battles. She countered with fluidity and adaptability, her fire weaving through her strikes like a second weapon. Sparks flew, embers danced, and the ruins bore witness to a battle unlike any in centuries.

Yet, despite her best efforts, she could feel herself slowing.

Her stamina was wearing thin. And he was still going strong.

A misstep. A fraction of a second too slow.

That was all he needed.

In a blur of motion, he disarmed her, her greatsword skidding across the stone floor. Before she could react, he closed the distance, pinning her in place with a single, firm grip on her wrist. She met his gaze, breathing heavily, defiance flickering in her eyes.

And then he reached forward.

With deliberate slowness, he removed her mask.

For a fleeting moment, something shifted in his expression. A flicker of recognition. A ghost of something long buried.

He froze.

Y/N blinked, confused by his sudden stillness. He stared at her, golden eyes unreadable, yet holding something deep beneath the surface. Something fractured.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

He released her wrist, stepping back. “Who are you?”

Y/N straightened, brushing dust from her clothes. “Y/N. And you?”

A pause. Then, with a voice heavy with something unspoken, he answered.

“Mydei.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. He studied her for a moment longer before exhaling sharply. “What are you doing in these ruins?”

Y/N tilted her head, watching him curiously. “Exploring.”

He regarded her for a long moment before nodding. “Then I’ll accompany you.”

She raised a brow. “Why?”

His gaze flickered to the ruins around them before settling back on her. “Because these ruins hold more than history.”

And so, they walked together, the weight of something unseen lingering between them.

The ruins loomed ahead, their towering structures bathed in the dim light filtering through the cracks of a long-collapsed ceiling. Y/N walked beside Mydei, her keen eyes scanning the surroundings, ever watchful for lurking threats. The air was thick with dust, carrying the scent of decay and old magic, remnants of a forgotten past.

Their earlier battle had left both of them on edge, but now, having established a fragile truce, they pressed forward together. Mydei’s usual brooding silence was punctuated only by the occasional grunt or huff whenever Y/N dared to ask a question he deemed unworthy of an answer. She took his gruff demeanor in stride, finding a strange amusement in his perpetual state of annoyance.

Titan kin lurked in the shadows, their hulking forms shifting amongst the ruins. One lunged from the darkness, its stone-carved body adorned with ancient glyphs that pulsed ominously. Y/N reacted swiftly, her greatsword igniting in flames as she met the creature head-on. Sparks flew as steel clashed against hardened rock, her movements precise and unyielding.

Mydei observed her technique with an unreadable expression, stepping in to handle a second Titan kin that emerged from behind. His golden-armored fists connected with crushing force, crimson energy crackling around him as he sent the creature reeling backward. Crimson crystals erupted from the ground beneath it, impaling the beast and reducing it to rubble.

They fought in unison, an unspoken understanding forming between them as they tore through their adversaries. It was strange—unnerving, even—how easily she moved beside him, how instinctively she countered his strikes, filling in the gaps in his relentless assault. It was… familiar.

A flash of memory overtook him.

A different time, a different battlefield. The same seamless coordination. A voice filled with laughter, calling out his name amidst the chaos. Soft hands that reached for him despite the blood staining them. Eyes filled with unwavering faith.

He blinked, forcing himself back to the present. Y/N was not her. It was impossible. And yet, the way she carried herself, the confidence in her movements, the stubborn gleam in her eyes—it all gnawed at the edges of his mind.

She turned to him after the last Titan kin fell, wiping sweat from her brow. "You're quieter" she remarked, her tone light but observant.

"I prefer silence over meaningless chatter," he shot back, crossing his arms as his crimson energy dissipated.

She smirked. "And yet, you tolerate mine."

Mydei huffed but said nothing. He had no rebuttal. It was true—he hadn't told her to leave yet.

They pressed onward, deeper into the ruins. As they walked, Y/N traced her fingers along the crumbling walls, deciphering the old carvings with interest. Mydei watched her, the way her expression softened in wonder, the way she breathed in the history surrounding them. It was how she used to be. Before she was taken from him.

He clenched his fists, pushing the thought away. Whatever this was—whatever connection Y/N unknowingly stirred within him—it did not matter. He was not here for sentimentality.

But as they stood before an ancient chamber, their reflection flickering in the golden glow of an undying ember, he could not shake the feeling that fate had dragged him back to this place for a reason.

Memories crashed against Mydei’s mind like waves against jagged rocks. He was no longer in the ruins but in the past, where warm sunlight bathed the high walls of Kremnos, and laughter echoed through its hallowed halls.

She had always been a whirlwind, teasing him relentlessly, challenging him when no one else dared. He could hear her voice, clear as day.

"Mydei, you really need to learn how to lighten up! Your face is going to get stuck like that," she would say, poking his cheek with an infuriating grin.

He would swat her hand away, scowling. "Stop that."

"You always say that," she laughed. "But you never mean it."

And she was right. He never did.

There were softer moments, too. Nights spent under the vast Kremnos sky, watching the stars while she spoke of dreams beyond their ruined city. Mydei had listened, pretending not to care, but her voice had always been a comfort he never admitted needing.

And then there were the funny moments—like when she, ever the fearless explorer, tripped over nothing and sent an entire stack of ancient scrolls toppling over her. He had laughed for the first time in years, earning a glare and a handful of parchment thrown at his head.

But those days had ended.

He could still feel the cold steel of chains against his skin, hear the roaring accusations of his family, see her standing there, defiant even in the face of death.

And then she was gone....

"Mydei?"

Y/N’s voice cut through the haze of memory. He blinked, realizing he had stopped walking. She was looking at him with mild concern, head tilted slightly. "You okay? You kind of just… froze."

He scowled, brushing past her. "Mind your own business."

She huffed, catching up. "You’re not exactly subtle, you know. If something’s bothering you, you can talk about it."

He shot her a glare. "No."

She laughed at his bluntness, shaking her head. "Fine, fine. But don’t look so miserable. We’re exploring ancient ruins, fighting Titan kin—what’s there to frown about?"

Everything, Mydei thought, but he didn’t say it.

Instead, he walked ahead, pretending that the ghost of his past wasn’t breathing down his neck with every step he took.

Over the years, his reluctant alliance with Y/N grew into an unexpected friendship. Though Mydei remained his usual gruff and irritable self, he found himself tolerating her presence more than anyone else’s. When she insisted on dragging him along on her explorations, he would scoff and protest, yet he never actually refused.

She had a way of drawing out something buried deep within him—reminding him of laughter he had forgotten, of warmth he thought had died with Kremnos.

There were moments when her presence felt so much like hers that it was almost painful. The way she tilted her head when deep in thought, the way she smirked when she bested him in a battle of wit or blade, even the way she could be so utterly, hopelessly clumsy at times.

Once, she tripped over a root and tumbled straight into a pond. Mydei, standing on the shore, arms crossed, had merely raised a brow.

