#endlessly fascinated by the use of language in this game...

[revalition]

thinking about how caustic is used in disco elysium to refer almost exclusively to loss. loss of love, loss of the self, loss of the world...

[urdreamydoodles]

Kurt with an S/o who also has a prehensile tail if you please?

Kurt Wagner x Reader with tail

How Kurt Reacts To His Partner Having A Tail Like Him

As you and Kurt Wagner bond over your unique traits, your prehensile tail becomes a playful extension of your personality, often playfully wrapping around his waist when you’re together.

Of course I can do that! Hope you love it <3

- Kurt is absolutely enchanted from the moment he realizes you also have a prehensile tail, a trait he’s always felt set him apart. You become an immediate kindred spirit to him, someone who understands the quirks and challenges of living with a tail. He feels a deep connection with you, and it’s clear in the way his golden eyes light up every time you enter the room.

- The two of you often joke about how useful your tails are, especially when one of you grabs something out of reach without moving. Sometimes, it’s a friendly competition, seeing who can pick up an object faster or get creative with what your tails can hold. Kurt is always in awe of how graceful and coordinated you are, and he loves to watch you work as your tail moves effortlessly along with you.

- Kurt’s affection is endless, and he finds little ways to show it even with your tails. You’ll often catch his tail wrapping gently around yours when you’re close, an instinctive sign of his love and closeness. For Kurt, this is a deeply personal gesture, a unique way of showing you just how much he cares. It’s like a hug for your tails, and it makes your heart flutter every time.

- One of your favorite things to do together is use your tails to playfully tease each other. Whether you’re sitting side by side or across a room, you’ll reach out with your tails to brush against each other, creating a secret language only the two of you share. This brings out Kurt’s playful side, and he loves coming up with new, silly gestures that are just for you.

- Kurt is endlessly considerate when it comes to your tail, always making sure you’re comfortable and that your tail has space, especially in tight places or during missions. He understands how sensitive it can be and makes a habit of checking in, offering a supportive smile or touch. You’ve never felt so understood by someone, and his attention makes you feel cherished.

- With Kurt’s love of adventure and acrobatics, he’s constantly finding new ways for the two of you to use your tails together. Whether it’s swinging from a high ledge or using them for balance during a daring jump, he’s always excited to explore and push the limits with you. You’re his perfect partner in every way, and he loves the thrill of experiencing his favorite activities with you by his side.

- There are times when the two of you just relax and let your tails intertwine. Kurt will often rest his head on your shoulder as you sit close, your tails wrapped around each other in a comforting embrace. He tells you stories from his childhood, about growing up and learning to embrace who he was, and you share similar moments from your life. It’s in these quiet moments that you both feel an incredible closeness, like you’re truly understood and accepted.

- Kurt’s playful nature shows itself in the way he loves to surprise you with his teleportation. He’ll disappear in a puff of smoke, only to reappear behind you and wrap his arms—and his tail—around you in a warm hug. It’s a game you both enjoy, and you’ve started finding clever ways to “catch” him with your own tail before he can sneak up on you. It makes him laugh, his smile wide and genuine.

- He’s completely fascinated by the way your tail moves, and you can often feel his golden gaze following it. He’s amazed by your control and dexterity, and he finds himself entranced by every subtle flick and curl. When you notice, he’ll look away, embarrassed, but his awe and admiration are clear as day, and you can’t help but find it endearing.

- During missions, Kurt always keeps a close eye on you. He’s fiercely protective and will instinctively use his tail to shield you if he senses danger, pulling you close with a protective urgency that melts your heart. In these moments, you realize just how deeply he cares, his instincts driven by love and a desire to keep you safe.

- At night, when it’s just the two of you, Kurt loves to snuggle close, your tails entwined as you drift off to sleep. He wraps his arms around you and murmurs in German, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances. His warmth and gentle affection make you feel completely safe, and you drift off to sleep knowing you’re loved beyond measure.

- The two of you have developed an unspoken way of communicating during intense moments. A quick flick of your tail, a gentle brush, or a tighter grip conveys everything from “I’m here” to “Be careful.” It’s an intimate language built on trust, and it’s one of the many things that makes your relationship with Kurt so special and unique.

- Kurt often tells you that he feels like he’s found his other half with you. You both share a bond deeper than words, a mutual understanding that comes from shared experiences and similar gifts. He tells you that you’ve made him feel seen and loved in a way he never thought possible. For Kurt, every moment with you is a reminder that he’s no longer alone, that he’s found someone who truly accepts him for who he is, tail and all.

[filmsbyun]

Waltz of Words || Choi Beomgyu

i. You return like Autumn .☘︎ ݁˖ ii. And I fall everytime

.☘︎ ݁˖ Back to story ml

Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe—an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.

⊹₊⟡⋆ 17.6k

Nobleman! Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman! afab!reader

[NOTE that: Specific warnings will be listed before every chapters]

chapter warnings: inspired by victorian era, heavy slowburn, heavy plot based, strangers to friends to lovers, reader faces misogyny, mutual pining, use of original characters

Heads up, if you can't handle heavy slow burn, please click away from this story right now! There is much emphasis put on the worldbuilding, and the story progression follows the natural flow of a slowburn tag. With that being said, enjoy!

"Your eyes," Lord Kim mused, swirling the wine in his glass as he leaned forward slightly. "Light brown yet sharp—like honey edged with steel. Quite a rare beauty."

A polite, nearly derisive chuckle escaped you as you lifted your teacup to your lips, the porcelain brushing against your smile. You neither confirmed nor denied his words, merely letting the silence stretch between you, knowing full well how such men loathed being left without acknowledgment.

You were the eldest daughter of a noble family—sharp of mind, elegant in manner, poised in every regard. Yet beneath the carefully painted smiles and effortless charm, there was a deadly wit that cut deeper than any blade. An aspiring writer, a woman with ambitions deemed unseemly by the very society that entertained itself with whispers of your supposed impropriety. They smiled at you in ballrooms and parlors, exchanging pleasantries with feigned warmth, only to turn and condemn you the moment your back was turned. Well, not all, but still many.

Not that it ever stopped you. If anything, you found a thrill in it—the way masked conversations at masquerade balls and polished words at grand gatherings became your battlefield. Insults were merely invitations to play, and you had long since mastered the game. Funnily enough, for all your wit and defiance, the parade of suitors never ceased. Each day brought a new gentleman, another hopeful fool eager to claim your hand in marriage. But you knew better. You had always known better. Their interest was not in you but in what you could offer—your father’s wealth, your family’s status. And so, you did as any well-educated woman would.

You rejected them. With grace, your words wrapped in silk, but with finality all the same. And as Lord Kim awaited a reply, his expression expectant, you merely lowered your cup and offered him a smile that did not reach your eyes.

"My lord, how very poetic of you."

His lips curled into what he likely assumed was a charming smile, confidence glinting in his pale grey eyes. “A rare beauty indeed, and one that any man would be fortunate to—”

“Acquire?” you finished smoothly, tilting your head as if in contemplation. “Forgive me, my lord, but you speak as though I were some coveted artifact in a collector’s cabinet.”

The words were spoken lightly as they spilled from your rosy lips, almost sweetly matching your saccharine smile, yet they sliced the air like a sharp knife. His mouth opened, then shut, like a gaping fish as his pathetically composed charm wavered. Then, the faintest pink dusted his cheeks—not of flattery, but of embarrassment.

“Hardly, my lady,” he recovered, his chuckle laced with forced ease. “Though I must confess, I do find you endlessly fascinating. Your mind, your wit—it is rare for a woman to possess such sharpness.”

“Ah,” you mused, tapping a finger lightly against the rim of your teacup. “And here I thought my value rested solely in my rare light brown eyes. How reassuring to know that my mind is tolerable as well.”

His chuckle faltered, but he pressed on, leaning forward as if to close the space between you over the table. “You wound me, Lady Kang. I only meant to admire you. I do believe we would make quite the pair, you and I.”

A beat of silence passed before you let out a soft hum of amusement. Setting your cup down with an elegant clink, you met his gaze with a sharp glint flashing in your honeyed orbs—something that made his confidence topple over.

“My lord, I have found that men often mistake admiration for possession, much like one might marvel at a wild bird before placing it in a gilded cage.” You lifted a brow. “And as lovely as that sentiment may sound, I fear I was not meant to be caged.”

His lips parted, a retort surely forming on his tongue, but you rose to your feet before he could voice it. You smoothed a hand over the silk of your gown, the deep emerald fabric catching the warm glow of the chandelier above.

“I do hope the tea was to your liking, my lord. I find it particularly suited for washing down words that turn bitter upon the tongue.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but you did not stay to witness his floundering attempt at recovery. With a graceful dip of your head, you turned and left the drawing room, the train of your gown trailing behind you like the final stroke of an artist’s brush upon a masterpiece.

Beyond the doors, the evening air was crisp, the scent of distant rain clinging to the breeze. A wry smile ghosted your lips. Another suitor bested. Another conversation played like a well-written scene.

And tomorrow, without fail, another would take his place.

The following morning, aside from Maya’s ever-loyal presence, your only companions were the steady rhythm of carriages rattling over cobblestones, the occasional clip-clop of hooves punctuating the crisp morning air, and the thin mist curling at the edges of shopfronts. The scent of fresh bread and damp earth lingered in the breeze, a fleeting reminder of last night’s rain.

A cool gust of wind slipped past and you shivered slightly before wrapping your shawl more securely around your shoulders. The deep emerald folds of your gown skimmed the pavement as you passed by familiar faces. A nod here, a polite smile there—acknowledgments exchanged only with those who conveyed.

“Lady Kang, a pleasure as always,” called Mr. Lee, tipping his hat as he stood outside his tailor’s shop.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lee,” you replied smoothly, meeting his gaze for just a moment before continuing forward.

Maya, ever at your side, leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re staring again,” she whispered, her voice low but laced with indignation. “Especially those two gentlemen by the bakery. And that woman by the flower stall—oh, I know she has something horrid to say.”

You merely exhaled through your nose, unbothered. “Let them.”

Maya scoffed, quick to defend. “If anyone so much as breathes the wrong way near you, my lady, I’ll tackle them into the mud.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from you. “I trust you would.”

“With all my heart!” she huffed, puffing up her chest. “They can glare all they want, but none of them dare approach. They know better.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they’ll learn when they’re face-down on the street,” she declared, making you bite back a laugh.

With Maya's fiery loyalty echoing in your ears, you finally reached your destination—a modest yet distinguished establishment nestled between a bookseller’s shop and an apothecary. The dark wood sign above the door bore the name Westmere Publishing House, its golden lettering gleaming even beneath the overcast sky.

Inside, the air was warm, comforting in contrast with the outside ambiance, laced with the tender scent of aged paper and ink. A grandfather clock ticked softly from the far corner, its steady rhythm a backdrop to the gentle rustling of parchment and the quiet murmurs of literary discussions.

“Lady Kang,” a warm voice greeted.

You turned to find Mr. Alistair Lennox rising from behind his desk, a welcoming smile gracing his features. A man of keen intellect and unwavering integrity, he had been one of the few in his profession to treat your writing with the respect it deserved, rather than dismissing it as an amusing hobby for a noblewoman.

“Mr. Lennox,” you inclined your head. “I hope the morning finds you well.”

“Better now that you’re here,” he mused, gesturing towards the armchairs before his desk. “Come, sit. I had Mrs. Porter prepare some tea—I recall you have a preference for blackcurrant.”

A pleased hum left your lips as you settled into the chair, Maya standing dutifully near the door. Lennox poured the tea himself, steam curling into the air as he handed you a cup.

You accepted the delicate porcelain cup with a faint smile, letting the warmth seep into your fingers before taking a slow sip. The tart sweetness bloomed on your tongue. Lennox, however, did not drink. 

“Now,” he began, settling into his own seat, “I must say, your latest manuscript… intriguing, as always.”

You took a careful sip before meeting his gaze. “You hesitate.”

Lennox chuckled. “Ah, you never miss a thing, do you? It’s not hesitation, my lady, merely consideration. Your writing is evocative—there is no denying its brilliance. But your themes…” He exhaled. “They challenge certain conventions. That is not a flaw, mind you, but the industry is slow to embrace change.”

You watched as he flipped through the pages, his gaze sharp despite the amusement in his tone. His fingers paused on a particular passage, and he tapped it lightly before reading aloud:

‘He is a man with coal-stained hands, hands that build and break and bleed. The city calls him nameless, faceless, another thread in its grand tapestry, easily unraveled. But to her, he is not nameless. Not faceless. He is a man. And she, born to silken sheets and idle afternoons, has learned that wealth is merely another kind of prison.’

A silence stretched between you, save for the soft clink of porcelain as you placed your teacup down. Lennox looked up, a smile peeking under his gray mustache.

“A noblewoman falling in love with a man of lower birth—a factory worker, no less.”

You leaned back in your chair, lacing your gloved fingers together over your lap. “Not love,” you corrected. “Understanding. She sees him, truly, and he sees her. They are bound not by romance only but also by the realization that neither of them is free.”

Lennox let out a low hum, tracing the rim of his teacup though he still did not drink. His brows furrowed slightly, deep in thought. “Your portrayal of class disparity is unforgiving to society, my lady.”

“It is honest.”

“That is precisely why it will be met with resistance,” he murmured, adjusting the sleeves of his coat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, gauging your reaction. “The lords and ladies you write of—self-indulgent, callous to the suffering beneath them—many will see themselves in your words, and they will not take kindly to it.”

“They need not take kindly,” you replied smoothly, gloved fingers trailing the gold rim of your saucer. “Only take notice.”

Lennox sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin, but there was an unmistakable glint of both hopefulness and disquietness in his gaze. “You do enjoy stirring the pot, don’t you?”

You smiled then, slow and knowing. “If the pot boils over, it was never stable to begin with.”

“Dangerous words, my lady.” He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“I have never feared danger, Mr. Lennox.”

The grandfather clock chimed the passing hour, a draft ghosting through the room, carrying the faint scene of petrichor from an open window. Outside, the city bustled on, oblivious to the quiet revolution bound in the pages between you.

Lennox studied you a moment longer, then, with a resigned exhale, closed the manuscript. “Very well. I will see it through, but do not expect an easy road.”

You traced the rim of your teacup with a thoughtful finger. “You mean they are unwilling to accept the notion that a woman might write about more than love and pleasantries.”

His lips twitched. “Something like that.”

“I refuse to soften my words to soothe their sensibilities.”

“I suspected as much.” He leaned back, eyes appraising you with something akin to admiration. “Your work deserves to be read in its truest form. I will push for it, but you must be prepared—as I mentioned, there will be resistance.”

A lesser writer might have balked at the prospect. But you? You merely smiled. “Then let us give them something worth resisting.”

Lennox chuckled, shaking his head. “I have no doubt you will.”

And with that, the conversation shifted to logistics—edits, print schedules, the inevitable backlash that would follow. But opposition had never stopped you before. And it certainly would not stop you now.

Maya tugged at your sleeve, eyes bright with insistence. “My lady, just a moment—I must get bread for today’s breakfast from Roselyne’s.”

You exhaled a quiet breath, indulging her with a small nod. The bakery stood beside a flower stall, and the scent of baked goods curling with the fresh fragrance of the new blooms pulled you in. She hurried inside, promising to be swift, while you dallied by the door looking at the colourful arrangements of flowers. 

A breeze stirred against your skin, light yet invigorating, brushing past like a whispered greeting from the changing seasons. The street in front of the bakery held a rare stillness, the city’s usual clamor softened into a gentle hum. Drawn by the cool touch of the air, you stepped further outside, closing your eyes for a moment, letting it fill your lungs—

—but it was knocked out of your lungs the very next moment when something barreled into you.

Your balance wavered, feet slipping slightly over the uneven stones beneath you. “Ah—” Your voice barely escaped, the world tilting just enough to send a spike of disorientation through you. But a strong hand caught your arm, steadying you before you could stumble further. A figure pulled back, just as swift as he had collided into you, long strands of black hair shifting against his skin as he turned away.

“Forgive me,” the stranger murmured, the words clipped yet polite, already stepping past you.

You barely caught a glimpse of him—just the dark hair that rested against his nape. By the time your mind caught up with your body, he was already disappearing into the street, swallowed by the slow-moving morning crowd up ahead.

“My lady!” Maya’s voice cut through your thoughts as she rushed out of the bakery, hands firm on your arms, checking you over. “Are you alright? What happened? Did someone—?”

You blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Your hand absentmindedly clasped around to feel the ghosting warmth left on your arm by the stranger. 

“Nothing,” you murmured at last, brushing your hands over your sleeves. “It was nothing.”

Maya’s brows knit together, her gaze flicking toward the street where the figure had vanished. “If someone dared push my lady—!”

You let out a quiet breath of laughter. “You would tackle them?”

She huffed. “And more.”

Shaking your head, you linked your arm through hers, steering her back toward the carriage. “Come, or we shall be late for breakfast.”

The morning sun filtered through the grand dining hall, casting a golden glow over the long table adorned with porcelain and silver. The scent of freshly baked bread and brewed tea mingled in the air, yet any notion of a pleasant breakfast waned the moment your eyes landed on her—your aunt.