"I meant to do that," she had declared, drenched and unbothered.

He scoffed. "Of course you did."

Another time, he had found himself standing outside her home, arms full of ingredients she had insisted they buy for some ‘experiment’ in baking. He didn’t know how she convinced him, but there he was, watching as she kneaded dough with an enthusiasm that bordered on reckless.

"You know, you could help instead of just standing there like a statue," she quipped.

"I’m not interested in your ridiculous hobby," he muttered, but when she turned her back, he found himself reaching out, adjusting the way she was rolling the dough. "You’re doing it wrong."

She blinked at him in surprise before grinning. "So, you do know how to bake."

He glared at her. "Shut up."

It was in these moments that he let his guard down, even if just slightly. But never for long.

Because every now and then, when she stood before him, firelight flickering against her face, he would catch a glimpse of the past. And it was both a comfort and a curse.

Y/N never pried, never asked why he sometimes looked at her like he was staring at a ghost. And for that, he was silently grateful.

But he knew the truth—one day, he would have to face what haunted him.

And he wasn’t sure if he was ready.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #x reader #honkai star rail mydei #mydeimos #hsr mydei #mydei #mydei x reader #hotmen #hurt/comfort #honkai x reader #honkai star rail x you #x y/n #oc x character #x you #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #hsr x reader

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aventurineswife · 29 days ago

Note

"A Symptom Of Something" - Anaxagorus x Astrologist! Reader

(This one definitely takes a darker shift, the music alone speaks volumes. You mentioned not being the best with writing from music alone as a prompt, so I'm here to train you. Can also use the titles as ref!)

“Memento Mori, My Star”

Summary: In the ruined halls of the once-sacred Grove of Epiphany, an injured Astrologist stumbles upon forbidden truths—and Anaxagoras. As celestial alignments and soulbound experiments unravel around them, Anaxagoras must choose between shielding the Astrologist from divine retribution or allowing them to glimpse the truth no mortal was meant to see. Caught in a moment between blood, memory, and fate, they confront mortality, their bond, and the impossible weight of knowledge.

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Astrologist!Reader, Angst with Comfort, Forbidden Knowledge, Protective Behavior, Slow Burn, Emotional Baggage, Soul Experiments, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Affection, Experimental Magic, Academic Heresy, Vanitas Themes, Flawed Genius, Memory as Narrative.

Warnings: Blood and injury, Body horror (mild, related to magical experimentation), Existential themes (mortality, divine defiance), Psychological distress, Trauma mentions (implied past enslavement, loss, manipulation), Power imbalance (emotional vulnerability, not abusive), Heavy introspection and emotional intensity.

Tagslist: @sewoui, @tremendoustragedybard, @axolotsofluv

The Grove was burning.

Soot choked the skies where once constellations shimmered. The sigils engraved on its marble archways flickered one last time before crumbling. Between the tremble of the stars and the shriek of alchemical steel being ripped asunder, you found him—bent over the shattered remains of a Coreflame crucible.

"Anaxa!"

He didn’t look back.

Your fingers, cracked from defending your ward only hours before, now trembled for a different reason. The man before you — one eye veiled behind a soul-warped eyepatch, the other a hollow ocean of light and torment — moved like a marionette without strings.

"You shouldn’t be here," he murmured.

You stepped forward. "Neither should you."

He laughed. Low. Unstable. The kind of sound that made your bones ache. "And yet, here we are. Two symptoms of something wrong."

You didn't have time to argue before the structure behind him groaned like a dying god. You lunged. Pulled him back. Rubble collapsed where he stood.

For a moment, his forehead leaned against yours. Eyes closed. Breath shallow.

"Did you see it?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The truth. Burning through the veil."

You stared at him. Ash clung to his lashes. Gold blood still oozed from his knuckles.

You wanted to say: I only saw you breaking.

But instead, you replied, "I saw the stars fall."

Days later, you sat in the hollowed remains of the observatory. The dome had shattered long ago, and yet the night sky still spilled overhead in fractured beauty.

He sat beside you. For once, silent.

In your lap, the child you protected slept, fevered from the lingering poison gas of the Titans' failed countermeasures.

"You once called me a liar of light," he said, finally.

You hummed. "And you called me an obedient machine of starlight."

He tilted his head. "You weren’t wrong."

"Neither were you."

You looked to him. His eyepatch shimmered, and you wondered if he could see through your silence, your guilt, your clenching heart.

"They said this world is a Vanitas," you whispered. "But I never imagined it would take everything I cared for and leave behind... this."

His gaze didn’t waver. "Then paint something new. You have the stars still."

You scoffed. "You don't get to say that. Not when you almost let yourself die back there."

He reached over. His gloved hand brushed your temple, then down to your jaw. A careful caress. You flinched at first. Then leaned.

"If I die, remember this," he said softly. "Even when the truth is a blasphemy, it's still worth dying for."

"And what if I think you are worth living for?"

He paused. That mask of arrogance slipped.

His voice cracked. "Then perhaps... I have one truth left worth defending."

The child now slept safely in a hidden sanctuary, your blade set aside.

You and Anaxa stood beneath a dying star, its light pulsing slow and broken. It was the same star you charted when you first met him. The one he called the "chained god."

"It’s beautiful," you murmured.

"It’s dying."

"So are we all."

His eyes met yours. "Would you still follow me, if I declared war on the divine?"

"Yes."

"Even if I turned into a god myself?"

You stepped closer. Pressed your palm to the mark (idk what it's called?) on his chest.

"Only if you let me be the one to remind you what it means to be human."

He laughed. This time, it was soft. Real.

He took your hand. And in a rare gesture of fragility, he pressed his lips to your knuckles.

"Then promise me," he whispered. "That if I become a monster, you'll be the one to kill me."

You shook your head.

"No, Anaxagorus. I'll do worse. I'll love you."

And in the silence that followed, the dying star pulsed one final time.

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the-fiction-witch · 3 months ago

Text

Cold?

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Cregan Stark Couple - Cregan X Reader Reader - Y/n (Southern Wife) Rating - 17 (Nudity) Word Count - 1004

As I slowly stirred beneath the weighty furs. I rubbed the sleep from my heavy-lidded eyes and, with a gentle but firm movement, pushed Cregan's warm hand away from my waist. The chill of the morning air prickled against my skin as I slipped out from beneath the covers. I wrapped my fur robe tightly around my naked body, its softness a small solace against the biting cold.

With a quick, cautious motion, I lifted my feet from the woven rug, making a light leap onto the unforgiving stone floor. The chill of the stones sent a shiver racing up my spine, prompting me to hunch over the flickering flames of the hearth. I rubbed my arms briskly, seeking warmth as I felt the cool air swirl around me.

As I settled before the crackling fire, my gaze drifted to the window, where delicate snowflakes danced through the air, their gentle descent a mesmerizing sight. Each flake was a delicate crystal, glistening in the early light, making the outside world into a serene winter wonderland.

Taking a deep breath to gather my courage, I steeled myself for the chill beyond the warmth of the hearth. With resolve, I made my way to the wardrobe.

I began by taking out a cosy pair of grey woollen stockings, their surface soft and slightly textured. Carefully, I pulled them up my legs until they reached mid-thigh, the fabric hugging my skin snugly. I repeated this ritual two more times, wrapping my legs in layers of warmth. Next, I chose a tunic-style shirt, its long, fitted sleeves tapering neatly at my wrists. I tossed it over my head, ensuring it lay smoothly against my torso, the fabric draping elegantly.

Following that, I reached for a sturdy pair of thick hide britches, remnants of a time when they belonged to Cregan. With a few snips and adjustments, I had tailored them to fit my frame, accommodating the additional layers of stockings underneath. I tucked the hem of my tunic into the waistband before lacing the britches tight, securing everything in place and creating a comfortable, yet form-fitting silhouette.

But still, my body shivered, my toes felt numb, my nipples poking from my clothes.

I let out a weary sigh as I reached for my knee-high, fur-lined boots, their soft, plush interiors promising warmth in the cold air. Carefully, I pulled them on, feeling the snug fit envelop my legs. With practised fingers, I laced them tightly, ensuring there was no gap for the icy snow to slip in between the boots and my thick woollen britches.

Next, I turned to my usual thick grey slip, its heavy fabric providing a comforting weight as I draped it over my body. The slip fluttered gently to my ankles, enveloping me in its warmth and protection against the frigid air. Searching through my collection of garments, I chose a tunic shirt made of sturdy material, one that boasted a high neckline reaching all the way to my throat. It was designed to shield every inch of bare skin, creating a barrier against the chilling elements outside. As I gathered the fabric around me, I felt a sense of preparedness for whatever the day might bring.

But my teeth still chattered and my body shivered,

I carefully slipped into my corset, tightening the laces with a firm tug. The structure of it cinched my waist, moulding my torso into an hourglass shape. Next, I reached for my thickest, most voluminous petticoats. One by one, I layered six floor-length skirts around my waist, each petticoat adding a cascading fullness to my silhouette. The layers rustled softly as they settled, creating an elegant sway with my every movement.

Finally, I adorned myself with my large deep grey dress, the fabric rich and textured. It was lined with luxurious fur at every hem. As I pulled the dress over my petticoats, it enveloped me, fitting snugly around my figure and enveloping my hands in its wide, flowing sleeves.

I exhaled slowly, the tension easing from my shoulders as I finally felt at ease enough to gather my hair into a traditional northern-style braid. The soft strands slipped through my fingers with a comforting familiarity, but just as I began to focus on the intricate weaving, a voice cut through the quiet of the morning.

Cregan had awakened during the time I spent preparing myself. He propped himself up against the pillows, the furs draped loosely around his waist. As he ran a hand through his tousled hair, I could see the familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. It was clear he had been observing me all along, and when he spoke, his tone held a teasing laughter that sent a playful shiver down my spine. “Cold?”

I scoffed, “V-very funny.”

He laughed as he climbed from the bed, leaving the furs and sheets to pool on the mattress, his naked body completely exposed without so much as a shiver, as he confidently walked across the bed chamber and took my face in his hands. “My sweet southern girl,” he leant down and softly kissed my lips,

I smiled into the kiss resting my cold hands against his warm bare chest until he pulled back,

“You will grow used to the northern winters. In time.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he reassured kissing my forehead, as he went to dress himself.

“And if I don’t?” I asked with fear,

He scoffed, “Then I will have warmer clothes made for you.”

“You are too kind to me Cregan.” I blushed trying to hide my red cheeks,

But he took my chin in hand and turned it to him only dressed into his britches, “I must, to repay my wife for being so perfect to me.” He cooed but sighed.

“What is it?”

“So many layers… I hardly can gather the strength to remove them all and take you back to bed.” He sighed,

“A shame.” I laughed,

“I said, Hardly. I still can.” He smirked, grabbed my waist, swiftly lifted me from the floor, and tossed my body on the bed.

#hotd fanfiction #hotd fandom #hotd season 2 #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd smut #house of targaryen #house targaryen #house of the dragon #house of the dragon season 2 #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic #house stark #cregan stark #cregan x reader #hotd cregan #cregan fanfiction #creganstark #lord cregan stark

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moonlitstoriess · 5 months ago

Text

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem! reader (mini-series) Part 5

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

See masterlist

Previous part

Next part

Warnings: some angst

Smoke filled his lungs, thick and acrid, clogging his throat as he staggered upright. The sounds of battle still raged around him-the clang of steel against steel, the desperate cries of the wounded, the crackling of fire consuming whatever lay in its path. But none of it mattered.

Where is she?

His heart slammed against his ribs as his head whipped around, scanning the chaos. Bodies blurred past him-fleeing civilians, masked attackers, fallen guards.

Somewhere in the madness, he knew Y/N was fighting to get back to him, just as he was fighting to get to her.

Someone lunged at him from the smoke, blade aimed for his throat. Eris sidestepped at the last second, twisting his sword up in a deadly arc. His blade sliced through fabric, through flesh, and the attacker crumpled before him with a strangled gasp. Another came from behind, and Eris spun, bringing his sword down in a merciless strike. He barely felt the resistance as he cut them down.

He could feel the heat of the fires licking at his skin, hear the distant shouts of his soldiers as they fought to regain control of the situation. But his mind was singular in focus.

Find her. Protect her.

Then—a voice.

"Eris!"

His head snapped toward the sound, and through the smoke, he caught a flash of familiar color- Y/N.

His breath punched out of him in sheer relief. But she wasn't running to him-she was fighting. A masked figure was on her, blade slashing toward her ribs. Y/N barely dodged in time, using her smaller size to twist away. Eris saw the rage in her eyes, the determination as she yanked a fallen dagger from the ground and drove it straight into her attacker's side.

Good. Fight, Y/N.

But they were still too far apart. Another attacker lunged for her, and Eris didn't think—he threw his sword. The blade spun through the air, slicing deep into the enemy's chest before they could reach her.

And then, before she could react, he was there, gripping her wrist, pulling her to him.

"We have to go!" he barked, yanking her toward the docks. His grip was iron, his entire being focused on getting her out of here.

But Y/N fought him. She fought him.

She wrenched back, her eyes wild, her free hand shoving against his chest.

"No-Samira!"

Eris barely caught the curse that tore from his lips. He grabbed her again, harder this time, and tried to haul her away, but she dug her heels in, her entire body twisting against his grip.

"Y/N, we don't have time for this!" he snarled, dodging a blade as another attacker stormed toward them. He kicked them back, sending them sprawling, and turned back to her, furious. "We have to go-stop fighting me!"

"No!" she yelled, eyes flashing. "Samira is still out there—I won't leave her!"