Seated beside your mother with a posture too stiff and a gaze too critical, she regarded you with the same thinly veiled disapproval she had worn for years. It was a wonder she still attended these meals when her distaste for you—and everything you represented—was no secret.

Still, you held your composure, inclining your head in the barest acknowledgment before moving past her.

"Good morning, Mother," you said warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking your seat. "Is Father not joining us?"

"He had to leave early for the academy," she replied, offering you a gentle smile as she poured your tea. "He sends his regards."

A shame. Your father’s presence would have at least softened the atmosphere. The conversation shifted as your mother set down the teapot. "Ah, I meant to tell you—I have arranged for a tutor for your brother."

You lifted a brow. "A tutor?"

"Yes, dear," she said, stirring her tea absently. "I thought it best to bring in someone with experience, given your own work."

You straightened slightly, setting down your fork with a quiet clink. "Mother, you know I am more than capable of handling his studies."

"And I know how you bury yourself in your writing," she countered, eyes warm but firm. "I would rather not distract you from your ambitions."

Your lips parted in protest, but before you could speak, a sharp voice cut through the conversation.

"Ambitions," your aunt scoffed, dabbing at her mouth with a silk napkin. "A lady should concern herself with finding a husband, not burying her head in ink and parchment. No respectable man wants a woman who has already given her heart to books."

A heavy pause filled the space.

Maya, standing dutifully nearby, remained perfectly composed, save for the way her fingers curled tightly around the pitcher she was holding. Your mother, though ever poised, let out a sharp sigh of disapproval glancing at your aunt.

"How fortunate, then, that I have no need for a respectable man." You took a bite of your bread.

Your aunt’s eyebrows bristled.

Smiling sweetly, you set your silverwares down, eyes gleaming. "I have always been under the impression that a man of true quality would value a sharp mind over an empty head, but perhaps such men are rare in your circles, Aunt."

Maya coughed—too sharp to be anything but a stifled laugh. Your mother, hiding her expression behind her teacup, exhaled lightly, the corners of her lips threatening to curve. You wanted to mention the scandalous part of her husband’s infidelity, but you decided to save that for some other time. Lucky for your aunt, you were feeling generous. 

Your aunt, for her part, sputtered, her lips parting and closing as though searching for a retort that would not come. You merely tilted your head in mock sympathy, waiting—watching—as she fumed in silence.

"Well," she finally huffed, picking up her knife and fork. "We shall see how long such ideas last, my dear."

"Oh, I do believe they shall last quite a while," you mused, lifting your teacup. "After all, unlike certain opinions, my ideas have substance."

This time, Maya had to turn away completely, shoulders trembling. Your mother took an exceptionally long sip of tea, eyes closed. And just as your aunt’s expression soured further, your mother smoothly redirected the conversation.

"The tutor I mentioned," she said, setting her teacup down, "is the son of an old friend of mine. You perhaps do not remember him as you were very little. His name is Choi Beomgyu, and he is a year older than you. He will be arriving later this week."

Choi Beomgyu.

The name did sound familiar, but unfamiliar at the very same time—like certain smells from one’s childhood that trigger an overwhelming sense of nostalgia yet you couldn’t quite grasp the feeling of longing in your palms. 

"He comes from an esteemed family, and he is quite studious and well-mannered. I think he will be a fine tutor for your brother."

You hummed noncommittally, turning back to your plate. An extra presence in the house was the least of your concerns at present—but still, the name lingered in your mind longer than expected. For now, however, you would deal with the matters at hand—like the way your aunt still stared daggers at you across the table.

You simply smiled at her, making sure it was sweet enough to irk another reaction out of her, then went back to your breakfast.

A week had passed since your mother first mentioned the tutor. You had not thought much of it then—people came and went from your home as easily as the changing seasons. Some as guests, others as suitors, all predictably forgettable.

A soft breeze ghosted through the sheer curtains, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering autumn chill. You might have surrendered to the warmth of your sheets—had it not been for the relentless force that was Lee Maya.

“My lady,” came her singsong voice, already too awake for your liking. “It is time for your horse riding practice.”

A low groan was your only response as you turned over, pulling the covers over your head.

Maya was having none of it. “Come now,” she cajoled, tugging insistently at the blankets. “The horses await!”

“They can wait longer,” you muttered, voice muffled against your pillow.

Maya gasped in mock offense. “Abandoning your beloved steed? Scandalous! Why, if your aunt heard of this, she would say—”

“‘How terribly unladylike!’” you finished for her, cracking one eye open. “Oh, the horror.”

Maya snorted before giving one final, merciless tug, dragging you from your cocoon of warmth. "Up, up, before I fetch the cold water."

Despite your protests, the routine began—Maya moving with routined efficiency, dressing you in your riding attire: a crisp white blouse with a high neck, its full sleeves flowing with each movement. Then, the final act of defiance—pants.

Oh, if your aunt saw you now.

By the time you returned from the stables, your pulse still thrummed with the exhilaration of the ride, the cool morning air clung against your skin. The familiar sight of the manor greeted you—its grandeur as eternal and old as time. But something was amiss.

A carriage stood at the entrance. Not one of yours.

Maya, already ahead of you, had paused by the steps. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, hands clasped behind her back as if restraining herself from bursting with whatever news she held.

You pulled your gloves off slowly. “Maya.”

She bit her lip, nearly vibrating in place. You arched a brow.

“The tutor,” she finally whispered, eyes darting toward the door. “He is here.”

Right. The tutor for your brother. You had almost forgotten.

Maya all but dragged you inside, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “He is with your mother in the drawing room now. Oh, my lady, I must say—” she clutched her hands to her chest—“he is terribly handsome.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that so?”

Maya nodded fervently as she led you through the halls, each step bringing you closer to the drawing room. And then—just as you reached the threshold—you saw him.

The scene before you could rival a famous painter’s artwork. Your mother sat with an air of elegance, her tea untouched as she spoke. Across from her, dressed in a well-tailored suit, sat a young man. Your gaze swept over him instinctively, cataloging details with the sharp precision you had honed over years of navigating drawing rooms filled with strangers.

He was tall, his frame lean but unmistakably strong beneath the crisp folds of his clothing. His hair was a deep, inky black, falling in soft, slightly tousled layers that framed his face; a natural shine catching the light just enough to emphasize its silky texture. The length grazed just past his ears, with the front strands parted slightly off-center, allowing a few wisps to fall delicately over his forehead.

He smiled, leaning forward slightly, speaking to your mother in a voice too low for you to catch. Then, with impeccable grace, he reached for her hand, bowing his head as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

A gesture of respect. One you had seen countless times before.

And yet, for some reason, you could not look away.

Your mother laughed lightly at something he said, and you—standing just beyond the doorway—felt something foreign settle in your chest from the mere scene.

Maya, ever the menace, nudged your arm. “Told you.”

You exhaled slowly, schooling your expression into one of polite neutrality.

He was handsome, yes. A fresh face among the endless line of suitors who had graced your home.

But unlike them, he was not here for you.

“Get the bath running, Maya.” You turned on your heel, dismissing the lingering thoughts as easily as you dismissed the tutor’s presence. You had work to do.

The manuscript for your latest project was complete, sealed away, soon to be scrutinized by those who would either fear or admire your words. Your next book awaited—an entirely new world demanding to be shaped, a story yearning to be told.

You hoped for the tutor to settle into his place in this house just fine.

In the living room, seated across from your mother, Beomgyu carried himself with an air of grace, basking in the warmth of familiarity. A soft smile played on his lips, the kind that carried both warmth and restraint, as if every word he spoke was carefully measured, thoughtful in its delivery.

“It has been years since I last saw you,” your mother said, a trace of nostalgia in her tone as she studied him. “You were but a boy when you left. And now look at you—how time has changed things.”

Beomgyu inclined his head, his gaze respectful. “Change is inevitable, my lady,” he said, his voice a smooth, velvety timbre. “But some things remain—like fond memories and kindness received.”

She smiled at that, pleased. “Your studies abroad must have shaped you well. I hear you spent much of your time immersed in philosophy and literature.”

“I did,” he affirmed, “and I found great joy in it. The world is vast, my lady, and there is always more to learn. But knowledge, I believe, is wasted if not used to help others.”

Your mother gave an approving nod. “A noble pursuit.” She set down her teacup, the fine porcelain clinking softly. “You must make yourself at home here. Do not hesitate to look around the house for your comfort.”

“You are too kind,” Beomgyu said, his smile deepening just slightly into a boyish grin. “And I am grateful for the opportunity. My mother assured me that this household is one of warmth and dear friendship. I am honored to be here.”

Your mother’s expression softened. “It means a great deal that you accepted the offer of tutoring. My son will benefit from your guidance.”

He gave a slight nod, ever the picture of a gentleman. “I will do my best, my lady. Education is a privilege, and I hope to help where I can.”

Beneath his polished manner lay ambition—not the reckless, self-serving kind that so often plagued men of high standing, but an earnest desire to use his intellect to make a difference. Having spent years among scholars and thinkers, he had learned to wield knowledge as a tool, not just for personal gain but for the betterment of those who needed it. When the opportunity to tutor was presented, he had accepted without hesitation—not merely out of duty, but out of belief. And if his mother had assured him that this was a house of trust, then he would see it as such.

A butler soon led him to the study room, where he settled into an armchair by the grand oak desk. The shelves stretched high, filled with volumes of literature and philosophy, their spines worn from years of appreciation. It was a space of thought, of discussion, and of ambitious pursuit.

He traced a finger along the gilded title of a familiar book, exhaling softly. There was a sense of belonging here, an understanding that he had stepped into a home where minds were meant to be cultivated, where curiosity was not just indulged but encouraged. And in that moment, he knew—he had made the right decision in coming here.

Minutes later, the door creaked open, and in stepped a young boy—your younger brother. He was around seventeen, soft-spoken and gentle in demeanor. His movements were meek that of a fawn, almost hesitant as he approached.

Beomgyu rose from his seat and offered a welcoming smile, his voice warm. “You must be the young master. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Your brother nodded, his expression polite yet uncertain. “It’s… nice to meet you as well, sir.”

“There’s no need for formalities,” Beomgyu said lightly. “I am here to guide you, not to intimidate you.”

That seemed to ease him a little. Beomgyu gestured toward the chair across from him, waiting until your brother was seated before beginning the lesson. But before delving into studies, he took a different approach—one that made all the difference.

“Tell me,” Beomgyu said as he arranged the papers before him, “what do you enjoy learning about?”

The question caught your brother off guard. Tutors usually dictated subjects, never asked preferences. After a brief pause, he mumbled, “I… like history.”

“A fine subject,” Beomgyu remarked. “Stories of the past shape the present. Do you have a favorite historical figure?”

Your brother hesitated, then answered, “Alexander the Great.”

Beomgyu smiled. “A fascinating choice. A conqueror, a strategist, a man of vision. Do you admire him for his strength or for his mind?”

Your brother blinked, considering. “His mind,” he admitted softly. “He was brilliant.”

“A scholar before a warrior,” Beomgyu mused, nodding approvingly. “You have an eye for intellect. I think we’ll get along just fine.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink.

The conversation eased the boy’s initial nervousness, and soon, the lesson began in earnest. Beomgyu spoke to him not as a mere student but as an equal, offering him space to think, to speak, to form his own ideas. It was a kind of teaching that encouraged rather than commanded.

Somewhere in the midst of their discussions, your brother mentioned you.

“She’s quite well-read too,” your brother said, shifting slightly in his seat. “More than anyone I know.”

Beomgyu glanced up with mild curiosity. “Ah, your sister?”

He nodded, but his voice lowered, almost hesitant. “Though she can be a bit intimidating.”

There was no malice in his words, only hushed truth. He admired you more than anyone, but he also knew of the battles you fought—how society viewed you, how you stood against it. He chose not to elaborate further, offering only the vague statement.

Beomgyu tilted his head slightly but did not press. Instead, he smiled—ever-gentle. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”

Your brother said nothing to that. He only looked down at his papers, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. Beomgyu, perceptive as ever, took note of it but let the moment pass.

The lesson carried on, but the thought lingered in Beomgyu’s mind. A bit intimidating, is she? He found himself intrigued, though he did not let it show. Respect first, always.

But curiosity… curiosity had a way of unraveling things in its own time.

The amber glow of the sinking sun in the horizon filtered through the tall windows of your study. The room, your personal refuge, was a sanctuary of solitude and intellect. It was here that you had spent the entire afternoon, quill in hand, weaving words onto crisp parchment, lost in the rhythm of your work.

Maya had long since succumbed to exhaustion, no doubt asleep in her quarters after you had firmly insisted she take a break. The house, aside from the occasional distant murmur of conversation or the faint clinking of silverware being tidied away, was tranquil. The household staff—those who came and went for daily duties—had long since departed, leaving only the trusted butler and Maya within these walls.

A dull ache settled between your shoulders, coaxing a sigh from your lips as you leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head. The exhaustion of the day pressed against your spine, a reminder that even the mind, no matter how disciplined, needed respite. Deciding a brief reprieve was in order, you rose from your seat, smoothing out the fabric of your blouse before making your way downstairs for a glass of water and perhaps a moment of fresh evening air.

As you descended, the hushed quiet of the manor allowed every step to echo softly against the polished floors. Passing by the study, murmurs from within halted you in your steps. You paused, careful to remain unseen, as your gaze settled through the slightly ajar doors.

Beomgyu was moving around, his face vibrant as he animatedly, passionately explained something. His hands gestured fluidly, his voice carrying warmth, sometimes rose an octave, sometimes downed. Your brother, usually so reserved, was positively beaming—eyes alight with unrestrained enthusiasm, laughter slipping from his lips with unfiltered delight. It was rare to see him so at ease with a stranger.

The sight tilted your head slightly in curiosity. A quiet chuckle escaped you before you turned away, leaving them to their lesson as you resumed your path toward the kitchen. Your mother, as you soon discovered, was absent—likely out with her circle of friends, engaged in the evening gossip of the elite.

After fetching your water, you strolled toward the garden, embracing the crisp air and the lingering scent of damp earth from the previous night’s rain. The stillness soothed your mind, the solitude a welcome embrace as the breeze teased the loose strands of your hair. You took your time, savoring the rare peace before returning inside.

Meanwhile, in the study, your brother closed his books with a satisfied sigh. The lesson had concluded for the day, and as he gathered his things, he glanced at Beomgyu. “There’s a library upstairs,” he mentioned offhandedly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Mother mentioned you are free to look around the house as you please.”

Beomgyu, intrigued, offered a grateful nod. “I would like that.”

His student then excused himself, eager to join his friends for the evening, leaving Beomgyu in the company of the elderly butler. The older man, ever watchful, regarded him with mild amusement before speaking. “Will you be needing anything, sir?”

Beomgyu shook his head politely. “No, thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

The butler gave a small nod of approval before departing, leaving Beomgyu alone in the quiet of the house. Curiosity now stirred within him—your brother’s mention of the library had piqued his interest. He was always drawn to books, to the knowledge they harbored, to the ideas that breathed between their pages.

He made his way upstairs, footsteps light against the polished wood, trailing the hallways with a sense of caution. He had yet to learn the layout of the house, and as he navigated through the dimly lit corridor, he turned into a room, expecting to find walls lined with bookshelves and a collection of literature awaiting him—which he did find, but unbeknownst to him, it wasn’t the library he was looking for.

Instead, he stepped into your study.

The room wasn’t large, but it held a distinct sense of grandeur. Crescent-shaped seating wrapped around tall windows, where pale evening light filtered through the glass. Books lined the wall shelves, the desk space, even the wide sills—some stacked neatly, others left open, marked by neat annotations. A writing desk sat against the far wall, occupied by a typewriter, parchments, and a modest vase of fresh baby’s breaths.

Beomgyu took a slow step forward, his gaze drawn to the books. Some of these titles were rare—ones he had only read about, never seen with his own eyes. His fingers brushed the spine of a well-worn volume, curiosity tugging him closer. Then his eyes fell upon the stack of loose papers on the desk, scripts of some kind. He walked over to the study desk, leaning in to take a better look.

"It’s improper to sneak around."

The cool voice startled him. Beomgyu turned sharply, finding you leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Your sharp gaze, hooded slightly, held him in place. The warm light of the setting sun cast a glow against your features, making your amber-brown eyes gleam like smoldering embers. However, there was no warmth in your expression, and clearly no trace of amusement.

For a moment, Beomgyu faltered. Your brother was right. You were intimidating.

Yet, before he could gather his manners, something clicked in his memory.  "It’s you," he blurted before he could stop himself.

Your brow arched. Misunderstanding his words, you stepped further inside, exhaling softly. “Ah, I forgot—my reputation isn’t to everyone’s appetite.”

Beomgyu’s confusion was evident, and he hurried to explain. “No, my lady, I meant—I saw you days ago. On the road. I nearly—” he paused, then continued with a sheepish chuckle, “—rode straight into you. I had just arrived in town that day.”

You hesitated, studying him carefully. As his words sank in, a memory surfaced—black strands of hair catching the morning light, a fleeting grip around your arm, a murmured apology before vanishing into the street.