Something sharp slammed into his shoulder-an arrow, slicing through the air so close it nearly grazed him. It struck the cobblestone beside them with a thud, and in that split second, Eris made his choice.

He let out a vicious snarl and hauled her into his arms.

Y/N let out a furious yell, thrashing against him, but he didn't care. His arm locked around her waist like iron as he took off toward the docks, his other hand gripping his sword.

Another explosion rocked the city behind them, sending more smoke and fire into the sky. The roar of collapsing structures filled the air, drowning out the screams. More masked figures pursued them, but Eris didn't slow. He wouldn't stop.

He could feel her pounding against his back, cursing at him, but he didn't let her go-not when arrows were slicing through the air around them, not when the ground beneath them trembled with destruction.

He only ran faster, his grip on her tightening as if letting go would mean losing her forever.

Through the smoke and chaos, he finally saw them-his soldiers.

"Cover us!" he barked, and in an instant, the remaining guards closed ranks, forming a protective shield around them as they sprinted up the gangplank onto the ship.

Eris barely made it onto the deck before he shouted, voice raw with urgency,

"Unfurl the sails—we leave now!"

Men scrambled to obey, cutting ropes and loosening sails. The ship began to lurch away from the burning docks, waves crashing against the hull as the sea pulled them forward.

But Y/N-

She was still fighting him.

She twisted out of his grip, her hands shoving at his chest, his arms, anything she could reach. Her face was flushed with anger, with desperation, her eyes burning.

"NO!" she screamed. "Samira-we can't leave her!"

The ship groaned as it lurched forward.

Eris clenched his jaw, his hands still gripping her arms, ready to stop her from doing anything reckless.

And then —

A figure burst onto the dock.

The guard.

Dragging Samira.

"SAMIRA!" Y/N's voice cracked, raw with relief.

The gangplank was nearly gone, the ship moving too fast now. The guard leaped, barely making it as he crashed onto the deck, Samira tumbling beside him.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

And then-Y/N ran.

She launched herself toward her friend, both of them colliding with a choked cry.

Eris let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His heart was still hammering, his body still braced for battle, but-they made it.

The chaos of the deck swirled around him-soldiers panting, men groaning from wounds, courtiers clutching each other in shock. The city of Tideholt burned behind them, a graveyard of fire and smoke, growing smaller with every passing second.

And Y/N-

She was still clinging to Samira, both clearly shaken with all that happened.

Eris turned away, the weight of everything settling in his chest. His fists clenched at his sides.

What the hell just happened?

The warmth of the tea seeped through Y/N’s fingers, but it did little to chase away the lingering chill in her bones. Even wrapped in dry clothes, sitting on a plush, cushioned chair in the dimly lit sitting room below deck, she still felt like she was trapped in the smoke and chaos of Tideholt. The scent of burning wood and blood still clung to her memory, her ears still ringing with the echoes of clashing steel and panicked screams.

Across from her, Samira sat with her own cup in hand, her expression calculating but steady. Her dark hair, still damp from the frantic escape, framed her sharp features, but there was something guarded in her expression—something calculating. They hadn’t spoken much in the past hour, too busy catching their breath, letting the ship’s gentle rocking ground them after the nightmare they had just survived.

Y/N stared into her tea, watching the ripples disturb the surface as the ship moved. “I still can’t believe it,” she finally said, voice quieter than she intended.

Samira exhaled through her nose, taking a slow sip before setting her cup down on the small wooden table between them. “Believe it,” she muttered. “We almost died back there.”

Y/N flinched at the bluntness, though she knew it was true. They had barely made it out. If that guard had been a second later—if the ship had pulled away just a moment sooner—

She wouldn’t let herself think about that.

Instead, she focused on what had happened before they escaped. “It was so fast,” she murmured, shaking her head. “One second, we were watching that juggler, and the next…”

She trailed off, memories flashing behind her eyes—the masked figures, the screams, the explosion that had thrown them all off balance. The way Eris had grabbed her, refused to let her go, even as she had fought him tooth and nail. She still wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank him or strangle him.

Samira leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “It was too fast.”

Y/N frowned. “What?”

“The attack,” Samira said, tapping her fingers against the rim of her cup. “It happened too quickly. Too precisely.”

Y/N gave a tired shrug. “I mean, it was an ambush, of course it was—”

“No,” Samira cut in, shaking her head. “I mean, it was planned.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the certainty in her tone. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

Samira’s eyes darkened. “Think about it, Y/N. We get here, we spend hours in Tidehold without incident, and then suddenly—the moment we go to the market, there’s an attack? The moment we’re in the open, where we’re most vulnerable?”

Y/N hesitated. She wanted to argue, wanted to dismiss it as just bad luck—a random attack on a crowded marketplace. But…

Samira wasn’t wrong.

It had been too coordinated—too deliberate. The way the masked figures had emerged all at once, from multiple directions. The way they had moved, cutting through the crowd with calculated precision, not like common bandits but like trained soldiers.

And—

Her stomach twisted.

They had been targeted.

The attackers hadn’t been blindly slaughtering civilians. They had been looking for something—or someone.

Y/N set her cup down, suddenly feeling sick. “You think… we were the reason for the attack?”

Samira gave a slow nod. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

Y/N swallowed, her mind racing. It was absurd—wasn’t it? They had been careful. Eris had been careful. The route they took hadn’t been publicly known. Their presence in Tideholt wasn’t some widely spread secret. So how—

A cold thought settled in her chest.

“What if…” She hesitated. “What if someone knew we were coming?”

Samira met her gaze, her silence confirmation enough.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “You think we were set up?”

“I think,” Samira said carefully, “that someone wanted us dead.”

The words sat heavy between them.

Y/N clenched her hands into fists, trying to push away the growing unease in her gut. “But why?” she demanded. “Who would even know? Who would go through all that effort to—”

She stopped.

Because she knew the answer.

There were plenty of people who wanted them dead. Plenty of enemies Eris had made, plenty of threats lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And it had almost worked.

Y/N exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Eris needs to know.”

Samira raised an eyebrow. “You think he doesn’t?”

That gave her pause.

No—Eris was too smart to not suspect something. He wasn’t the type to overlook a pattern, to brush off an attack like this as mere chance. If she and Samira were sitting here, piecing things together, then he had probably already figured it out.

The question was—

Who was behind it?

And what did they want?

Y/N’s fingers curled around her cup again, the warmth doing little to soothe the unease curling in her stomach. She had a terrible feeling that whatever had happened in Tideholt was only the beginning.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of whispered theories and tense silences, of lingering exhaustion and the weight of uncertainty pressing against Y/N’s chest.

She and Samira stuck together as the ship continued on its course, neither of them eager to be alone with their thoughts. They ate together in the mess hall, speaking in hushed voices as they analyzed every moment of the attack, every strange detail, every possible explanation. It all led back to the same unsettling conclusion—this had not been random.Someone had been waiting for them, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Y/N didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to write it off as a tragic coincidence, an unfortunate event that just happened to align with their visit. But the more she thought about it, the more the timeline didn’t add up. And Eris, wherever he had disappeared to, was certainly thinking the same thing.

She didn’t know why that thought frustrated her so much.

By nightfall, she was exhausted, her body aching from the tension she had been carrying all day. Samira had retired earlier, leaving Y/N to spend some time staring at the waves from the deck, letting the cool air clear her mind. It didn’t help much. Her thoughts were still tangled, still restless.

Eventually, she made her way back to the bedroom she shared with Eris, rolling her shoulders as she reached for the door handle.

She barely took two steps inside before she froze.

The first thing she saw was Eris.

And dear gods.

He was standing near the small washroom, his back half-turned to her, a towel in hand as he ruffled it through his still-damp hair. His usual polished exterior was nowhere to be found—his tunic was nowhere to be found.

Instead, his bare chest was on full display, illuminated by the soft golden glow of the lantern light.

Scarred, muscled, littered with marks that told stories she would never know.

Her throat went dry.

Her thoughts spun wildly, completely untethered, slipping through her fingers before she could even think of reining them in. She didn’t mean to stare, but it was impossible not to, impossible not to trace the faint scars lining his torso, the defined muscles shifting as he moved, the low dip of his pants, haphazardly thrown on after his bath.

And fuck.

She had never seen him like this before.

She had never allowed herself to think about him like this before.

Eris Vanserra was infuriating. Arrogant, cunning, ruthless—but gods, right now? Right now, he looked like a painting, like something carved from fire and stone, all sharp lines and controlled power. And she was standing there gawking at him like an idiot.

Her mind was spiraling further into very dangerous thoughts when his voice cut through it all.

“How generous of you,” he drawled, his tone laced with mockery. “To finally grace us with your presence, Highness.”

Her dirty thoughts crashed and burned, replaced by fury.

She snapped back to reality, scowling as she shut the door behind her—hard. “You seriously can’t be the one talking after you literally disappeared the second we were on board.”

Eris let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he reached for his tunic. “I was cleaning up the mess you caused.”

She stiffened. “Excuse me?”

He turned his back to her, pulling the tunic over his head, his broad shoulders shifting as he spoke. “I spent the entire day investigating who the hell orchestrated that attack,” he said coldly, his voice sharp like a blade. “Because you and I both know very well that this wasn’t some random, everyday occurrence. It was planned.”

Y/N saw red.

“You’re blaming me?” she snapped, marching closer, rage surging through her exhaustion. “Are you serious right now?”

Eris turned around so fast she barely had time to react, his amber eyes blazing. “Yeah? What else am I supposed to do?” he shot back. “It was you who begged me to go there, and for once—for fucking once in my life—I decided to be nice. I decided to listen to someone else’s wishes.” His voice rose, bitter and biting. “And look how that turned out.”

Her mouth fell open in utter disbelief. “You’re talking as if I knew this would happen! As if I planned this—”

“You didn’t plan it,” he cut in, stepping closer, his fury radiating off him in waves. “But when it did happen? You fought me. Me. While I was trying to do nothing but get you the hell away from a situation you weren’t even familiar with.”

“I—Samira—”

“I don’t fucking care about Samira.” His voice boomed, echoing off the walls. His chest was rising and falling, his fists clenched, his anger swallowing everything in the room. “I don’t care about anyone but my wife! You were my priority then!”

Y/N let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, right! Because I’m just some asset you need in your grand scheme.” She let the words slip from her tongue before she could stop them. “But what would you know? Samira is the only one from Montesere, the only piece of home I have left! The only one who understands me well enough! The only other foreigner—what? You expect me to be alone with all your Autumn Court snakes?”

Eris hissed through his teeth. “Do you truly think I wouldn’t have found a way to bring Samira back?” His voice was deadly, his eyes locked onto hers. “I am Eris fucking Vanserra, Y/N. And you are underestimating me too much.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” she snapped back.

“Congratulate yourself.” His tone was sharp enough to cut. “You proved to me why I should never be kind to anyone.Because no matter what, no matter what shit I do, it’s never enough. People just nag and nag and nag.”

“That someone is me!” she yelled, spitting fire, stepping closer until they were mere inches apart. “Your wife!”

For a moment, he just stared at her, his chest heaving, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then—

He smiled.

Cruelly.

The shift was instant, a mask snapping into place.

“But not a real one, am I right?” His voice dropped to something quieter, something razor-sharp. “You won’t ever be a real wife to me, just like I won’t ever be a real husband to you. That’s the agreement, isn’t it, my dear?”

The words felt like a slap.

Y/N froze.

A thick, suffocating silence stretched between them, heavy with things left unsaid.

Her throat felt tight, her heartbeat roaring in her ears, but she had nothing to say.

She had nothing at all.

Eris held her gaze for another long, unbearable moment—then, without another word, he stepped past her, brushing her shoulder as he walked to the door.

He didn’t look back as he muttered, “Don’t wait for me.”

And then—

He was gone.

Leaving Y/N alone.

With nothing but the silence and the wreckage of their words between them.

Eris had spent the last hour enduring the company of three Autumn courtiers—men of status and influence within his court, though none nearly as powerful as him. Lord Sareth, a shrewd and calculating noble whose wealth came from the iron trade; Lord Varyn, an older, quiet man who had once served as his father’s advisor before shifting his loyalty to Eris; and Lord Edric, younger than the others, ambitious and arrogant, always trying to prove himself.

The air in the dimly lit chamber was thick with tension as they discussed what had happened in Tidehold. The unexpected attack. The enemies who had been waiting as if they had known they were coming.

“There’s only one explanation,” Eris said, his voice flat. “Someone betrayed us. Someone told them we were coming.”

The statement hung in the air like a blade poised to strike.

“It does seem too coincidental,” Sareth mused, stroking his graying beard. “The timing, the precision of their ambush… It’s as if they had been expecting you at that very moment.”

“Then the question remains,” Varyn said, “who was it?”

Edric was the one who spoke next, his words slow, careful. “Forgive me, my prince, but… perhaps the answer is closer than we think.” He hesitated before adding, “It is all because of your wife, Prince Eris. Her insistence to go there in itself seems suspicious.”

The room fell silent.

Eris, who had been leaning back in his chair, suddenly went still. His golden eyes fixed on Edric with a chilling intensity. “What,” he said, voice low, “did you just say?”

Edric swallowed, shifting in his seat. “I mean… Princess Amira—she was the one who kept pressing to go to Tidehold. She—”

Eris straightened, his hands pressing against the polished wood of the table. “Are you suggesting my wife betrayed us?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“Did you just insult my wife?” Eris’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

Edric hesitated. “Prince Eris, with all due respect, you must think logically about this. I mean, that bit—”

The second the word left his mouth, Eris struck.

He slammed Edric’s head down against the table, the sound of impact reverberating through the chamber. Edric let out a pained grunt, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as Eris kept his hand pressed against the back of his skull.