So it had been him.

The realization settled within you, an odd sense of recognition threading through your thoughts. How small the world could be sometimes. So he hadn’t meant it as a slight against your name. With the realization came along a bashful chiding of your own prejudice.

With a measured nod, you conceded, "I see. My apologies, then."

Beomgyu exhaled, relieved, only to stiffen again at your next words. "Though I must say, I didn’t take you for the kind of gentleman who would invade a lady’s secluded space. Quite indecorous."

His posture straightened immediately, embarrassment rushing in like a wave. "I assure you, that wasn’t my intent. Your brother mentioned a library, and I assumed—"

You allowed a ghost of a smirk. “You are in a library,” you interrupted, amused despite yourself. “Just not the one you were looking for.” You motioned toward the bookshelves around you before adding, “This is my study.”

Realizing his mistake, Beomgyu stepped back instinctively. He dipped his head earnestly. "My deepest apologies, my lady. I overstepped."

You held his gaze for a moment before deciding to let it go. He was to be present in your house for the foreseeable future, after all—no sense in making an enemy of him over a single misstep.

Turning, you ambled toward your desk, fingers skimming over your papers, but you noted that he hadn’t left. Beomgyu’s gaze, now free of tension, wandered back toward the bookshelves.

"You have quite the collection," he mused. "More extensive than even the libraries I frequented overseas."

You didn’t glance up. "It’s not for display. I’ve read them all."

"I don’t doubt it."

Your fingers paused over a book near your desk. Without looking at him, you asked, "And do you read, Lord Choi? Or do you only admire titles?"

His lips twitched at the clear challenge in your tone. "I read. Quite a lot, actually."

"Oh?" You lifted the book, glancing at its spine before tossing it lightly onto the seat beside you. "Then tell me—what is the central philosophy of A Dissonance of Ideals?"

The question was a trap. The book was rare, barely printed beyond its first run due to its controversial stance on class and freedom. Most men you’d met boasted of their intellect, only to flounder under scrutiny.

But Beomgyu did not flounder.

"That true liberation is not granted—it is taken," he answered smoothly. "The novel challenges the notion that freedom is bestowed upon the deserving, arguing instead that the oppressed must seize it for themselves. The protagonist, despite being of noble blood, aligns himself with those deemed lesser, and in doing so, sees the fallacy of his own privilege."

A stunned silence graced you. He held your gaze without hesitation, the smile on his lips was calm, not a trace of bluffing. You felt a small, reluctant flicker of intrigue.

Leaning back against your desk, you let out a quiet hum. "Not a bad answer."

Beomgyu huffed a short laugh. "High praise."

"High praise is reserved for those who deserve it." You observed him a moment longer before turning your attention back to your desk. "But at least you’re not entirely hopeless."

He chuckled, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes as he looked at you. This was no ordinary noblewoman before him—no delicate lady who needed to be flattered or coddled. You were sharp and quick-witted. But what struck him the most about you was that you're unapologetic.

He felt like a moth drawn toward smoldering flames in your presence. 

The door creaked, and Maya’s voice cut through the moment. “My lady, I—” She paused mid-step, blinking at Beomgyu as if only just realizing he was there. Her eyes darted between the two of you, before slowly widening like saucers. Fortunately, she kept her mouth shut. 

You exhaled, shifting your attention to her. “Did you rest properly?”

“Yes, my lady.” Maya nodded, still watching you both curiously.

“Good.” You turned to Beomgyu, voice composed once more. “It’s getting dark, Lord Choi. You must need rest. Maya will escort you to your carriage.”

Beomgyu inclined his head. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”

You nodded. Then, as an afterthought, you said, “I hope my brother wasn’t difficult to teach.”

Beomgyu’s lips curved slightly. “Not at all.”

The warmth in his gaze, so inviting, almost made you smile. But you merely nodded once more as he followed Maya out.

Left alone in your study, your eyes drifted to the bookshelves once more. Your fingers trailed the spine of a book that he previously touched before you murmured, “How interesting.”

The storm raged through that night, rattling the windows and drumming against the roof in an unrelenting downpour. The roads had turned to treacherous mud, the trees bending and swaying under the force of the wind. Unsurprisingly, Beomgyu did not arrive for his tutoring session the next morning.

Yet, despite knowing the obvious, you found yourself standing by the tall windows of the library, gaze flickering toward the entrance of your house, searching for a carriage that was not one of yours. The thought struck you as ridiculous—you had no reason to anticipate his arrival, and yet, there you stood.

Shaking off the thought, you returned to your desk, burying yourself in your work as the storm outside continued its merciless reign. Hours passed, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over parchment, the scratching of your quill filled the room with a symphonic rhythm.

A knock at the door drew your attention. The elderly butler entered, carefully holding a sealed letter. "A message for you, my lady. From Mr. Lennox."

You set your quill down and took the letter, breaking the seal with a letter opener. As your eyes scanned the contents, a wave of relief washed over you. Your manuscript has been accepted. Soon, it will be published.

The battle was only half-won—now, you would wait for the world to cast its judgment upon your words.

The following morning, Beomgyu’s carriage rolled through the now-cleared roads toward your manor. Seated inside with him was his mother, her gaze lingering on the passing scenery before settling upon her son.

"How are you finding it here in town?" she asked, her voice gentle yet inquisitive.

Beomgyu shifted slightly, considering the question. "It is different from what I’ve grown used to. Everyone has been quite kind."

His mother hummed in agreement. "And the Kang household? How do you find them?"

Beomgyu's expression softened slightly. "They have been welcoming. I had no reason to expect otherwise, but even so, their kindness is something I have come to appreciate."

As his words settled, his mind drifted unbidden to you. To the unfortunate series of mishaps that had marked each of his encounters with you—the collision outside the bakery, the intrusion into your study. He let out a quiet sigh before speaking again.

"I was thinking of stopping by the library after today’s lesson. To buy some… flowers."

His mother turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. She knew her son had always been rather interesting with his mindset and choice of words, but still it didn’t help with her brewing curiosity. "Flowers? From a library?"

Beomgyu had spoken too hastily. He didn’t wish to explain his choice of words to his mother yet. It was an idea that occurred to him late at night before he fell asleep thinking of you.

His mother, ever perceptive, caught the misstep and pressed further. "For whom, exactly?"

He opened his mouth, ready to answer, only to falter. A realization struck him—he did not know your name. Not once had it been spoken to him. Your mother had referred to you only as her daughter, your brother as his older sister.

Catching his hesitation, his mother blinked in mild disbelief. "Beomgyu, surely you are jesting. You have been in their house and do not even know the young lady’s name?"

Beomgyu’s eyes widened at how easily she caught on. He was just a boy who could not hide anything from his mother. Heat crept up his neck. "It… never came up."

His mother shook her head, caught between exasperation and laughter. "You must ask her yourself. A gentleman must not assume but rather seek to know with due respect."

Beomgyu could only nod, more embarrassed than he cared to admit. But before she could move on, curiosity still sparked in her gaze. "But tell me, why exactly would you be searching for flowers in a library for her?"

His shoulders stiffened. There was no graceful escape from this conversation now. So, he told her everything.

By the time he finished recounting his series of missteps, his mother was shaking her head, exasperated. "Oh, Beomgyu," she murmured, half-laughing. "You must properly apologize to the lady."

The carriage began to slow as they reached her designated stop. Before stepping out, she turned back to him one last time, offering a knowing smile. "And do not forget again, son. It is discourteous."

Beomgyu only sighed, watching as she disappeared into the bustling street. As soon as the carriage door shut, he exhaled deeply, running a hand over his face before instructing the driver to continue on.

The library awaited him first. Then, your manor.

Rain pattered lightly against the windows as Beomgyu sat with your younger brother, his lesson drawing to a close. The sky outside was a murky gray, the air thick with the scent of petrichor. On the table beside him, a package rested. He had yet to see you today.

As he contemplated whether to entrust the gift to your brother or seek out Maya to deliver it, a flicker of movement outside in the distance caught his attention. Through the blurred glass, he glimpsed a lone figure wandering through the garden.

"She’s out again for the rain," your brother remarked, following his gaze.

Beomgyu blinked. "In this weather?"

"She likes the rain."

A low and foreboding roll of thunder grumbled in the distance. Beomgyu sighed slowly, feeling the ever growing presence of the package beside him. He hesitated before asking, "Does she prefer company?"

Your brother tilted his head in thought, then shrugged. "You should probably find that out on your own."

Beomgyu did not need to be told twice.

The first drop of rain that touched your skin was cool, a soft whisper against the lingering warmth of the evening. The next ones came heavier, a rhythm quickening into a pace urgent and relentless. You walked forward, letting the grass dampen the hem of your gown, inhaling the earthy scent of rain. It was calming, this solitude beneath the darkened sky.

Then, just as the storm began to truly break, a voice called through the downpour.

You turned, blinking against the misty veil of rain, only to see Beomgyu walking toward you.

He was a mess.

Perplexity gripped you. Beomgyu stood several paces away, utterly drenched, his fine suit ruined by the merciless rain. The once-pristine white of his collar was soaked through, the deep navy fabric of his coat clinging to his frame, now a shade darker with moisture. His pristine shoes were now mud-ridden, his long black hair plastered against his forehead, dripping rivulets of water down his cheekbones. Through all of that, he was grinning at you.

A beautiful mess, you corrected yourself.

"Lord Choi," you called over the storm, incredulous. "What on earth are you doing?"

Beomgyu exhaled, lifting a hand to swipe at his rain-slicked lashes, an utterly useless effort. Then, his grin faded into a sheepish smile.

"My lady," he said, voice warm despite the chill in the air, "I never got your name."

The rain drummed around you, the world narrowing to the space between you and the foolish man standing in the downpour.

You stared at him for a moment, utterly, truly perplexed. "You came out into the rain for that?"

"Yes," he admitted easily.

Something about the simple honesty of it made you laugh, breathless and disbelieving. You didn’t even fight the trickle of warmth trailing down your chest. “You do keep surprising me, Lord Choi,” you muttered, your voice drowned by the rain, and as you studied him for a beat, an idea sparked to life.

"Very well," you mused, lips curving into a small smile. "If you desire my name, you must earn it."

His brows lifted, intrigue flickering in his dark eyes. "And how shall I do that?"

The rain dripped from your fingertips, tracing cool paths against your skin. "A riddle," you declared. "Answer correctly, and I shall tell you. But if you fail…" You turned slightly, glancing toward the garden’s stone archway in the distance. "You must catch me before I reach the arch."

Beomgyu let out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "You wish to make a game of it?"

"Why not?" you challenged. "Do you accept?"

His smile deepened, eyes crinkling into crescents as he gave a long nod, before meeting your gaze through the curtain of rain. "It would be discourteous of me to refuse."

You took a steadying breath, the rhythm of the rain matching the anticipation curling in your chest. You recited:

"I have a heart that does not beat, a home but no doors. What am I?"

Beomgyu’s brows furrowed slightly, his mind working through the puzzle.

You waited only a breath before you turned sharply and ran. The sound of splashing footsteps followed a second later.

"You didn’t even give me time to think!" Beomgyu called, his voice half-laugh, half-exasperation.

"You should be quicker, then!" you tossed over your shoulder, skirts damp and heavy as you sprinted across the grass.

The archway was ahead, framed by ivy, its stone glistening with rain. Just a little further—

"A book!"

—The answer rang through the storm, triumphant.

You faltered slightly, laughing, but did not stop. "Yet," you called back, breathless, "you must still catch me!"

"You are entirely unfair!"

"You are far too slow, Lord Choi—"

His hand caught your wrist before you finished speaking.

You were turned swiftly, rain-soaked and breathless, your back meeting the cool stone of the archway as Beomgyu’s presence loomed close, his breath shallow from exertion.

His fingers, though chilled from the rain, were gentle where they curled around your wrist. Drops of water clung to his face, trailing down the line of his jaw, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling from the chase.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound between you was the steady downpour of rain, the distant rumble of thunder, and the sound of your entangled breathing between the small space. 

Beomgyu’s gaze softened, his fingers loosening but not quite letting go. "My lady," he murmured, voice rich with something you couldn’t name. "Will you keep your promise?"

Your own breath was uneven, though not entirely from the run. Your eyes fell onto his hand that was holding yours, then met his gaze, and in that moment, you felt a flicker of something warm passing between you.

"Very well, Lord Choi."

You stepped closer, the scent of rain and earth wrapping around you both. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling, but he did not move away. Droplets clung to his lashes, sliding down the curve of his cheek, and for a moment, you hesitated—so close you could hear the quiet hitch in his breathing.

Then, voice hushed as if you’re passing a secret with the wind, you whispered your name into his ear.

The words were warm against his skin, softer than the rainfall that dripped from your lips. A secret given, and just as swiftly, you slipped past him, the space between you vanishing as you walked toward your home, leaving him standing under the arch.

Beomgyu remained where he was, his posture unmoving, as if still caught in the moment. His lips parted slightly, shaping the syllables of your name in a reverent murmur, testing the way it curled on his tongue.

Your name tasted like sunlight, like warm honey trickling down his throat curling into the very veins of his heart, seeking abode in the empty space. Like something distant yet achingly familiar, something he had reached for without knowing he had wanted it.

A quiet exhale left him, his fingers twitching faintly as he recalled the package he had left inside. His original intent had been simple—an apology wrapped in parchment and intent. But now, he found himself unable to give it to you just yet.

No, not until he had written your name on it.

Maya was cleaning the windows when her eyes traveled outside, only for her breath to catch in sheer horror. The cloth in her hand nearly slipped from her grip as she stumbled back.

“My lady—!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

You stepped through the entrance, rain-soaked from head to toe, water dripping from your sleeves onto the polished floor. Your hair clung damply to your skin, but you merely smiled as Maya rushed forward, her expression switching from disbelief to outright panic.

“You went out in the rain again?” she cried, wringing her hands. “My lady, you’re going to fall ill one of these days! Have you no care for your health?”

As you were about to offer a reply, Maya’s eyes flickered past you, and she nearly reeled back. Her panic-stricken gaze landed on the man stepping in behind you—Choi Beomgyu, drenched in equal measure. His fine suit was utterly ruined, his dark hair plastered against his forehead, his shoes carrying a trail of rainwater and mud. And yet, despite his disheveled state, he remained funnily composed.

Maya gawked at him, then at you, then back at him, her brain clearly short-circuiting.

Beomgyu, ever polite even in such a situation, gave her a slight bow. “I apologize for the mess.”

Maya, on the verge of losing her mind, let out a strangled sound and scurried away in search of towels, her mutterings barely coherent. “This is—this is absolutely—oh, heavens above—”

Before you could so much as smother your amusement, a new presence entered the room—your mother. She came to a slow halt in the corridor, eyes sweeping over you both. Her expression was unreadable, utterly still, but the prolonged silence said enough.

Beomgyu stiffened ever so slightly beside you, then inclined his head, bowing deeply. “Lady Kang,” he greeted, his voice low and respectful. “I must apologize for my appearance and for the state of your home.”

Your mother said nothing at first, her gaze shifting between the two of you—her sharp eyes noting the way water still dripped onto the floor, the subtle heave of your shoulders from exertion, and the fact that, for the first time, you looked entirely unbothered in the presence of a man.

You, on the other hand, pointed in Beomgyu’s general direction without sparing him a glance. “His state is not my fault. He did this on his own.”

Your mother’s lips twitched slightly at that, but she withheld her comment.

Maya returned in a flurry of movement, shoving towels into both your hands before ushering you toward the fireplace. Your mother, after her curious silence, finally spoke. “Lord Choi, the storm has worsened. You should remain here until the rain subsides.”

“I appreciate your kindness, my lady,” Beomgyu said, voice warm yet firm, “but I shouldn’t impose any longer. I will return home at once.” He accepted the towel with a grateful nod and dried his hands before wrapping it around his shoulders.

Then, with a final bow—to her, to Maya, to you—Beomgyu turned toward the door. His departure was swift, but as he reached the threshold, he glanced back at you, lingering just a moment longer.

Then, with the faintest curl of his lips, he stepped into the waiting carriage and disappeared into the night.

Silence followed in his absence.

Your mother turned to you now, arching a single brow. It was a silent inquiry, one laden with quiet curiosity, but you merely deadpanned, “What?” before turning on your heel and making your way toward your room.

Your mother and Maya stood there, watching your retreating figure disappear up the stairs.

After a long pause, Maya whispered hesitantly, “Lady Kang, is she…?”

Your mother exhaled, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Who knows?”

Yet, deep down, she already did. It was still too early to assume, but in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Your mind, against your own wishes, wandered to Choi Beomgyu more often than you cared to admit.

You had met countless men—suitors of all ages, noblemen with polished shoes and sharper tongues, men who sought your hand not for who you were, but for what you could offer. To them, you were an acquisition, a means to an end, a prize to be won and caged. You had long since learned to navigate their intentions, to parry their flowery words with razor-sharp wit, to dance around their expectations with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

But Beomgyu... that man intrigued you.

With every brief exchange, every moment shared, the feeling took root. He was proving to be unlike the rest—not because he lacked ambition or purpose, but because he carried himself with an ease unburdened by arrogance. He was learned but never boastful, kind without expectation. Unfiltered warmth and pure knowledge wrapped his entire being.

At least, for now.

So, you decided to watch him. To study him as you had studied countless others, to see if he was different or if he, too, would prove predictable. But till now there was nothing to scrutinize.

He came to the manor, tutored your brother, exchanged pleasantries with your mother and the household staff. Whenever your paths crossed, he offered you that warm, polite smile, never lingering longer than propriety allowed.

Nothing less, nothing more.

Yet, the fact that you continued to notice was enough to unsettle you.

“My lady.” You were pulled from your thoughts by the voice of your instructor. “That’s enough for today.”

Exhaling, you dismounted from your horse, handing the reins to the stable boy as the exhaustion settled deep in your limbs. The ride had been long, and though you normally relished the freedom it brought, today, you felt weighed down.

You arrived home, your boots pressing damp imprints into the grand marble floors as Maya rushed to greet you at the entrance. The moment she saw you, her lips parted in a quiet scolding, but before she could speak, hesitation flickered across her face.

“My lady—”

“I need a bath,” you murmured, already loosening the buttons at the collar of your shirt as you strode past her, shoulders heavy with weariness. “Prepare it for me.”

Maya hesitated, her fingers twisting into her apron. “My lady, I must warn you—”

You were far too exhausted to fully comprehend her warning.

Stepping into the living room, you were greeted by an unfamiliar figure lounging comfortably in one of the embroidered chairs. His presence was enough to still your steps, irritation prickling along your spine even before he spoke.

Lord Park Bokyung.

An older man whose hair was tinged with grey, bulky body that barely fit into the chair. He studied you, dark eyes raking over your disheveled state—your untucked shirt, the dirt-streaked boots, the absence of any attempt at ladylike decorum. A grin spread across his lips, crude and condescending.

“Well, well,” he drawled, turning to your mother, who sat stiffly across him, lips pressed into a thin line. “It appears the rumors were right. Your daughter does enjoy hobbies quite unbefitting of a lady. She is in such desperate need of a husband.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “A man must tame her before she ruins herself entirely.”

Your mother winced at his words but quickly straightened, her gaze sharpening. “Lord Park,” she said coolly, “please weave your words with caution when speaking of the members of the Kang estate in their own house—specifically, my daughter.”

Bokyung had the audacity to laugh, shaking his head as if amused by a child’s naïveté. “Ah, my lady, you misunderstand me. I jest, of course.” His voice was thick with feigned innocence, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. “My words are spoken out of concern—after all, what is a woman without a guiding hand to keep her from folly? I won't expect her to understand, she's still young after all.”

Your mother cast an apologetic glance at you. She hadn’t expected him any more than you had, and you could tell she regretted his presence entirely.

But regret would not erase the insult.

Something inside you cooled. A sharp, piercing sort of stillness settled in your chest, smoothing away the irritation and replacing it with something far more dangerous.

You turned, walking toward the far end of the room where two pistols rested mounted upon the wall. Fingers trailing over the polished wood, you spoke, voice terrifyingly calm.

“If a husband’s purpose is to keep me safe, then I would like to test his ability to do so.” You lifted the pistol from its display, and in one swift motion, you turned and aimed it directly at Lord Park.

The butler stiffened. Maya let out a strangled gasp, hands flying to her mouth. Even your mother, ever composed, shifted in alarm. The air in the room tensed with horror, every eye locked onto you, onto the weapon steady in your grip.

Bokyung’s amusement vanished. His body went rigid, his smirk faltering as his gaze darted between your face and the barrel now trained upon him. You almost laughed out when his chaperons cowered in fear behind him. This was the first time since your arrival, his composure cracked.

“You jest,” he said, but his voice lacked its prior confidence.

You hummed, tilting your head as if considering. “Do I?”

The man, his pride pricked, glanced at the assembled guests—your mother, Maya, the butler, his own chaperones. To refuse would be an admission of cowardice. To accept would be to entertain a lady’s absurd challenge.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well.”

Under the veil of the blackened sky, the targets were being set in the garden. You stood quietly by the side, watching as Lord Park took his position.

From the balcony of the study, your brother leaned against the railing, amusement dancing in his eyes as he observed the unfolding spectacle. Beside him, Beomgyu stood, silent.

“The fifth one this week,” your brother mused, exhaling.

Beomgyu turned to him, brows raising slightly. “Fifth what?”

“Suitor.” Your brother glanced toward the garden, then smiled. “But this one must have said something particularly stupid.”

As the targets were prepared, Maya fidgeted beside the elderly butler, her hands clasped tightly together. Her unease was palpable, her eyes darting toward you before she whispered, “She should not have to prove herself to the likes of him.”

The butler, who had served your household for decades, merely sighed. “Do not worry, child,” he murmured, his voice low. “Have faith in her.”

Lord Park stepped forward, gripping the pistol with stiff fingers. He adjusted his stance, clearing his throat as if to reassert his shaken confidence. He raised the weapon, inhaled deeply, and fired.

The bullet whizzed through the air, entirely missing the target and flew somewhere beyond the distance. The silence that followed was deafening. His mouth opened and closed as he scrambled for an excuse, his face paling beneath the weight of failure. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he lowered the pistol, his fingers tightening around the grip as if it were the weapon’s fault and not his own.

A quiet hum left your lips. You stepped forward, rolling back your sleeves, feeling the familiarity of the pistol as you lifted it with the ease of someone who had done so countless times before.

You raised your arm, gaze steady and unlike Lord Park, you did not hesitate to fire the moment you locked your target. Your finger pressed the trigger in a decisive motion.

The bullet struck the center of your target. Without pause, you cocked the pistol again, exhaled a low laugh, and fired once more. The second target—his—was knocked down in an instant.

The echo of your shots still resonated when silence fell, heavier than before.

Lord Park gaped, mouth opening and closing uselessly. A flush of humiliation crawled up his neck as he scrambled to find something, anything, to say. The gathered onlookers remained motionless, their gazes flickering between you and the man who had so thoroughly been put in his place.

You turned to him, expression unreadable, then offered him a small, polite smile.

“How unfortunate,” you murmured, handing the pistol back to the elderly butler. “You speak of a husband keeping me safe so that I may not engage in such ‘unladylike’ activities—yet you cannot even strike a target.” You dusted off your cuffs, already losing interest. “It seems I must continue looking for one more capable.”

With that, you turned and strode away, leaving behind the stunned onlookers and the seething man who had just been thoroughly humiliated, but as you moved, your gaze flickered toward the study balcony. Your steps faltered.

Your brother was grinning, his mirth barely restrained. Beside him, Beomgyu stood frozen, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes—wide as they burned with something perilously close to awe. As if he were seeing you for the first time. As if, in this very moment, you had unraveled something within him he hadn’t even known was tightly wound.

His gaze curled around you like an invisible thread, weaving and pulling, suffocating every molecule of your being. Your breath stilled in your throat, your pulse faltering against your ribs. A warmth so foreign, so dizzying, crept up your neck, nipping at the edges of your composure.

Then, before the feeling could root itself any deeper, you tore your gaze away. Without another glance, you quickened your pace, lifting a hand to your lips as if that alone could smother the telltale flush dusting your skin. 

But behind you, Beomgyu watched your retreating form with an intensity that bordered on reverence. His grip tightening ever so slightly against the railing; that man was utterly captivated.

Rain pattered lightly against the windows as you sat in your study, fingers pressed against your temple. After the day’s ordeal, exhaustion curled at the edges of your being, but irritation prickled beneath it like an itch that refused to be soothed. You had tried to lose yourself in work—letters to write, manuscripts to review—but nothing had been accomplished. Your mind was restless, drifting between frustration and weariness, a battlefield of thoughts refusing to be silenced.

A gentle knock at the door pulled you from your stupor. You blinked, momentarily dazed, the warmth from your bath still lingering against your skin. Before you could respond, your mother stepped inside, her presence a quiet balm against the chaos in your head.

Her eyes immediately softened as she took in your tired posture. "You had quite the eventful morning," she murmured, closing the door behind her.

You exhaled through your nose, pressing your fingers against your temple. "If by eventful you mean another insufferable suitor, then yes, quite so."

She chuckled, approaching the desk. "Maya is still recovering, poor thing. She nearly fainted when you challenged Lord Park to a shooting match."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Perhaps she should develop a stronger constitution. It will not be the last time."

Your mother sighed, her expression turning fond but tinged with quiet concern. "My dear, you are formidable—of that, I have no doubt. But even the strongest warriors grow weary."

You met her gaze then, something inside you wavering. She always saw through you. Always knew when your edges began to fray. A moment passed before you murmured, "I am tired."

She reached out, smoothing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Then rest, my love. You do not always have to fight."

The words settled into your chest, warm and gentle, yet their meaning was something you weren’t sure how to grasp. Your mother did not press further. She simply kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment before stepping away. "Good night, my dear."

"Good night, Mother."

You remained seated long after she left, her words circling your thoughts. Just as sleep threatened to claim you, another knock sounded at the door. This one was softer, almost hesitant.

"My lady, it’s me. Beomgyu."

Huh? He still hasn't left for home? You blinked, the unexpected sound of his voice pulling you upright. You weren’t sure why, but your heart gave a small, unsteady lurch.

From the other side of the door, he continued, "I understand if you do not wish to speak. If you are busy or seeking solitude, I will not intrude."

You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor as you approached the door but did not open it. You imagined him standing just as close on the other side, his presence inducing warmth in the space between you.

A pause. Then, in a softer tone, he said, "I brought you flowers. As an apology. For the times I have crossed the line."

An apology? You felt the first curl of disappointment bloom within you, a familiar sting that came when expectations fell short. Of course. Bringing gifts to soften you, to charm his way into favor—it was a move you had seen time and time again. Was he truly just like the rest?

Your grip on the door tightened. The temptation to simply walk away, to block him out as you had with so many others, nearly won over.

Then he spoke again. "I will leave them on the cabinet beside the door. I hope you like them."

Silence followed. You waited until the soft echo of his retreating footsteps faded. A minute, then another, until you were sure he had truly gone. Only then did you pull the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor

Your gaze dropped to the cabinet. But instead of a bouquet, a thickly wrapped package sat in its place, secured with careful folds and a precise knot. Your brows knitted in confusion as you lifted it into your arms, its weight unexpected.

Frowning, you stepped back into your study and set the package onto your desk, fingers working to untie the string. “What on earth is this, Choi Beomgyu?” you murmured, a tinge of exasperation lacing your tone.

The wrapping fell away, and you froze.

Books.

Not flowers — books.

Four, no, five of them, each title graced with the name of a flower—The Language of Lilies, By the Rose Garden, Wild Violets in Bloom. Your fingers skimmed the spines, tracing the embossed letters, flipping through the pages as disbelief washed through you like steady waves. The realization struck like a slow dawn breaking over the horizon.

You flipped one open, the delicate rustle of pages filling the quiet room. And there, scrawled in elegant script on the inside cover—your name. 

You opened another. And another. Each one the same, and each made your heart stutter. 

A laugh—soft, disbelieving—escaped your lips, your fingers tracing over the pages as a delicate warmth unfurled in your chest.

"Oh, he is so charming…" you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.

Your earlier judgment of him wavered, crumbling ever so slightly, and that made you feel truly relieved. 

Mornings at the manor was always a quiet affair, a tranquility that settled into the bones like a well-worn melody. You reveled in it, taking in the stillness as you descended the grand staircase, your footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. You hadn’t planned on anything out of the ordinary, just a simple breakfast before retreating to your study, but as you entered the dining hall, your gaze landed on an unexpected presence at the head of the table.

Your father.

It had been a while since you last saw him at breakfast. Duty often pulled him away early. But today, he sat in his usual place, sipping his tea, eyes warm as they met yours.

“Good morning, my dear,” he greeted, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.

“Good morning, Father,” you responded, slipping into the seat beside from him. “It’s been some time since we shared a morning meal.”

He chuckled. “Far too long, I’d say. But I’m here now.” A pause. “And I have something to discuss with you.”

You raised a brow, waiting.

“The Academy is hosting a gathering soon. An evening party,” he explained. “It might be in your best interest to attend. There are people—important individuals—who would take great interest in your work.”

The Academy. The very heart of knowledge, innovation, and education in the country. A place that held both opportunity and scrutiny in equal measure.

“Connections,” he continued, cutting into his meal with his silverwares. “They can open doors for you. Doors that even your talent alone might take years to unlock.”

You tapped a finger idly against the table, considering. It wasn’t that you feared the whispers or the disdain of those who thought a woman had no place in intellectual circles. You had endured far worse. But the idea of making strategic alliances, of meeting those who truly saw you beyond the title of ‘Lady’—that was something worth contemplating.

Your father must have sensed your hesitation. “Of course,” he said, “there will be those who will sneer. But you can handle them, can’t you?”

You scoffed softly. “That goes without saying.”

He smiled, a rare softness in his gaze. “Then come. With me there, no one will dare lay a finger on you.”

The evening air was crisp as your carriage pulled up to the grand banquet hall of the Academy. You stepped out, fingers resting lightly on your father’s offered arm. The midnight blue of your gown shimmered under the golden glow of lanterns, understated yet commanding. You had no desire to stand at the center of attention, yet you knew the moment you stepped through those doors, eyes would turn.

And they did.

It was something you had long grown accustomed to—the force of scrutiny, admiration, curiosity—all blended together in an awkward blend of cacophony. You held your chin high as you walked beside your father, nodding politely to those who acknowledged you. The hall was a grand expanse of polished floors, glittering chandeliers, and the hum of intellectual conversation. A world of scholars, professors, and thinkers—something about the ambiance made your nerves jitter.

Your father led you through the crowd, stopping before a man who bore an air of elegant authority and importance.

“Han Sohyun,” your father introduced, “one of the Academy’s finest minds.”

The older gentleman turned to you, eyes bright with interest. “Ah, at last. The young lady of the Kang family.”

You inclined your head in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Han.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he said warmly. “I must say, I’m quite an admirer of your work.”

That gave you pause. You had expected the usual pleasantries, the carefully measured words that spoke of tolerance rather than genuine appreciation. But there was sincerity in his tone. Your father was right. 

“You have read my works?”

“Of course,” he replied, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Your insights on historical literature are fascinating. I dare say your writing carries a depth many scholars fail to achieve.”

You blinked. Praise was not unfamiliar, but to hear it from someone of his stature, in a space dominated by men who often dismissed you, was something else entirely.

Through the course of conversation, you found yourself engaged in discussions more stimulating than you had anticipated. Han Sohyun introduced you to others, opening doors to connections you had never thought possible. But the moment that struck you most was when he mentioned his daughter.

“She looks up to you, you know,” he said softly once the conversation mellowed around you. “Your work, your defiance in the face of societal expectations—it inspires her.”

A slow warmth spread through your chest. You had never sought validation, but to know that your words had reached someone, had made an impact—it was an accomplishment in its own right.

The night wore on, and eventually, you excused yourself from your father’s side, seeking a moment’s reprieve in the garden. The air outside was cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the banquet hall. You breathed in deeply, exhaling the tension that had expectedly settled in your shoulders after engaging in conversations with people of high statuses. 

The soft murmur of conversation from the banquet hall faded behind you, replaced by the rhythmic rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. The sky stretched endlessly above, an ocean of inky blue speckled with silver stars. It was these moments of solitude that you always sought and loved. 

Then, from the corner of your eye, you noticed a figure—nearly obscured beneath a canopy of pink bougainvillea. It was easy to miss him, sitting on the ground, lost in the shadows. But you caught the faint silhouette of tousled hair, the gentle rise and fall of his breath. You blinked in surprise.

You took a few steps closer before speaking, your voice breaking the quiet. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

Beomgyu startled slightly, turning his head up to look at you. Under the soft glow of the garden lanterns, his expression shifted from surprise to soft acknowledgment—underlying with the impression that he too wasn't expecting you here. “Ah,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, “just taking a break. Talks of politics and wealth suffocate me.”

Of course, he'd be invited. That man is no less than a scholar himself, so his presence in such a banquet is far more natural than yours.

You hesitated, glancing toward the direction of the party. “I should go,” you murmured, not quite meeting his gaze. “Being seen with me might taint your reputation, and I wouldn’t want that.”

Beomgyu tilted his head, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Then it makes the two of us, my lady. I fear I’ve already given the lords the impression that I’m uninterested in their conversations.” He patted the ground beside him, an invitation. “Stay, if you’d like.”

After a moment’s deliberation, you lowered yourself to sit beside him, leaving a respectable distance between you. The pavement beneath was cool, but the warmth of his presence nearby was enough to keep the chill at bay.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice as you turned to him. “Even I could never think of such an idea.”

Beomgyu chuckled softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. “As long as my lady likes them, I’m glad.”

“It was brilliant, truly. You…” You paused, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the lace trim of your gloves. “You broke my expectations.”

His eyes gleamed with curiosity, the corner of his lips curling into a coy smile. “Expectations?”