Varyn and Sareth immediately shot to their feet, their chairs scraping against the floor.

“Prince Eris—”

Eris ignored them. He leaned down, his lips barely an inch from Edric’s ear, and said in a voice so soft it was almost intimate, “The next time you insult my wife, I will burn you alive and scatter your ashes in the fucking wind.”

Edric whimpered, his fingers clutching at the table as if it would save him.

Eris finally released him. Edric sagged forward, inhaling sharp, shuddering breaths. Eris straightened, his gaze sweeping over the other two men. “Keep searching. I want to know who it was. But if any of you speak of my wife in such a way again, I will not be so merciful.”

A heavy silence followed.

Then, without another word, Eris turned and left.

The moment he stepped into the cool hallway, the weight of the conversation settled into his bones. He was exhausted. Frustrated.

In a day, they would arrive in Autumn.

For now, he just wanted sleep.

But when he entered the bedroom, he froze.

The bed was empty.

His stomach twisted, his exhaustion vanishing in an instant. His eyes swept the room, as if she might be lurking in some unseen corner, but no—she was gone.

Where the fuck is she?

His mind immediately conjured the worst scenarios. Had she gone up to the deck again? Was she doing something reckless?

Cursing, he turned back into the hallway.

He was halfway down the corridor when he noticed a soft glow spilling out from one of the adjoining sitting rooms. His brows furrowed. At this hour?

His steps slowed. Carefully, he pushed the door open.

And there she was.

Lying on the couch, curled up beneath a thin blanket, Y/N was fast asleep.

His initial irritation—his worry—morphed into something quieter as he stood there, just watching her.

She looked small like this. Small and… exhausted.

He should have left her there. Should have turned around and gone back to bed.

Instead, he moved forward.

Gently, he scooped her into his arms, the weight of her settling against his chest. She stirred slightly, a small sigh escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake.

Eris held her close as he carried her back to their room.

It was for appearances. That was all.

They were husband and wife in the public eye. No matter how mad she was, no matter how mad he was, they had to share a bed. People would talk otherwise. They couldn’t afford the whispers.

That was the reason he was doing this.

Not because of the way she felt in his arms. Not because of the way her presence seemed to quiet something in him.

No.

This was for appearances.

And yet, as he laid her down in their bed, as he pulled the blanket over her and settled beside her, he knew deep down—

He was lying to himself.

The day passed in tense, heavy silence.

Y/N barely spoke to Eris. She ignored him when she could, keeping her replies short and clipped when forced to acknowledge him. And he, in turn, was no better. The only time they resembled anything close to a husband and wife was when others were around—when they had to act the part. A carefully practiced smile, a well-timed glance, a hand resting over his as if it was natural. It was all a show, one she had to play convincingly.

But the moment they were alone, the distance returned.

She spent most of her day with Samira, absorbing as much knowledge as she could. They spoke of the courts—Autumn, of course, but others as well. The Winter Court and its frost-kissed rulers, the Dawn Court with its scholars and dreamers, the Day Court that thrived under the warmth of Helion’s golden rule.

At times, Y/N caught herself wondering what Eris was doing.

She hated that. Hated that her mind strayed toward him when she was still angry. So she pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on Samira’s words, on the endless knowledge she still needed to grasp.

That night, she and Eris barely spoke.

When they entered their shared bedroom, they moved in silence. He changed on one side of the room, she on the other. When they slipped into bed, it was without a word, both of them turning to opposite sides, their backs facing each other.

She should have been relieved.

Instead, she just felt… cold.

—

Morning came too quickly.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror as Samira fastened the final ties of her red and gold embroidered dress, the fabric hugging her body like it had been made just for her. And perhaps it had been. The color was striking—a clear statement that she was now of Autumn. A declaration she wasn’t sure she was ready to make.

Her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed the skirt, her nerves creeping in, sinking deep into her bones.

Samira, catching the movement, sighed and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You’re scared.” It wasn’t a question.

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “I am.”

“That’s normal,” Samira said, adjusting a gold pin in Y/N’s hair. “But you’ve learned as much as you could. We’ll continue your lessons in Autumn, of course, but for now—you know the basics. You know how to walk, how to talk, how to act like a true princess.”

Y/N swallowed. “But what if—”

“No.” Samira turned her by the shoulders, forcing their gazes to meet. “No ‘what ifs.’ You are ready, Y/N.”

Y/N’s throat felt tight. “I don’t feel ready.”

Samira gave her a small smile. “Then fake it. That’s half the game anyway.”

Y/N let out a dry laugh. “That’s reassuring.”

Samira smirked as she adjusted the final curl in Y/N’s hair. “I’ve never been to Autumn Court either, but I did have a cousin who spent some time there. She told me the fae there are quite… prim and proper.”

Y/N gave her a flat look. “Gee, thanks for the motivation.”

Samira burst into laughter. “I’m just saying, you’ll fit in just fine.”

Y/N sighed, turning back to the mirror as she took in her appearance. The regal red. The shimmering gold. The carefully styled hair.

She barely recognized herself.

“How long?” she asked softly.

Samira glanced toward the small window. “I think around two hours before we reach the shore.”

Y/N stared at her reflection, at the woman she was becoming.

You got this, she told herself.

A silent mantra. A desperate hope.

The fabric was rich beneath his fingers as he fastened the last button of his formal attire. Deep red, nearly crimson, with black embroidery curling along the sleeves and chest like creeping flames. It was a stark contrast to the simpler, more utilitarian clothes he had been wearing on the journey. This—this was what he was meant to wear.

What an Autumn Court Prince should look like.

Servants moved around him, adjusting the high collar, straightening the belt at his waist, ensuring every inch of his appearance was flawless. He let them do their work in silence, his mind elsewhere, tangled in thoughts that refused to be ignored.

They were home.

Or rather, he was home.

She… she was about to step onto unfamiliar ground. Onto soil that had never belonged to her. Into a place that might never welcome her, no matter how much effort she put in.

And yet she would have to try.

Eris exhaled sharply as one of the attendants moved to pin a golden clasp at his shoulder. His jaw clenched as his thoughts warred between duty and something far more personal, far more consuming.

She had spent all day avoiding him. Ignoring him.

And for once, he hadn’t known whether to be relieved or irritated.

He had been the one to pull her into his arms last night, to bring her back into their shared bed, because the thought of her sleeping elsewhere had been unacceptable. He had justified it as appearances, as necessity, but deep down…

Deep down, something about the way she had looked so small on that couch, wrapped in nothing but a thin blanket, had unsettled him.

Shaking off the thought, he flicked his wrist, dismissing the remaining attendants before stepping out onto the deck.

The scent of Autumn was already in the air.

Eris inhaled deeply, breathing in the crispness of it, the unmistakable blend of fallen leaves, burning embers, and the earthiness of the forests that stretched beyond the shoreline. It was different from the endless salt and water of the sea. It was home.