Realizing your blunder, you quickly averted your gaze, feigning interest in the pebbles near your feet. “Never mind,” you muttered.

A hum was his only response. Beomgyu then exhaled softly before speaking again, his voice thoughtful. “Truthfully, I had considered getting you actual flowers at first,” he admitted. “But then I thought… you might appreciate books more.” He hesitated, then added, almost sheepishly, “If you’d prefer flowers, I can get you some next time as well.”

Your eyes flickered to him with interest, and you let out a soft hum, squinting your eyes slightly. “Next time?” you echoed playfully, watching as his expression froze. “Does that mean you plan to cause more trouble, Lord Choi?”

His lips parted, his entire posture stiffening. “Ah—n-no, that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, his usual composure unraveling in an instant. “I just meant if—if another occasion arose, then perhaps—”

A laugh bubbled past your lips, light and genuine. “It was truly brilliant,” you said, cutting off his flustered attempt at salvaging his words.

Beomgyu blinked at you, still visibly flustered, but the tension melted from his shoulders when he saw the sincerity in your smile. A faint pink dusted his cheeks, but this time, he simply let out a breath and returned your smile, no longer trying to argue his case.

You looked skyward before continuing the conversation. “I heard you’ve been out of town for studies.”

He nodded, resting his arms over his bent knees. “Yes, I spent some time abroad—studying history, literature, philosophy. They teach you many things, but true understanding is something you must seek yourself.”

You hummed in thought. “And did you find it?”

He smiled, gaze fixed on the garden path ahead. “I found pieces of it. Enough to know that knowledge is not merely in books, but in the way people think, the way they live. That is why I enjoy conversations like this.”

You found yourself intrigued. “Like this?”

He turned slightly, his gaze meeting yours. “With people who see the world not as it is, but as it could be.”

Your heart stilled for a moment, caught off guard by his words. He spoke like a scholar, yet he listened like a poet—absorbing every nuance, every thought, as if committing them to memory. You had met many learned men, but few who dissected knowledge with the same precision you did. With him, a conversation felt like not a battle to be won but a world to be shaped.

Beomgyu suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Good heavens, where are my manners? I made a lady sit with me on the dirt.” Rising to his feet, he extended a hand toward you. “There’s a lake just ahead. Would you like to take a look?”

You studied him for a moment. The moonlight cast a glow on his features—soft yet sharp. Slowly, you placed your gloved hand in his, allowing him to pull you to your feet.

As you walked toward the lake, the conversation flowed naturally. You spoke of your works, your manuscripts, your ambition. Beomgyu listened intently, never once interrupting, his eyes reflecting a hushed understanding. Only when you finished did he finally speak, his voice steady and thoughtful.

“You place strong emphasis on class disparity in your work,” he noted. “It’s a subject most fear to touch, let alone dissect so boldly.”

You turned to him, taken aback. “You’ve read my work?”

“I sought it out after hearing your name,” he admitted. “And now, hearing you speak of it—” he exhaled, shaking his head with an almost reverent mirth,“—I find your perspective fascinating. You don’t just write about injustice. You challenge its very foundation.”

A thrill ran through you, unexpected and electrifying. “That is precisely my intent,” you said, excitement creeping into your tone. “Change does not come from mere observation but from questioning the structures that uphold it.”

He nodded, a slow, approving motion. “And you do it masterfully.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt truly understood. His words held meaning, his perspective aligning with yours so precisely it startled you. You found yourself leaning in, captivated, speaking with a kind of excitement you hadn't felt in a long time. So immersed were you in your exchange that you failed to notice the figure approaching—only realizing when a voice, far too chipper, cut through the moment.

“Ah! Lady Kang! I was hoping to run into you tonight.”

You and Beomgyu halted in your tracks. The man before you bowed, hat in hand, a smile stretched wide across his face.

“Harvard Park,” he introduced himself with a glint in his pale blue eyes. “I wished to have your company for the night.” He trailed off, his gaze shifting to Beomgyu before adding, “Though it seems you are already busy.”

He ignored Beomgyu entirely after that, setting his eyes back on you. "I had the pleasure of speaking with your father earlier," he began, his voice velvety smooth. "We discussed matters of great importance, and naturally, your name arose."

You arched a brow, fingers tightening against your sides. "Oh?"

"Indeed," Harvard continued, his tone warm,  but there was no mistaking the condescension beneath it. "Your accomplishments are nothing short of admirable. A woman of your intellect and ambition is a rare gem in our society." He exhaled, tilting his head just so. "It is for that very reason that I could not help but consider—our families share an esteemed reputation. With such a union, the benefits would be undeniable."

Your stomach twisted. A union.

Harvard’s smile never wavered. "Of course, I hold the greatest respect for your work. In fact, I daresay you would find far fewer obstacles with the right… support. A name that commands respect, a presence that ensures you are received with the dignity you deserve."

The words alone would have merely irked you. You had long grown accustomed to such insults, wrapped in the guise of concern. But tonight—tonight, standing here before Beomgyu, being reduced to nothing more than a woman in need of a husband—you felt something far worse.

The sharp sting of humiliation settled deep in your chest, curling its way through your ribs like an iron vice. You had been spoken down to before, belittled with pretty words wrapped in condescension, but never in front of someone like Beomgyu. Never in front of someone who had truly listened to you, who had met your thoughts with his own rather than dismissing them. And perhaps that was what made the shame unbearable. Anger was there too, simmering beneath your skin, but it was the humiliation that cut the deepest. Not because of Park’s words, but because Beomgyu had heard them.

The initial flicker of anger threatened to boil over, but before you could gather the words to retaliate, Beomgyu moved.

“An interesting proposition, Lord Park,” Beomgyu’s voice was polite—too polite. “A man must be truly confident in himself to assume his presence is necessary for a lady’s success.”

Harvard’s gaze flickered to him, his mask of charm twitching ever so slightly. "I only speak of what is advantageous for her. Surely, you would not argue that in this world, influence holds great power."

Beomgyu hummed, his lips tilting in a way that did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah, but the assumption remains—who, my lord, decided that Lady Kang requires an alliance to achieve what she already has on her own?"

Harvard stiffened. "That is not what I—"

"But it is what you implied," Beomgyu cut in smoothly, his tone carrying the faintest trace of amusement, as though he were merely indulging an amusing conversation rather than dismantling the man’s carefully chosen words. "And it is rather odd, don’t you think, my lord? That you speak of marriage as a means of assistance, as though Lady Kang were incapable of success on her own?" His voice turned almost pitying, his fingers loosely clasped behind his back. "I wonder, then, is it truly her best interests you have in mind? Or is it simply your pride seeking to lay claim to something beyond your reach?

Harvard blinked, caught off guard, but Beomgyu stepped forward, the polite smile never leaving his face, yet something in his presence had shifted. “It is rather unseemly to speak of marriage as if it were a business transaction, especially without first considering if the lady herself desires it.”

You were silent, eyes widening a fraction at Beomgyu’s sudden change in demeanor. His frame now stood before you, as if shielding you from the shrewd man's line of sight in every possible way. 

“Tell me, my lord, does it soothe your ego to believe that a woman’s achievements are only half-formed without a man?”

“I merely thought—”

“That much is clear,” Beomgyu cut in, and though his voice remained even, there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But thinking is not the same as knowing, my lord. Perhaps it would serve you well to learn the difference.”

Harvard’s face darkened. “And who the hell are you to speak so boldly?” he spat, his gaze finally locking to Beomgyu, hostility simmering beneath the surface.

The moment his attention veered from you to Beomgyu, something sharp curled in your chest. No. If anyone would take his disdain, it would be you. Not Beomgyu.

You stepped forward with commanding grace, your eyes narrowing as they settled on Harvard. The sheer weight of your icy gaze made him flinch, his jaw tightening. Then, turning to Beomgyu, you allowed your eyes to soften as you slipped your hand through the crook of his arm, feeling the warmth of him even through layers of fabric.

“A like-minded ally,” you said, your voice soft but filled with firmness, meeting Harvard’s gaze once more. “My like-minded ally.”

The words settled in the space between you, and though your intent was to shield Beomgyu, you felt the weight of them in your own chest.

Harvard’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering between the two of you. He seemed to realize then that any further argument would only see him losing more of his dignity. With a clipped nod and a forced smile, he stepped back. “Well, it seems I have interrupted something. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Kang.” He barely spared Beomgyu a glance before he sauntered away, vanishing into the dark.

The silence he left behind was heavy, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the night breeze. You exhaled slowly, only then realizing how tightly your fingers had curled around Beomgyu’s arm. You loosened your grip instinctively, but before you could step back, you heard the muffled sound of a breathy laugh.

Beomgyu had raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth as he stifled a whine. Your brows furrowed in alarm. “Are you alright?”

His shoulders trembled slightly before he let out a small, breathless chuckle. “I think my heart is still racing from the adrenaline.” He dropped his hand from his face, revealing an exhilarated grin, his eyes glinting with something unrestrained and bright. “That was—ah, how do I even put it? Worth it.”

His reaction caught you off guard, and before you knew it, laughter bubbled up from your own lips, the tension of the moment unraveling between you. But then, just as the laughter began to settle, he turned to you, his grin shifting into something more mischievous as he squinted playfully.

“Your like-minded ally, huh?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock curiosity.

Your breath hitched. Ah. You had said that, hadn’t you? The realization sent a sudden flurry of warmth crawling up your neck. You hastily withdrew your hand from his arm, stepping back as you cleared your throat. “I—” You hesitated, searching for an excuse, before settling on a weak, “I didn’t think through it enough.”

Beomgyu merely hummed, watching you with keen amusement. Then, with a grin that was entirely too pleased, he said, “I like the title.”

You gave a small nod, sighing as you faced the other way—but it was an attempt to hide the shuddering breath of your unsteady heart. "You can have it then," you said, your voice quieter, almost hesitant.

A shy smile graced Beomgyu’s lips, and neither of you said anything more. The silence that fell upon you two afterwards was anything but uncomfortable. And so, with nothing else to say, he fell into step beside you, walking you back toward the banquet hall.

The golden glow of chandeliers from the hall beckoned you forward, but the cool night air still clung to your skin, refusing to let you forget what had transpired in the garden.

From then on, things began to change between the two of you. Beomgyu became a constant presence—not just as your brother’s tutor, but as someone who you allowed to linger by the bookshelves of your study. He had a way of drawing you into lighthearted debates, weaving questions into conversation as naturally as breathing. When he finished tutoring early, you found yourselves lost in discussions about renowned authors and intricate philosophies, often taking slow strolls through the garden instead of your usual solitary walks, other times in your study—your place on your desk and his on one of the crescent seats around the windows. 

Whether he was leaving for the night, walking beside you in the garden, or merely passing by, he would always leave you with something—a thought, a paradox, a moral dilemma—waiting to see how you would respond. And you indulged him, seeing it as an opportunity to understand the way the world in his mind worked. 

It was this—his ability to challenge without belittling, to disagree yet still listen, to turn every conversation into an adventure—that made something in you begin to unravel. You weren’t used to it, having a companion like this. Someone who didn’t just hear you but actually cared about what you had to say.

Someone who felt like freedom.

Your newest book had been published, and this time, the reaction was different. The response from the public was far more positive than before, largely due to the younger generation embracing your work with fervor. The lords and ladies from Lennox’s foreboding predictions scoffed at the shift in reception, but their disdain soon faded beneath the overwhelming tide of support in your favor. It was a success beyond what you had imagined.

With this newfound triumph came opportunities—an invitation extended through Han Sohyun to meet with renowned publishers, editors, and authors. It required travel to another town, forcing a temporary pause in your meetings with Beomgyu. A necessary parting, but one that left an aching emptiness in its wake.

The journey proved worthwhile. Discussions with influential figures broadened your perspectives, and you found yourself standing at the precipice of a career breakthrough. It was exhilarating.

During your trip, you wandered into an antique bookstore, allowing yourself a moment of quiet amidst the whirlwind of obligations. Han Sohyun accompanied you, his gaze wandering over the spines as you perused the selection.

Shelves lined with tomes both familiar and foreign surrounded you, the scent of aged paper settling like a comforting presence. Then, in an unassuming corner, your eyes fell upon a rare edition of a book you cherished. The very same edition that sat in your own collection at home.

You ran your fingers along its spine, and an old memory surfaced—your first encounter with Beomgyu in your study. The way he had paused before your bookshelves, fingers grazing the worn leather bindings, fond eyes marvelling at this very book with reverence. He had mentioned it then, an offhand comment, but you had taken note.

Sohyun noticed your interest, stepping closer to glance at the book. "Ah, an excellent choice," he mused, nodding in appreciation. "Are you getting it for yourself? Allow me to pay for it then, dear. Consider it a gift."

You let out a soft laugh. "That's kind of you, but I’ll get this one myself."

“My dear, may I ask why?"

Your fingers traced the edge of the cover, a quiet fondness slipping into your expression. "Because it’s for someone else."

Sohyun regarded you for a moment before nodding knowingly, a small smile tugging on his lips. "I see. Then I’ll let you have the honor."

Without another thought, you reached for the book. You already owned a copy, but this one—this one would be for him.

Beomgyu had not expected your absence to weigh on him as much as it did.

He still visited your home as per his responsibilities, tutoring your younger brother with the same patience and attentiveness as always. But the moments after—when the lessons ended and silence filled the spaces you once occupied—felt different. He had grown accustomed to lingering in your presence, to the ease of conversation that followed each lesson, whether in the study or the garden, debating over literature or philosophy. Without you there, the house felt quieter, and he found himself leaving earlier than usual.

Even the study, which had once become a shared space, now felt off-limits. Though you had given him permission to peruse your collection, he refrained from entering, unwilling to intrude in your absence. Instead, if he truly needed to sate his love for books, he opted for the grand library, often in the quiet company of your family’s elderly butler. Perhaps it was because he disliked being alone, or perhaps it was because the library did not hold the same presence of you that the study did.

At home, when he spoke of the things that stirred his mind or brought him joy, he found your name slipping into conversations more often than he realized. It was an unconscious habit, one he didn’t notice until his mother smiled knowingly at him, or until his older brother teased him for it. He didn’t try to stop himself. Because, for the first time, he had found someone who truly challenged him, someone who met his thoughts with sharp wit and undeniable intellect.

The men who pursued you spoke of your beauty, your grace, your lineage, but not of you. They admired the idea of you, the status you carried, the wealth you could bring, the refinement they could boast of having at their side. But Beomgyu—he did not look at you and see a prize to be won. He saw the sharp wit behind your words, the fire in your convictions, the quiet moments where your gaze softened, the laughter you tried to hide when something amused you more than you cared to show.

The difference was clear: they wanted what you could offer; he wanted you.

The lesson took place in the garden that afternoon, a change of setting Beomgyu often employed to keep the lessons lively rather than dull. He walked beside your brother, listening to his recitations, but his focus wavered. A jittery sort of anticipation thrummed beneath his skin, making him more restless than usual.

Your brother took notice. “You keep glancing toward the gate.”

Beomgyu blinked, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “Do I?”

His student hummed, hands clasped behind his back as he considered Beomgyu carefully. “Looking forward to my sister’s return?”

There was a teasing lilt to his voice that made Beomgyu falter. He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, she’s been away for some time. It’s only natural—”

“Oh dear,” your brother sighed dramatically. “Have I unraveled a secret?” The teasing lilt his voice carried was familiar, one that reminded Beomgyu far too much of you.

Beomgyu narrowed his eyes but smiled despite himself. "You have a rather mischievous streak. I wonder where you get it from."

The younger one merely grinned. But beneath the playful prodding, there was something else—a careful sort of observance.

Truthfully, he had been studying Beomgyu for some time now—ever since he noticed the way you carried yourself differently around him. He had watched many men attempt to gain your favor, had seen the way you deflected and dismissed them with ease. Yet, with Beomgyu, you were comfortable. He did not know what had changed, or why, but he wanted to see for himself what kind of man had managed to chip away at his sister’s walls.

And though he was younger, though it was you who always shielded him from harm, he had always carried the strong sense of responsibility of ensuring your happiness. If Beomgyu had earned your trust, then he too would extend his own—but not without caution.

“You know,” your brother mused, “you’re good company to my sister. It seems she enjoys your presence. I only hope she is not disappointed in the future.”

For all his youth, there was weight to his words, carrying the warning of a brother who truly loved his sister. Beomgyu stilled, taken aback. A slow exhale left him before he offered a small smile, touched by the sentiment.

“The young master need not worry,” Beomgyu said, voice laced with quiet sincerity. “If I ever bring her disappointment… then you will have the freedom to teach me a lesson.”

He snorted. “Alright, that’s a bit too far. I couldn’t possibly do that to my tutor—my mother would have my head…”

He trailed off mid-sentence, eyes shifting past Beomgyu’s shoulder. His expression lit up, bright and unmistakably fond. Beomgyu followed his gaze.

There, in the distance, standing at the entrance to the garden, was you.

Your brother wasted no time, running forward to meet you. You welcomed him with open arms, letting him embrace you tightly before murmuring, “I missed you, too, Sungcheol.”

Your eyes lifted then, landing on Beomgyu. He stood a few paces away, offering you a small smile. Seeing you again, after so long, made the jittery restlessness in his chest settle.

You were back.

Once your brother finally released you, you informed him that you had brought back gifts from your trip, leaving them with Maya for him to retrieve later.

Sungcheol gasped dramatically. “Why did you not say so earlier?” He turned to Beomgyu, expectant. “Sir, might we take a break?”

Beomgyu nodded, chuckling. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

With a quick bow, Sungcheol scurried off, leaving the two of you alone amidst the garden’s blooming roses. Beomgyu took a deep breath, allowing himself to fully take you in after not seeing you for all these days.

“You’re back.” It was barely above a murmur, but there was something beneath it—something that wavered between relief and hesitation.

A breath, and then, you smiled. “I am.”

Standing before each other again, days after your departure, the air between you felt foreign in a pleasant way. The absence had carved its presence between you both, making this moment heavier than either of you had anticipated. It wasn't just time that had passed; it was the steady realization of how much you had grown used to each other, and how much you've missed each other.

You studied him, searching for signs of change in his expression. Beomgyu, on the other hand, felt his breath falter. You were here, standing in front of him, and though he had imagined your return countless times, he hadn't accounted for the way relief would crash into him like a wave.

Without preamble, you reached into your bag and pulled out the book—the rare edition you had found during your trip. "Here," you said, holding it out to him. "I saw this and thought of you."

Beomgyu stared at it, his mind momentarily blank. He recognized the title instantly. His fingers hesitated before finally brushing against the cover, and for a moment, he was transported back to your study, to that first conversation, to the fleeting mention of this very book—a comment he had never expected you to remember. A moment supposed to be lost in time.

"You didn't have to..." he started, voice uncharacteristically quiet, but you shook your head, cutting off whatever words he had been scrambling to find.

“I wanted to,” you countered, your voice softer now, carrying a certainty that left little room for argument. “If anyone deserves this treasure, it’s you.”

Beomgyu had been raised on the belief that actions spoke louder than words. It was a principle he had carried with him, one he lived by. He never expected anything in return for what he gave—never sought acknowledgment, never yearned for reciprocity. And yet, here you were, proving him wrong. This single gesture, filled with such thoughtfulness, left him feeling unsteady. 

The book in his hand wasn't just ink and paper carrying timeless history within, it was a proof that you had listened, that you had remembered, that you had thought of him even when he hadn’t been there. The epiphany pressed against the walls of his ribs, too much to hold, too much to release. Beomgyu felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

"Congratulations," Beomgyu finally spoke, his voice even despite the erratic beating of his pulse. He tried to ease the restless energy in his chest by focusing on you instead. "Your book’s release—it’s quite the achievement."

You offered him a small smile, gratitude evident in your expression. "Thank you."

A beat passed before he tilted his head, a teasing lilt creeping into his tone. "Do I get the privilege of having my copy signed? Seeing as I’m close allies with the author herself?"

You pretended to consider it, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I’ll think about it."

A soft scoff escaped him, an amused shake of his head following. The freedom that followed from your return into his life once more felt just right, felt like he had been welcomed back into a home he had been searching for his entire life.

The last embers of autumn clung to the trees, their gold and amber hues slowly surrendering to the creeping frost that laced the edges of the world. Yet the air did not feel cold—not when warmth had settled between the newfound company you had found in each other.

Everything felt right.

But somewhere in the distance, seated in the grand living room of his manor with a copy of your book in hand, a pair of pale blue eyes ensured that nothing would remain that way for long.

TO BE CONTINUED.

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

Taglist; @dawngyu @gyu-tori @saejinniestar @xylatox @hoefororeo @imlonelydontsendhelp @caratcakemoa @yeoningz @whatblop @beommieternity @xodidarks @bamgeutori @bamtoriui @izzyy-stuff @lostgirlysstuff @younbeanz @melmochii @choke-on-flowerz @frankghgr @immelissaaa @luvgyutae @brrytears @beomgyusluver @soobabby @cherr4es @dilfboysgirly @fancypeacepersona @i-like-to-read-at-4am @fancypeacepersona @y2kgyu @90steele

[jakey-beefed-it]

I'm always at least slightly irritated and sometimes get full on pissed off that white supremacist jackasses have infiltrated and changed the culture within a lot of my interests. Like, I'm interested in ancient Rome, and the US Civil War, and proto-Indo-Europeans, and Norse mythology, and Greek mythology, and wargaming, and heavy metal, and just... can you all just *fuck off* from my interests?

I love reading about the largest, longest-lasting empire in western history, and how it impacted all the cultures that came after it, but it was an EMPIRE and therefore HORRIBLE and unlike so many I actually understand that? It's just super interesting!

I am endlessly fascinated by the Civil War, particularly the cultural struggles in the North to get people lined up behind abolition before and during the war, and the heroism of people like Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth, but yes, I'm a war nerd, I ALSO get very interested in the battles, particularly the ones where large events hinged on seemingly small actions- Lee's scouts losing his orders leading to Antietam, Chamberlain's bayonet charge at Gettysburg, the countless blunders by generals on both sides leading to ever greater loss of life than the world had previously seen outside of the Napoleonic Wars, a foreshadowing of the mechanized slaughter war was to become.

That there was an influential culture or family of cultures whose linguistic imprint remains detectable to this very day in languages as diverse as Sanskrit, Latin, and Old Norse, is FASCINATING. Of course, ever since the Nazis decided that said culture was 'Aryan' the whole topic has become basically a minefield where you have to pick through mountains of bullshit for the honest linguistic archaeology. It wasn't 'Aryan' in the sense of some mythical super-white people and it wasn't even Aryan in the sense of the pre-Vedic Iranian/Indian peoples, it was older than that. Harrumph.

For a person who grew up reading Greek mythology, who finds it referenced in everything from Shakespeare to Modernist classics, of course it's interesting. And Norse mythology is so different from it! The gods are no less flawed and human, but in such a different way! The stories are often HILARIOUS. But of course white nationalist idiots have co-opted both as part of their grand imagined past and 'rightful' culture. Bad news for both- there are thousands of years of massive upheaval, cultural and demographic change in both Magna Graecia and Scandanavia, and NONE of you are anything like your 'ancestors.' Not that that's even a bad thing! Let people, societies, and cultures evolve! The past is interesting but it's not sacred! Fuck!

Wargaming... look even I admit this one is sus on the surface of it. It's bad enough when you're playing a fantasy game with fantasy factions, and god help you if you're into historicals, you are GOING to run into someone's Confederates or Nazis or the like. But the very concept can't help but inherently glorify war, which, you know, to quote George C. Scott as Patton 'god help me, I love it so,' because there's very little if anything glorious about mass murder for dubious goals but the heights of emotion and performance people reach is compelling, okay? It's melodrama with dice. Nobody actually gets hurt. This is a much healthier outlet for my weird fixation on quite possibly the Worst Thing that Humans Do than joining the army or (more likely in my case) an intelligence service. would have been. I was given a head for tactics and analysis and a heart for the drums of war, and I channeled it into friendly games with other nerds. I'm proud of me for this one. Fucking fascists can go die.

There's nothing inherently fascist about metal, though the blasting drums definitely evoke the same primal intensity as war drums or the like. But like punk, it became kind of a counter-culture, and when the main culture was not as openly fascistic, that drew in a lot of fash. Anarchists and commies and just plain weirdos, too, but the fash are there and if you don't kick them right the fuck out immediately they pollute the whole scene. So I'm always gratified to hear Rammstein singing things like 'my heart beats Left' to tell the nazis to fuck right off. At least I'm not into Black Metal, that scene is far far far worse than my beloved Power Metal nerd shit.

Anyway yeah as the initial reaction image indicates I do periodically take stock of why I'm interested in so many of the same things as goddamned fascists, interrogating my own assumptions and thought processes. That's healthy, we all gotta be vigilant we don't get sucked into something vile. But for the most part, I hope you'll agree if you read this far, I seem to at least enjoy similar things for very different reasons than the goddamn fash. But hey, if you read this and spotted something sus, and you're comfortable doing so, by all means send me a reply or a message (on anon if you prefer) letting me know what that is. Not as a callout, not as a game of moral one-upsmanship, but as a comrade looking out for another comrade.

[nodus--tollens]

Press F to Harvest Apples

English is not my first language so please forgive my grammar or any mistakes I made. Enjoy!

Life is chaotic—like a massive RPG filled with too many NPCs begging for screentime, events that make no sense and somehow play out of order. Sadly (or not), I’ve decided to ignore the main storyline and stick to the side quests. What’s better than picking flowers while the whole world burns?

This has always been my way. From the moment I became aware of myself as a person, I’ve avoided the main quest of life as one might avoid a plague. Instead, I focused on the things that didn’t matter for my “curriculum”—those odd, seemingly irrelevant pursuits that, though never destined for practical use, were simply too fascinating to ignore. These side quests, as I call them, are the ones that fuel me. And at the moment, my favorite is gaming.

Gaming is how I came to know the people I talk to now—this vast group of over ten idiots, barely sharing a single braincell between them. I’ve never been one for face-to-face interactions. Working in a field that demands constant public engagement already drains enough of my energy for that. So, meeting people online, from the comfort of my own bedroom, where the only thing I need to worry about is whether my mic is working, feels like a welcome escape.

Inside the bedroom, the outside world felt distant, muffled—like the quiet hum of a forgotten dream. The silence was occasionally pierced by the soft click of keys on the keyboard, each press and release forming a rhythmic pattern, almost hypnotic in its repetition. It was a strange kind of therapy, one that eased the tension clinging to their mind. The room was bathed in a warm, rich yellow light, the kind that flickered like the glow of embers in a dying fire. This light came from hidden LED strips in the ceiling and the delicate Lotus Flower Lamp nestled in the corner near the bed. Its petals caught the light, reflecting a soft, pinkish hue that contrasted with the yellow warmth—an object from a thrift store, one they still took immense pride in.

Sitting in front of the computer, their face bathed in the cold glow of the monitor, they barely registered the flickering screen before them. The game played on—colorful, fast-paced, chaotic—but their attention drifted elsewhere, slipping through the cracks of the moment like water through cupped hands. Voices crackled through the headset, laughter and groans erupting with every blunder, every near miss. Someone screamed something incoherent, another cursed between fits of laughter, but the noise felt distant, muffled, as though buried beneath layers of cotton.

They had always been an afterthought in these games—the last pick when teams were formed, the one left waiting while others paired off. Despite always being there, always online, always ready, it was something they had learned to accept. Or at least, they told themselves they had. But acceptance did not ease the quiet sting of being overlooked, nor did it dull the weight pressing against their ribs—heavy and persistent, like an overcast sky.

It had always been this way, and perhaps it always would be. A cycle repeating itself endlessly, like a broken record spinning on the same scratch-worn groove. Like a garden that refused to change, where the same flowers bloomed in the same tired arrangement each spring—predictable, unyielding, as if no other seed had ever been given the chance to grow.

Yet, amidst the familiar monotony of this garden, something new had begun to take root—a single bulb, breaking through the soil, its petals just starting to unfurl.

Caleb was a recent addition to the group—a newcomer in the ever-chaotic mess of voices and inside jokes. Unlike the others, he didn’t share the single, battered braincell they all passed around; he had one of his own. Introduced by a friend they had met in-game, Caleb had slipped effortlessly into the rhythm of it all—the banter, the shouting, the frantic coordination that rarely amounted to anything useful. He wasn’t around often, but when he was, everyone welcomed him with an ease that made it seem like he had always been there.

They had never truly spoken beyond the occasional “hey” or “what’s up,” the kind of surface-level pleasantries exchanged between two people who simply existed in the same space. He was good at the game—really good—his skill in FPS matches far beyond the rest of them. At first, they had all wondered if he was some kind of pro player, his precision and speed almost too perfect to be true. Yet, every time they asked, he just laughed.

As the voices slowly faded and people began to log off, the room grew quieter, the usual banter and shrill screams dissipating like smoke. Only the ambient hum of their own room remained, the soft clicks of the keyboard punctuating the stillness, while the music bot droned on with a playlist they had tossed together five hours ago. Conversation dwindled to a bare minimum. Only four people remained now—a far cry from the usual ten or more, if you didn’t count the bot itself. What had once been a whirlwind of chaos had reduced to pure, almost unsettling calm.

The screen, which had once showcased the game their friends were playing, was now filled with an RPG they had stumbled upon and occasionally played. The main quest, of course, was ignored in favor of talking to an NPC about collecting plants—an oddly fitting activity, not just in-game, but in real life too. It was as if they had found a strange connection between this side quest and their own existence.

Taking a deep breath, they closed the game. Their eyes scanned the screen, searching for something—anything—to do.

— Do you guys want to play something? I’m kinda bored.

Their voice, soft and quiet, echoed through the call, the icon lighting up green as they spoke, then fading back into the silence. A "no" was what they expected—and that’s exactly what they got from two of the others. But not from Caleb. Not from him, the one person they hadn’t really spoken to much. Maybe that was the reason. Maybe it was because he didn’t know the rumors, didn’t hear the whispers about their so-called reputation as the "bad player."

— Are you sure? I’m not exactly the best player there is, probably the worst out of everyone here, so it’s fine if you want to pass.

— Why would I? I can carry if needed. Don’t stress. Just send me your nickname so I can add you.

Caleb’s voice came through casual, with a light laugh at the end—something they didn’t expect. It was so sincere, so effortlessly reassuring, that they were left speechless for a moment. Two minutes passed in silence before they finally gathered their thoughts and sent their nickname.

The music bot was cranked up to a louder volume as soon as they joined the lobby. The usual chaos filled the background, but this time it felt a bit different. They’d never played with Caleb before, so they didn’t know what to expect. They had only seen him in passing—good at the game, maybe a little too good, but that was about it.

The queue popped fast—way too fast for this godforsaken hour. Who was even awake at this time of night? Oh, right.

It was just another FPS game, something they’d played a hundred times before, but tonight, they decided they weren’t going to play the usual role. Everyone expected them to be the support, the one who hung back, kept the team alive. But for once, they weren’t going to do that. For once, they weren’t going to hide behind the safety of a healing ability or a shield. They locked in a duelist champion, ready to take the lead.

— Duelist? Feisty, I like it. — Caleb said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement, the playfulness almost tangible. — I could’ve sworn you were a support main.

— Eh, kinda? — they replied with a casual shrug, though he couldn’t see it. — I don’t mind playing other roles, it’s just that the chance never comes up, and, well... nor the courage. — They let out a small chuckle, half self-deprecating, half lighthearted.

— People are a pain in the ass?

— People are a pain in the ass. — they agreed without hesitation, the words coming out almost like a mantra.

The first few rounds went smoothly enough. Sure, they weren’t playing at their best, but no one complained. Caleb didn’t mind when they apologized again, even though it was the ninth time in the same round that they missed something. In fact, he just laughed it off and said it was fine. He didn’t mind. The teammates didn’t complain either. It felt... strange, almost unnatural, to have someone be so calm after they missed so many opportunities. Their friends would have gone insane by now, throwing out insults or at least sighing dramatically. But Caleb? He just stayed calm, like it was too easy for him, like mistakes didn’t carry any weight.

It was almost like playing with someone from a different world, where things didn’t matter as much.

This round was already decided—victory was a mere formality. Caleb had promised to carry, and carry he did. His precision and composure anchored the team, even in the midst of chaos.

The music bot switched songs right before the round started, playing a track that felt like an old friend. The first notes hit, and their heart quickened. The bass began to thrum beneath their skin, like a storm trapped in a bottle, its tension thick and undeniable. The volume cranked, and the music seemed to take on a physical presence. Every beat reverberated in their bones, like they were part of the sound itself. Without realizing it, their lips began to move, singing along instinctively, absorbed completely in the chaos of the moment.

— “Fuck it, I'll get famous out of spite” — they sang softly, the words slipping out like a breath. The screen flashed as an enemy fell, but they barely registered it. The music pushed them forward. The bass wasn’t just a sound—it was an electric hum that ran through their veins, an invigorating pulse. It urged them on, deepening their energy, syncing them with every action. Every kill came so naturally, so effortlessly, it felt like the game was just a rhythm to follow, the kills nothing more than punctuation in the flow of the music.

— “I’ll make it overnight, be starring in the movies, just to make you cry” — they sang as another two enemies fell, almost simultaneously. A double kill, a triple kill—everything was fluid, seamless. There was no pressure, no rush. They moved with the beat, like the game had already decided their role.

— “Baby, I'll be in your dreams, and every magazine” — they sang the next verse, their voice quiet, almost a whisper. There was no aggression in the words, just the calm steadiness of someone who had found their rhythm, their place in the chaos. The game no longer felt like a battle. It felt like a dance, one they’d done countless times before.

— “Go tell everyone you knew me, They'll say O-M-G, Damn, you fumbled the bag, I'm never gonna let you forget” — they let out the final line with a light smile, the words flowing easily, like it was all part of the moment. The game ended. Their victory was quiet, simple.

Ace.

The song lingered, filling the room like a final exhale.