Around him, workers scurried across the deck, carrying trunks and supplies, making last-minute preparations as the outline of the shore came into view. The waters of Autumn were calmer than those of other courts—still, dark, waiting. It was as if the land itself knew it was powerful enough that it didn’t need to prove it.

His eyes followed the distant horizon, his thoughts tangled in the shifting weight of what was to come. His father would be waiting. The court, the nobles, the scrutiny of it all—the expectations, the judgments, the wolves who had been circling since the moment he announced his marriage.

The betrayal at Tidehold still burned in his mind, a festering wound that needed an answer. Someone had turned against them. Someone had handed their movements over to their enemies. And Eris would find them.

But before any of that—before the investigations, the deceit, the political games—he had to step off this ship with her.

As if pulled by some invisible force, he turned.

And felt her before he even saw her.

The shift in the air, the subtle flicker of something entirely hers weaving through the scent of Autumn. A presence that was already becoming dangerously familiar.

And then—he saw her.

Ethereal.

It took everything in him to stop his mouth from parting, to keep a sound from escaping him, a groan or something else entirely.

She stood at the far end of the deck, bathed in the morning light, dressed in his court’s colors.

His colors.

The deep red and gold embroidery curled over her figure like flames, highlighting her every movement with a kind of otherworldly elegance that did something to him. The fabric whispered against her skin as she stepped forward, her hair styled to perfection, her eyes flickering with something he couldn’t name.

Gods.

For all her insistence that she did not belong here, she looked like she had been born for this.

She met his gaze as she reached him, and for a moment, the world narrowed.

Then—her lips parted.

“Well, now you truly look like an Autumn Court Prince, dressed in all this red and black.”

Her voice was smooth, even, but there was the faintest edge of something else—something amused, something knowing.

Eris smirked, forcing himself to breathe, to not let himself slip. “I didn’t look princely enough before?”

She almost smiled. Almost.

But then she remembered, and she fought it back, lips pressing into a thin line.

Cute.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “it’s different now that we’re in your home.”

Eris tilted his head. “Now it’s you who truly looks the part of the wife of an Autumn Court Prince.”

She sighed, looking down at her gown. “You like it? Samira showed me fifteen different options, but I picked this one. I don’t know if it’s enough, if it—”

She kept talking, kept overthinking, the nerves bubbling to the surface no matter how hard she tried to suppress them.

He didn’t let her finish.

He shushed her gently, cutting her off with nothing but his voice.

“You look ethereal.”

Her words died instantly.

A slight flush crept up her neck, over her cheeks, a soft pink blooming against her skin.

And that. That did something to him too.

His thoughts threatened to spiral, to latch onto the way she looked when she blushed, but before they could, a voice called from behind them.

“Prince and Princess Vanserra.”

They both turned.

One of the ship’s workers bowed deeply. “We reach the shore in fifteen minutes.” He straightened before hurrying away, leaving them alone once more.

Eris turned back to her, watching the way she swallowed, the way her hands curled at her sides like she was trying to steady herself.

He smiled—genuine, this time.

“Chin up. Shoulders straight,” he murmured, low and smooth. Then, softer—

“Let the show begin, Princess Amira Yasmin Idrissi Vanserra.”

She inhaled sharply, her expression shifting into something stronger, sharper, more determined.

And Eris watched her become it.

The gangplank lowered with a creak, the sound reverberating through the air as the ship finally docked at the Autumn Court’s port. A mild breeze carried the earthy, slightly smoky scent of the land, mingling with the saltiness of the sea. As Amira Yasmin Idrissi Vanserra—or rather, the female now inhabiting this identity—stepped forward, she couldn’t help but feel a weight settle on her shoulders. The ship had barely come to a halt before the official welcoming party appeared, soldiers and high-ranking officials lined up, ready to greet their prince’s return.

There was no turning back now.

As Eris descended first, his posture straight and dignified, the whispers and murmurs of the gathered officials grew louder, thick with anticipation. He didn’t seem phased, his usual confidence radiating off him like a cloak. Y/N followed him, her steps careful, controlled, as the ship creaked behind her. She could already feel the stares of the two Autumn Court females ahead of her, their eyes narrowing in judgment as they watched her. One had the cool, calculating look of someone who had seen countless females like her—foreign, out of place, but pretending to be something she wasn’t. The other wore a smile, but there was a sharpness to it, like a blade hidden behind a veil of silk.

They were sizing her up, and Y/N couldn’t help but sense their superiority. These were females who belonged here, who were born into this world. She? She was just pretending to be royalty, stepping into a role that was not hers by blood.

“Princess Amira, welcome to the Autumn Court,” one of the females said, her voice cold, even though the words were technically polite. She was dressed in rich shades of orange and gold, colors that seemed to swallow the light as she stepped forward. Her gaze flicked over Y/N, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, before turning to Eris with a practiced smile.

The other female—tall, slender, with black hair that cascaded like ink over her shoulders—nodded in polite acknowledgment but offered no warm greeting. Instead, her lips twitched upward as though she was savoring the sight of a new arrival.

Eris was walking ahead of her, his hand briefly brushing against her back, a subtle motion that gave her an inkling of reassurance, though it didn’t entirely quell the unease bubbling inside her.

His voice, low and steady, cut through the air as he addressed the gathered officials. “Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Princess Amira Yasmin Idrissi Vanserra.”

The words hung in the air as if the world itself was reaffirming the title. Princess Amira, Princess Amira, Princess Amira. She repeated it to herself, as if trying to anchor herself to the illusion she was spinning.

At his side, the tension was thick, palpable, but she remained composed, her back straight, her eyes moving over the crowd as she greeted them with a graceful nod and a smile, masking the faint tremor of doubt that whispered in her mind. She had to play the part. She wasn’t just Amira; she was Princess Amira, the new bride of the Autumn Court’s Prince, the female everyone would watch, would scrutinize.

But her thoughts were momentarily distracted when Eris turned to one of the officials—a tall male with a sharp, aristocratic nose—and gestured toward the pair of women who had been watching her with disdain.

“This is Lady Raelis, wife of General Talen, and Lady Irisa, wife of Lord Galverian,” Eris introduced. The two women nodded curtly, though their smiles were more calculated than warm. Their gazes flickered between Y/N and the crowd of onlookers, as if judging her very presence here.

As expected, their eyes swept across Y/N, lingering on her attire—the colors of the Autumn Court, the fine fabric of her gown, the way her hair was pinned up in an intricate style. But they seemed to find something lacking, something they couldn’t quite put their fingers on. Raelis’s lip curled slightly as she stepped forward with the air of someone offering a gift—one that she didn’t really want to give. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Princess Amira. We’re sure you’ll find our court to be… quite different from your homeland.”

Y/N felt a flicker of tension coil in her chest, but she smiled graciously, the words already on her tongue. “I’m certain I’ll grow accustomed to the many differences soon enough.”