— I thought you said were the worst player among everyone here — Caleb’s voice came through with a laugh, genuine and surprised, yet it held some playful teasing in its tone, as he stared at his monitor, the victory screen flashing in front of him.

— In my defense, I am. And I have no idea how that happened. — they replied with a half-grin, still feeling the hum of the song in their chest, the final moments of the round still swirling in their head. — Also, what in the ever-living fuck is your aim? Can we talk about that please?

Caleb’s laugh broke through the tension, rich and unrestrained, flowing like thick syrup into a cup of warm apple tea. It was a sound that made something stir in their chest, a fluttering they couldn’t quite place, like the soft tickle of nerves when something feels just a little too right.

— Yeah, yeah. — he teased, his voice playful yet teasing, — Says the one who somehow managed to obliterate the whole enemy team while singing. Please, share the tactic, I could use it.

— Oh, shut it. — they muttered, rolling their eyes with a scoff, a small smile tugging at the corners of their lips as they clicked through the last of the game’s menus. — It’s a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

A soft silence settled between them. It wasn’t awkward—just the kind of quiet that fills the spaces when two people are comfortable enough to let the world around them slow for a moment. The only sound left was the mellow music bot, a calm melody playing in stark contrast to the chaotic beats of earlier. Their eyes, heavy now, stared blankly at the monitor, no longer seeing the screen but rather the fading glow of the game.

— I think I’ll go to sleep. — they said softly, breaking the silence at last. — It’s already pretty late. Thank you for the game, it was really fun.

— Yeah, I think I’ll go too. — Caleb’s voice came through, lower than usual, deeper, like a murmur that slid through the distance between them. There was something about it—something quiet, something unexpectedly intimate—that sent a flutter in their stomach. Why did this guy, someone they barely knew, have that effect on them? It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.

— No need to thank me. — Caleb continued, his tone warmer, almost vulnerable. — I enjoyed it more than you imagine.

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable but carrying weight. Then, with a softness that seemed to echo in the quiet, Caleb’s voice broke through once more, the question casual, but somehow charged.

— See you tomorrow?

They hesitated, just a beat too long, as if the words themselves were weighing more than they should. Then, without thinking too much about it, they responded—quiet, but certain.

— See you tomorrow, Caleb.

[hazely-sims]

Tag Game

Nonsims interests. List 5 (or more, or less) of your nonsims interests. These can be hobbies, shows, books, other games, etc! I was tagged by @necile, thank you friend!

Ahhh this might be hard! I tend to be a bit of a completionist so my interests are rather all-encompassing. Do I have 5 ADDITIONAL interests? Like 6 total interests?? Let's see!

Gay romance dramas: The BLs, the GLs, and all the others which may or may not be categorized this way. I like romances and I like longer-form series, and of course the Gay Agenda™ so this is pretty much my main interest these days.

Kpop: I generally find pop culture and art to be both fascinating and entertaining in equal measure, and Korea really makes it so easy for my completionist heart to consume.

Cats: I mean, is anyone not obsessed with them? If so, incorrect. We currently have 2 cats because my in-laws' cat is staying with us for at least a few months. And they are both so weird all the time. I don't, like, spend time researching about cats or anything but. Am I interested? Certainly. Tell me about your cat, show me pictures of your cat, I love it.

Languages: Or perhaps, language, broadly. I'm literally an English language teacher so this kind of approaches work but of course I do the job because of my natural interest (Lord knows it's not for the money sjkndjhfkjdh). I'm not all that serious about acquiring fluency or anything, but it's endlessly fascinating the way people use and adapt language, and I enjoy learning new alphabets, pronunciations, and grammar, especially when they're particularly different from English.

Colours? Maybe this is cheating because honestly, the sims taught me how to care about colours. And again, I'm not like an expert or all that serious about it (and I'm not a designer of any kind), but I love finding colour combinations that work well together or staring at unique colours on flowers at the greenhouse. I'm particularly obsessed with colours that are close together or give a kind of ombre effect. There's something so hypnotic about them, like I can't stop staring, idk.

Well I think I managed to drum up 5, depending on how loosely you define "interest." I'm very late on this so I'm not going to tag anyone, but if you haven't done it yet please consider yourself tagged if you are interested! Tag me so I can read it because I have thoroughly enjoyed hearing about everyone's non-sims interests and I would love to know!

[spitblaze]

the recent "ai" llm bullshit makes it hard to talk about stories that use the concept of characters who are ai in the sci-fi sense (and the MANY ways in which this manifests and what it can mean!) because ig people take shit too literal?? or want a cheap joke? so they discard all the intent symbolism and implication. in most of these cases ai is a plot device/concept used for really specific reasons, usually with its own rules per story and just pasting llm's/gen ai as the interpretation loses the point in many cases.

Honestly LLMs have made talking about AI in literally ANY context besides that impossible because much like the blockchain before it and 'gluten-free' before THAT it's just a marketing thing. 'This song's vocals were completed using AI' and it's a very standard audio cleanup algorithm. 'The art in this game was made using AI' and it's animations using automatic tweening systems that have been in use for decades. 'This game uses AI in its programming' and it's a very different use of the term to refer to the programming of NPCs and enemies in a game, a term that's been in use basically since we were able to program those things. It's a goddamn nightmare to have a conversation about any of this because sometimes when someone says 'this company put AI in their program' they might mean 'Adobe decided to put an LLM Image Generator into photoshop for some reason' or they might mean 'A marketer said that this program was 'AI-powered' and the AI in question is a very normal algorithm'.

But like back to your point- the fact that the recent stuff HAS been called 'artificial intelligence' in the first place really unnecessarily muddies the waters in science fiction terms, too. For a very long time we've had a strong understanding of what AI means in sci-fi terms. Machines capable of thought on a human scale, capable of truly learning and comprehending and problem solving. Defining 'intelligence' is kind of a fool's errand but we'll save the anthropocentrism rant for another day- the point is that they're supposed to be self-sufficient learning automata. And often they're utilized in order to explore something about what it means to be human, or alive, or thinking, any number of things. Often there's rules. Asimov's laws of robotics are cited endlessly and offer fascinating starting points. Does sedating and putting a human into deep sleep to prevent them from harming themselves, as all humans inevitably do, follow the spirit of the First Law? Is that ethical? Is it worth living your life passively in order to minimize risk? Is the third law truly more important than the first? Why is the life of a potentially malicious human inherently more important than the existence of a machine, just as capable of thoughts and feelings as the human? Who are we to judge which has more value?

And along comes LLMs- impressive tech to be sure, but a far cry from true artificial intelligence. Cleverbot with access to Google is not exactly what most of us would define as anywhere in the vicinity of 'thinking and feeling' but 'AI' catches a lot more attention than 'Language Learning Model' or 'Neural Network' (though i would argue that 'neural net' while not always accurate at least sounds a lot cooler). Suddenly, this narrative tool we've had for upwards of a century has a new meaning. Older work gets re-evaluated in contexts it was never made for, and new projects have a much more critical eye as people expect them to tackle a new and prescient issue- and if it fails to, may draw their own conclusions from. Nothing new, per se- the pandemic, for example, lead to a lot of people re-evaluating disease as a plot device in media much differently than before, for example. But in terms of evaluation of literary devices go...LLMs feel like they've really done a number on people's ability to read beyond the lines. They see self-autonomous machines doing something bad, and all other themes go out the window in favor of the One Currently Relevant Topic.

Again, this is hardly a new issue. I distinctly remember just several years ago during the airing of Hands Off Eizouken when an errant shiny spot on a helicopter turned the kanji for water (水) into the kanji for ice (氷), and an errant English translation ran with it and turned it into I.C.E.. A scene about a girl feeling trapped in her role by her family and society- an issue commonly explored in Japanese media- is stripped of its meaning and turned into a strange commentary on a contemporaneous American issue by someone who took one look, didn't think harder about it, and decided that's what it was about. Annoying for sure, but I'm at least less inclined to blame the Immigration and Customs Enforcement for existing causing the issue than I am a translator failing to employ proper reading comprehension. I don't like ICE at all but I at least recognize that the issue here is with the interpreter. The same goes here- LLMs are Fucking Annoying but I recognize that the issue here, as usual, is a lack of willingness to engage with the source material beyond the surface level.

[ballsandbabes]

Aomine Daiki x reader Pt.I: "At war with us"

Authors Note: Not proofread// y/n = your name// Multi-part story

Series: Part.I // Part.II // Part.III

Genre: angst, fluff and the realistic struggles of a couple with strong-headed and complex characters.

Tokyo was a blur of sound and color the day you arrived. Everything moved fast — the trains, the people, even the vending machines seemed more efficient. But what didn't move fast was you — or at least, not in crowds. You stuck close to your host mother’s side, nervous but buzzing with the excitement only someone chasing a dream could feel.

As an exchange student from Germany, you'd spent years working toward this. Hours poured into language study, track training, and applications. Countless scholarships that turned you down…countless hours of hard work. You were finally here — in Japan — and more than ready to make the most of your dream.

Ever since your father told you about his wonderful days in Tokyo that he had experienced while studying abroad, you wanted to experience the same. Still, it was a surprise to stumble across your first real friend so quickly.

You met Kuroko Tetsuya during your first week at Seirin High. You were lost, late to class, flustered, and nearly tripped over him in the hallway. “Oh! I-I didn’t see you there!” you said in Japanese, bowing deeply, then glancing up to see... no reaction. He blinked. Slowly.

“I get that a lot,” he replied with a soft voice and even softer smile. You liked him instantly. Maybe it was because he didn’t overwhelm you, or maybe because he was the first person not to ask a million questions about your accent or hair. Either way, it became a ritual — lunch breaks under the tree behind the gym, sometimes talking, sometimes playing on your handheld console together. You never had to pretend to be more extroverted than you were.

Through Kuroko, you met Seirin’s basketball team, and, inevitably, the Generation of Miracles.

They fascinated you — especially Aomine Daiki. You didn’t notice him at first. Correction: you noticed his basketball. Watching him practice once left you breathless — the raw power, the speed, the cocky grin. He was a force of nature, and he knew it. But you were also fascinated by how someone could be so happy with everything. His grades were bad, he had no plans for the future and he was happiest when he could sleep. At least that's what he said.

Your first interaction was... rocky to say the least. “Hey, Kuroko. Who’s the girl?” Aomine asked one afternoon as you walked by the court together.

You blinked. “Girl has a name,” you said before you could stop yourself. Aomine raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Huh. Feisty.”

You flushed and looked away, muttering something in German that made Kuroko glance at you in quiet amusement. Still, you kept crossing paths.

Kuroko had started playing basketball with you when he found out that you had already played in Germany. He liked it very much. You had a similar player level. So it happened every now and then that the GOM boys stopped by and after a few weeks, it was a regular appointment on the weekends.

You couldn't help but love it. This is how your father must have felt in his college days. and now you could have your own cool adventure. And with the most wonderful people you had met. Riko had immediately adopted you with your "cute" attitude, as she called it.

The longer you were there, the better you got along with the boys. Kise would always grab you and drag you shopping, especially when you had already arranged to meet Midorima to study again. You once baked German pastries with Muraskaibara to celebrate Taiga's birthday.Then there was Aomine.

He teased you endlessly — about your video games, your running skills and your neat planner full of goals and schedules. “You need to chill, nerd,” he’d say with a yawn, sprawled on the gym bench as you laced up your track shoes.

“You need to get off your lazy ass and start to train, before you are allowed to tell me stuff like this,” you’d snap back. Something about your fire intrigued him, just as his recklessness infuriated and fascinated you.

It started slow. One day, he watched you run your laps. Track and field was your strength and always had been. Speed ​​and explosive muscle power had helped you win many tounaments. So it was only natural that you would continue with it in Japan. So it happened that the first competition was soon coming up. And you? You were disciplined. After studying with Shintaro, you always stood on the field and trained for an hour and a half.

Another time, the team had decided to lounge at Taigas house, he asked what games exactly you were playing. He was usually always making fun of how you could spend your time stuck in a fantasy and not dedicate your time to your sport. In his opinion, you were a nerd. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about new game lore or a book said it all.

____ _ _ _

The Generation of Miracles had somehow ended up wandering through Shibuya on a rare day off, and you were regretting every second of it — mostly because Aomine wouldn’t stop teasing you.

“You know, for someone who runs track, you sure take forever when walking,” he smirked, hands in his pockets as he matched your pace anyway. You shot him a glare, cheeks pink. “And for someone with a big ego as big as yours, you’ve got a tiny sense of direction — we passed that same takoyaki stand twice.”

The rest of the group exchanged knowing glances as you and Aomine kept sniping at each other, a rhythm so familiar it was practically a duet. Kise leaned over to Midorima and whispered, “Should we just leave them already? These two are so annoying!”

Aomine bumped your shoulder with his as you tried to choose an ice cream flavor. “Strawberry? Cute. Bet you were one of those kids with those disgustingly sparkly pencil cases.”

You scoffed but turned a little red. “At least I didn’t fall asleep in math class, drool on the desk and then get a bad grade also.”

“Oi, that was one time in lecture—” he started, but stopped when you looked up at him, smirking.

Murasakibara sighed behind you both, licking his own cone. “Can you stop? It’s making the mood shitty.”

“Okay, okay,” you said apologetically to Atsushi, “Come on Mura, you haven’t picked out any ice cream yet.” With that you say goodbye to the group. You had only taken a few steps away from the group when Tetusya looked at Aomina and said, "What problem do you have with Y/n? She's so sweet and kind. Stop being such shit to her!". Tetsuya was angry. Daiki had noticed that before, but it was rare for him to say something like that. Kise noticed this and agreed.

Aomine made a mental note that he probably needed to apologize to you…at least so the boys would stop annoying him. Soon, he was texting you at midnight asking if you were still awake. When you wrote back to him, despite the late time, he jumped over his shadow and apologized.

That was the beginning of the end: You fell asleep while texting and wanted to apologize to Aomine for it. Shintaro had told you that he was with the headmaster, an important appointment. The door was open a tiny crack. You didn't want to listen, but the cold, dull voice magically attracted you. "Are you aware that you won't be able to be transferred if things continue like this?" said the dull voice. No answer. "Good…we want our students to graduate and get good grades. From now on you will only invest your time in academic activities. No more basketball."

Suddenly the door crashed open. An angry Aomine stormed out of the room, past you as if you weren't standing next to him. So fast, you couldn't catch up with him.

____ _ _ _

So, following an inspiration, you decided to look for him on the roof. The scene just now had you worried.

The sun had dipped low by the time you made it to the school rooftop, the sky painted in warm orange and soft violet. You found him there, sitting against the railing with his knees drawn up, head buried in his arms. “Hey,” you had said as you felt the cold iron door, while pushing it open. "I was looking for you. I wanted to apologize for falling asleep yesterday…". You freeze, confused and shocked. A small, glistening tear rolled down his cheek. What was happening?

Aomine Daiki didn’t look like himself. No smirk. No cocky posture. Just silence. “They benched me,” he muttered without looking up, voice rough and quiet. “Coach said I can’t come back to practice until I fix my grades.” You sat beside him slowly, leaving space but close enough to show you weren’t leaving. The wind caught your hair, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Instinctively you knelt down to him. With your right hand, you lifted his chin. The touch of your soft skin and the scent of mint made Aomine looked up.

Then, he spoke again. “I don’t skip because I don’t care,” he said, eyes still fixed on the fading horizon. “I know everyone thinks that — that I’m lazy, that I’m just naturally good, so I don’t try. But I do care. I care more than I know how to say.”

Your heart tightened. “Then why don’t you show up?”

His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. “Because no one pushes me anymore. No one makes me better. I keep showing up and crushing everyone, and it’s boring. I—I want to go to the NBA. I want to play against monsters, people who make me fight for every damn point. I want to be the best among the best. But I’m stuck here getting scolded over math homework.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “It’s pathetic.”

“No, it’s not,” you said softly, your voice firm. “Wanting something big, something so huge it scares you — that’s not pathetic. That’s brave.”

He looked away, jaw tense. You hesitated for only a second. “Let me help you.”

“What, like... tutor me?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We’ll get your grades up. You’ll get back on the court. And then — you go chase that dream. I’ll be right behind you.”

He blinked at you, stunned into silence. And for the first time in a long while, Aomine Daiki didn’t feel like he had to carry the dream alone.