Before Raelis could respond, Samira’s voice rang out behind her, a sharp, unmistakable presence. “Princess?” she asked, her tone clipped, her eyes daring anyone to comment on her interruption.

Y/N turned, her heart lightening at the sight of her trusted friend stepping forward. The other two female’s expressions soured immediately, their gazes growing more calculating as Samira—dressed as perfectly as always—made her way toward them.

Raelis’s smile faltered for a moment, and Irisa’s eyes narrowed. Samira didn’t flinch. If anything, she straightened her shoulders as if daring them to challenge her. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Lady Samira,” Y/N said, her voice strong, a flicker of command in her tone as she called the woman closer. “Please come forward. These are the women who have graciously introduced themselves as the wives of high-ranking officials.”

Samira gave a polite but firm bow. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” she said, her tone laced with restraint, her eyes flicking over the women with a look that could freeze water.

The female's stiffened at Samira’s confident demeanor, and though neither of them said a word, the air around them shifted—a subtle battle of wills, one that Y/N could feel but could not yet name.

“Now, now,” Eris said smoothly, stepping in between them, his voice cutting the air like a blade. “There is no need for such tension. Princess Amira has her own lady-in-waiting. Samira, as she has been by her side for many years.”

The words were final, and Raelis and Irisa didn’t press further, but the look of disdain still lingered in the air between them.

A carriage was drawn up shortly after, its wheels creaking under the weight of its fine wood. Eris stepped forward, offering his arm to Y/N. She took it without hesitation, the familiar warmth of his touch grounding her, though she could still feel the weight of the stares as they made their way toward the vehicle.

As they settled into the carriage, the door closed behind them, leaving the bustling, murmuring officials behind. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, save for the sound of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones.

Eris finally spoke, his voice low but amused. “You did well.”

Y/N allowed herself a small smile. “I don’t think they suspected a thing.”

Eris chuckled lightly, his eyes flicking to her. “You’re more than convincing when you want to be.”

She met his gaze, trying not to let the nervous flutter in her chest show. “I’ll just have to keep convincing them, won’t I?”

His lips curled into a smile, though his eyes darkened slightly. “Let’s see how convincing you can be.”

As the carriage rolled through the streets, heading toward the palace, Y/N leaned back, taking a deep breath. It wasn’t over yet. It had only just begun.

Eris's mind wandered as the carriage rolled through the lively streets of Autumn Court. The sound of cheers and clapping filled the air as his people lined the streets to celebrate his return. The banners fluttered proudly in the breeze, and flowers were tossed onto the cobblestone path as the people welcomed their prince and his new bride back home.

Eris shifted slightly, his gaze flickering toward Y/N, who sat across from him in the carriage, her regal posture never faltering. Even now, under the weight of so many eyes, she remained composed. He couldn’t help but notice how much she had changed in these few days. What had once been uncertainty and a touch of fear was now a cold confidence that mimicked the courts she had come from.

As the crowds grew louder, Eris leaned closer, his voice low. "You’re doing well. Keep it up."

She offered him a small, tight smile, her fingers flexing slightly on her lap. "I’m still not used to all of this."

"Neither am I," he muttered under his breath. "But I’ll get you through it."

The carriage jolted slightly as it passed a particularly crowded section of the street. The people cheered louder, some shouting their congratulations. Eris felt the weight of their stares, but it was Y/N who commanded their attention now. Her beauty—her presence—was undeniable. And as much as it pleased him, it also filled him with an unsettling sense of possessiveness. It wasn’t just his kingdom that was looking at her; it was his family too.

When the carriage finally slowed to a stop, the grand palace looming ahead, the tension in the air thickened. Eris straightened, giving her a quick glance before stepping out first, offering her his hand to help her out. She accepted it without hesitation, their fingers brushing briefly, before the both of them stood before the steps of the palace.

“Your Royal Highness, Prince Eris, Princess Amira,” an official greeted them, bowing low. “Welcome home.”

Eris barely acknowledged the greeting as he led Y/N up the stairs, her steps perfectly in sync with his. As they ascended, their arrival was announced. The doors opened wide, revealing the grand hall filled with the high-ranking lords and ladies of Autumn Court. Their gazes flickered to him, but it was Y/N who held the center of attention, their eyes appraising her, whispering behind their fans and veils.

His hand tightened around hers as they made their way forward, the stares like sharp needles at his back. But then, one of his brothers stepped forward—Nolan, with his usual smug expression plastered on his face. "So, this is the bride," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "She’s... not what I expected."

"Of course, you didn’t," Eris snapped back, his voice cold. "Your expectations are as shallow as your taste."

Nolan smirked but said nothing else. Behind him, his other brothers--except the little exiled Lucien, of course--were staring not at him but at Y/N, each with his own expression. But it was his father, Baron who stood tall on his throne, his sharp gaze fixed firmly on Y/N, that made him tense slightly. His coldness made the temperature in the room drop several degrees. Eris could feel the weight of his father’s gaze, and it made his muscles tense.

Lady Autumn, Eris's mother, was the only one who didn’t seem to care about appearances. She glided forward with a warm smile, wrapping her arms around Eris in a tight hug. "My son, you’ve come home." She pulled away and kissed Y/N’s cheek. "And you must be the new princess. Welcome, dear. We are so happy to have you here."

Her words, laced with kindness, seemed to break the tension in the air, and Y/N, though still guarded, returned a small smile. "Thank you," she said softly, though Eris noticed the way she stiffened under the attention.

Baron spoke again, his voice cutting through the fragile calm. "Well, I had hoped you’d bring me the king’s daughter from Monteserre, but I see you’ve brought me a forgotten cousin from a lesser branch instead. But I suppose, as long as the alliance is secured..." He trailed off, his eyes flicking to Y/N before turning back to Eris.

Eris’s anger flared, but he kept his voice even. "Perhaps you should focus on what is before you, Father, rather than what you expected."

Baron’s eyes narrowed. "Is that a challenge?"

Eris wasn’t about to back down. "I’ve already secured what we need, haven’t I? The alliance is stronger than ever. And Princess Amira is no less worthy than any other bride you could’ve hoped for."

There was a moment of tense silence before Baron waved a hand dismissively. "We’ll see. Time will tell."

Lady Autumn shot Eris a look before gently taking Y/N by the hand. "Come, my dear, I will show you to your rooms. You must be exhausted from your journey."

Eris gave Y/N a small nod, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched them leave. Y/N’s gaze met his briefly before she followed his mother, her expression unreadable.

The moment the doors closed behind her, Eris turned to face his father and brothers. The silence in the room was palpable. Baron gave him a curt nod. "Leave us," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eris's chest tightened as he watched everyone leave the throne room, knowing that whatever came next would not be easy. But he had one goal in mind: to ensure his plan is successful.

As the doors clicked shut behind him, the weight of the moment settled heavily on his shoulders.

Let the games officially begin.

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