[nickeverdeen]

hello!! i'd like to request a romantic matchup for tlou 2 and arcane pls (suggestive is ok too). i'm a lesbian so women lol

my pronouns are they/she. i've got long dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and fair-ish skin (southeast asian so a light tan?). i'm about 5'2" and chubby/on the larger end of mid-size; top heavy lmao. my facial features are on the softer side, and i've been told i have a youthful face. i tend to dress more fem though i sometimes go more androgynous. my style is kinda all over the place- sometimes [tiktok] twee, sometimes downtown girl, y2k, shoujo girl, etc. i like taking inspiration from a little bit of everything and don't necessarily label my style. overall, i usually gravitate towards more fun but cool looks. i like denim, trim/frilly details, fun prints and patterns, plaids, juxtaposing elements, etc.

as for my interests and hobbies, i enjoy fashion (styling and some designing), music (listening, singing/karaoke, collecting CDs!! i used to play viola and would like to learn guitar), horror (games, analog horror, args, grotesque art?? think like ethel cain, bones and all, etc idk), and DIY (i like to make phone charms and i'd like to get into polymer clay to make hairclips, trinket dishes, etc). i'm into artists like mitski, phoebe bridgers, ethel cain, wisp, big thief, hikaru utada, sheena ringo, tommyfebruary6, artms, yena, etc (i really like music and in my dream world, i'm the vocalist/guitarist in a small band lmaoo). i was a big reader as a kid and have a collection of books at home. not too much of a reader nowadays, but i wanna get back into it eventually. love the rain and storms, and late night drives with friends!!

my personality is kinda on a spectrum. i'm on the more reserved side, but i'm very open to meeting people and i'd like to think i'm friendly. sometimes chill and laidback and sometimes bubbly- especially around friends. i've been told i'm very easily amused, and i'm also a little spacey and jumpy (sigh). kinda a major yapper in writing, but in real life interactions, i'm more the type to listen and nod along to the conversation. though i will yap and am, admittedly, just a tad annoying sometimes. i like teasing people and joking around. i also deal with depression, and have a bad habit of dropping off the face of the earth and bed rotting for days at a time (not good!! i should probably go back into therapy lol). my love language in quality time and (theoretically, if i found someone who would reciprocate) physical touch.

anyways, i hopefully didn't write too much and it's readable ;; thank you <33

I know I’m late and I’m sorry

Your The Last of Us 2 match is…

Dina

Dina would constantly borrow your clothes for her casual-but-edgy looks and gush over how you style yourself

She’d love listening to you sing, especially in moments of downtime—she might even join you for karaoke

Dina would be endlessly entertained by your jumpy reactions to scares and would (playfully) spook you when she could

On days when depression hits hard, she’d bring you little surprises—flowers she found, a new horror movie, or a snack she knows you love

Late-night drives? Dina’s game, blasting music and laughing until your cheeks hurt

She’d support your dream of learning guitar, offering to scavenge strings or help tune it

Dina would always encourage your DIY projects, even if it meant holding up clay hairclips to “model” them

She loves rainy days with you, cuddling under blankets and swapping stories about life before

Dina teases you back just as much but has a soft spot for your thoughtful, quiet moments

Your Arcane match is…

Vi

Vi is protective, always throwing her arm around your shoulder when walking together, especially through rough areas

She’s fascinated by your horror interests and would (begrudgingly) sit through analog horror videos, trying not to get freaked out

Vi would often call you “short stuff” just to rile you up, but she secretly loves your height difference

She’d encourage you to belt out your favorite songs during late-night walks through the Undercity

Vi would spar with you playfully, insisting it’s “self-defense training” when it’s really just an excuse to be close

She’d admire your DIY projects, especially when you make her custom trinkets—she keeps them all

On your off days, Vi would climb into bed with you and stay there until you felt better, teasing you into a smile

She loves the juxtaposition of your bubbly, spacey personality with her more grounded energy—she calls it balance

Vi would scavenge vintage finds for you to add to your wardrobe or crafts

[satoshi-mochida]

Leximan launches August 13

From Gematsu

Wordy adventure game Leximan will launch for PC via Steam on August 13 for $14.99, publisher Marvelous and developer Knights of Borria announced.

A “Digital Deluximan Edition” will also be available for $19.99, which includes the base game, the official soundtrack featuring over 100 minutes of music, and the “Basement Breakout” mini tabletop RPG campaign PDF.

Here is an overview of the game, via its Steam page:

About

In a stroke of good fortune, you’ve enrolled in the world’s most exclusive magic school: Academy Elementinia. But on the downside, this is a world in which magic is a bit embarrassing. Still, you’ve got something special. You alone have the ability to use Leximancy, a hitherto unimaginable power driven by something as fascinating as it is enchanting: language. Leximancy is an endlessly fun branch of magic, but it is also a risk of buttock-clenching magnitude. Years ago you caused THINGS to happen, and ever since then you’ve been banished to the school basement with the other failures- I mean learners. Your life as a humble basement-wizard is interrupted as Academy Elementinia is attacked by someone with a baffling agenda and a huge set of fireballs. Don your trusty hat, ready your lexicon, become the outcast that saves the school. Or if you don’t vibe with heroics, at least cause some more THINGS to happen. After all, you’re out of the basement now. Let’s see what you can do.

How to Be Leximan

Be Wordy – Cast Leximancy spells in a unique word-based encounter system, snatching word fragments from thin air to spell out clever incantations.

Be You – Unravel a surprisingly wholesome story about embracing and empowering the real you. I say “surprisingly wholesome”, because there’s also a bit where you kick a trout.

Go Rogue – Use your utter hooligan of a brain to figure out words, puzzles, and a variety of minigames. Summon. Soothe. Enlarge. Enrage. Explode. Have a little sleep. Succeed strangely, or sit back and enjoy your failures. There are hundreds of different ways to play this game, and the best way is your way.

Go Explore – It’s an absolute situation out there. The magical wilds are delirious with magic, the people of the cities hate wizards like you, and there are prisons. Wizard superprisons.

Make Friends? – Bother a chaotic cast of characters, from potion witches and sweaty musclemancers, to a bombastic policewoman and a pyromancer who’s just fed up to be honest.

Get Hats – Give hats to the hat goblins, please and thank you.

Watch a new trailer below.

Release Date Trailer

[justforbooks]

The Beautiful Bureaucrat review

Helen Phillips’s novel is a fascinating and gruelling portrait of ordinary lives degraded by data input and defeat

Amid unreal reality, where might satire go? To a Twitter troll anointed president? While comedy often uses exaggeration for effect, one option for a satirist in unreasonable times is to become subversively reasonable, to portray reality without the usual cover-ups and doublespeak, in all its lunacy, hypocrisy and atrocity.

In her fourth book, the US author Helen Phillips creates a sarcastic fable that we realise, in the end, is not very fantastical at all. At the beginning of The Beautiful Bureaucrat, Josephine Newbury is being interviewed for a job by a person who “had no face”. “Under other circumstances – if the job market hadn’t been so bleak for so long … this might have discouraged Josephine … But as things were, her initial thought was: Oh, perfect, the interviewer’s appearance probably deterred other candidates!” Josephine’s new job is to tend “the Database” by inputting names and numbers in vast quantities. Her questions about the purpose or meaning of all this data are rebuffed. Instead, she is deluged with platitudes: “Remember, you need the Database as much as the Database needs you!”

She is further menaced by absurd regulations: workers must eat lunch at their desks and nowhere else; workers must not fix anything to the walls; workers must not ask questions about the Database, and so on. Inevitably, her office is in a “vast, windowless concrete structure stretching endlessly down the block … The side of the building bore an enormous yet faded ‘A’ and ‘Z’ superimposed over each other so that it was impossible to know which letter ought to be read first.”

Phillips writes particularly well about tedium: “The files mocked her, their voices whispery as paper cuts. She worked coldly, like someone who had never loved …” Josephine’s husband, Joseph, has an equally mysterious job with a demonic bureaucracy. They work all the hours of the day and yet – like many in the real world – can barely pay their rent. They are obliged instead to move from one fetid sublet to another, dragging “overstuffed suitcases and canvas bags brimming with uneasy contents”.

At the core of the novel is an anticlimactic disappearance: one night Joseph fails to return home. Shortly afterwards, he reappears, though his strained, unpredictable behaviour unnerves Josephine as much as his former absence. In general, Josephine is fundamentally unnerved by almost everything. Her co-worker, Trishiffany, tries to befriend her, but Josephine can’t quite tell if her tone is friendly or menacing. Her boss, the Person with Bad Breath (formerly The Person with No Face), is a similarly ambivalent figure. Even the kindly waitress in a local diner, who tells fortunes for a hobby, turns out to be a fraud, offering the same fortune to everyone. Explanations are invariably nonsensical or disturbing, or both. Josephine discovers the purpose of the Database, yet this doesn’t really help. She is defeated by the Powers That Be, and steadily resorts to jarring games with language, which eventually drive her – and, at times, the reader – slightly mad:

“Aren’t you pretty,” she said. Pre tie. Eat prey. And there it was, a swell of happiness, a flash of happiness. Happy nest. Ha penis.

The circumstances of Josephine’s working life are horrible and they canker everything else. She sits in a dingy room each day, making money for someone else. This invokes ordinary bulk-data collection, as well as the corporatist elision of our work and social lives. The wages of hypercapitalism are alienation and atomisation. Phillips does not seek to dispel this alienation, or to propose an alternative; she casts her characters into the general mire and invites us to observe their suffering. At times, I longed for Josephine and Trishiffany to understand each other, just for a fleeting moment, or for something funny to happen to alleviate the monochromatic agony. In real life, we are perhaps not uniformly beleaguered: there are moments of tenuous, desperate beauty in the midst of everything. Yet there is a grim power to this novel, and to Phillips’s remorseless scrutiny of her poor characters. The Beautiful Bureaucrat is a fascinating and gruelling portrait of extreme capitalism and the degradation of ordinary lives.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[yejinsone]

yu jimin.     she/her.     cis   woman.      ›      spotted   at   the   met   steps   ,  yejin won ,   most   likely   listening   to   comme de garcon (like the boys) by rina sawayama   with   their   airpods   pro   .   the   twenty   four   year  old  gained   quite   a   reputation   ,   known   to   be   -guarded   yet   +self-assured    to   anyone   who   knows   them   .   you'll   easily   spot   them   when   you   hear   about , glasses tucked into a collared shirt, hidden tattoo's crawling up her arms, and a family ring that burns ,   followed   by   grey vetiver by tom ford   .   latest   nepoupdates   article   talks   about how her dad sold lost pieces under her name, kickstarting her career (true),   but   i   guess   any   reputation   is   good   reputation   .

penned by gabe ( he/him , 26 , pst )

statistics

full  name:  yejin won

nickname:  yeji or jin

date  of  birth:  july 27th, 1999 (24 years old).

zodiac  sign:  leo

place  of  birth:  providence, rhode island

current  location:  new york city, new york.

gender: cis woman, uses she / her pronouns.

sexuality:  bisexual.

languages: english (native), korean (native).

 background + headcanons

born and raised in rhode island, to a family of artists or art curators, yejin was surrounded by art and lived in museums and galleries

she's always been her daddies girl, loyal to a fault, letting him make every decision in her life even if she isn't proud of them

everything she has earned or done on her own she wears on her chest, and the rest, that she's taken credit for, chips away at her. but she still has to wear it proudly, even if she feels herself rot on the inside, she'd never go against her dad.

yejin makes the best out of her situation, she owns a gallery of her own, and works endlessly to make every decision her own

every decision she can make, she makes fiercely, and with no fear

she's incredibly passionate, filled with fascination for everything beautiful, where it be art or people, she collects them all as if it were her job to do so

she loves too hard, romanticizes everything, and has a list of ex's but swears they've all shaped her, when she probably only remembers the good rather than the bad

probably the reason for all her break ups, she's all surface area, everything you get, it's all you can see

she's only half aware of how guarded her heart actually is

she's studied art her whole life, just got her masters, and she's a proud little nerd about it

when she's not looking effortlessly cool, at home, she plays games, does puzzles, and loves a mug of hot cocoa

she loves animated shows and movies, knows it's a bit ridiculous for someone her age but it's a guilty pleasure she wears proudly especially as animated shows have become more mainstream the prouder she is to be a fan

very much gives serious exterior but like she's a nerd

that's mostly it!! open to any an all connections i'll prob put up a connections page soon tbh... like i should do that right?... lol anyways i hope u liked getting to know yeji, thank you for reading!!

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

Hellooo my lovely! 💖💫I am here to distract you! If you're up for it, I'd love to hear your answers to the gold obsidian egg and van gogh tapestry questions of that writing ask game you reblogged? 👀 Sending lots of love and good thoughts your way!!! 💛💛💛

hiii lovely 😘 why are you always just the absolute sweetest?? 🥺💞

gold obsidian egg: what do you treasure the most about your wip?

ooooh i had to reflect on this, because although i absolutely treasure writing four walls, i'd never really paused and tried to distil into words exactly why! i think there are probably two main things:

1) escapism - i love being able to completely immerse myself in characters and a world that feels so vividly real to me, and the safety/freedom of exploring the complexity and wonder of relationships and connection in such a safe space 💗

2) world view - this is going to be harder to explain, but i'm going to try 😅 whenever i write something, i get really immersed in the headspace of my protagonist - like to the point where i'm going about my daily life i'll find myself thinking about the way they'd experience the same environment that i'm in, almost get like - little flashes of being them?? eg, when i'm out walking and i feel my keys in my pocket, it's like for a split second i'm alex in four walls with his little set of miles's keys (i probably sound insane 😭). that's always been a feature of my writing process, but i feel like i've been able to connect to alex in this fic more vividly than i've ever connected with a protagonist before, and i've just absoltuely loved the process of immersing myself in his headspace and trying to view/describe the world in the way i imagine he might. and idk, putting myself in someone else's headspace also just constantly gets me to reflect on the experience of how different situations/emotions/internal thought processes really feel which is something i find endlessly fascinating.

it probably sounds ridiculous, but it's actually changed the way i view so many everyday things around me - like there are things i notice differently or didn't notice before from spending so much time in his headspace. also, writing in a way that i imagine might be how alex in four walls would think feels like it's just opened up new gateways for me in my writing and the way i use language.

god sorry, that was a very long and rambly answer and god knows if it even makes any sense to anyone who isn't me - in short: there is a lot that i treasure about my wip 💜

van gogh tapestry: do you create from any specific emotion? what drives you?

oh wow, this is such a good question. in terms of what drives me - i honestly don't really know, i've just always written and always have a drive to create characters and worlds through that particular medium. i genuinely don't feel like me if i'm not writing something. but i think also it comes from a drive for deep (and safe) emotional connection - and that's something that comes from my connection with the characters i'm writing, their connection with each other, and the connection i have with the people who're reading it too.

i've always been someone who feels things very deeply, so i think i'm quite largely driven by a desire to express the emotions i maybe don't get the opportunity to or feel to big to in real life. i'm not sure if there's any specific emotion that drives me - i think it's more just that sense of feeling everything so poignantly that does. for four walls though, i do feel like i drew particularly on the emotions of belonging and pining. i also notice that i always write best when i'm in a state where i'm feeling things particularly poignantly, even when those feelings can be quite negative or challenging ones - i don't know why, but that's usually when i feel like i connect best with my writing.

okay that's enough before i go off on a whole other tangent 🤦‍♀️ these answers have ended up being way more in depth than i'd anticipated - anyone who's read this has really ended up with quite the little glimpse into my psyche 😅

[aokozaki]

was thinking about how Blackthorne is a game I used to hear about a lot in Brazilian gaming circles but like, once or twice ever in English-speaking circles (to be fair, that applies to a lot other SNES and MEGA DRIVE titles I can think of right now)

what are some games that you know of very popular in your cultural circles that you don't think are widely recognized? bonus if you explain why they're cool or why the region/language/whatever specificity (is specificity a word?)

For Australia, my answer is very lame.

I got really into let's plays as a kid, loved shit like EarthBound or Chrono Trigger. I very vividly remember a specific moment of talking about EarthBound/Mother to a friend and they only vaguely knew what I meant once I said "y'know, that guy from Smash Bros. Brawl"

It was the precise moment I realized, to my mounting horror, that many JRPGs of the SNES era simply weren't ever released in PAL regions. Oh no! My blorbos are obscure!

As for Norway, my answer is very weird.

Games aren't generally translated into Norwegian unless they're for kids (this is also true of shows/movies/etc). So in terms of video games I was aware of in Norway were PC games for really young children - usually edutainment stuff.

So what do you mean you've never played classic PC game, Ludde and All His Friends, which you can beat in like half an hour and I just played repeatedly, endlessly fascinated.

[gershwes-project-archive]

On the creation of the Kindred

In the creation myths of the world, the world was originally a chaotic place and the first Spirits manifested mostly by chance. These primordial spirits created bodies for themselves, which went on to become the basis of land, sea, and sky. Their veins went on to become the ley lines, their blood is the world’s magic, their breath is life. Their hair is the clouds and their bones are the mountains. Their biles are the rivers and their dreams are the ocean. Their flesh is the soft loam and their eyes are the sun and moon. The primordial ones are not alive yet not dead, they are something else. They exist without need of such arbitrary distinction. Most Kindred generally adhere to some version of this, with minor variations.

In the creation myths of the Kindred, it is said that the Kindred were born during the Age of Gods, when Great Spirits walked the earth just as mortals do today. It is said that Kasalikapasekilarinanaqisalok (otherwise known as “Rina Naqi’la,” “Writer of Light”) was endlessly curious and fascinated by the world around them. As they gazed upon the creatures of the Black Ridge, they wondered how these creatures saw their world. Were they as curious as themself? How could they become moreso?

And so, Rina Naqi’la gave the creatures many gifts, gifts of language and sociality and curiosity, and eventually, the creatures began to ask Rina Naqi’la for other things, for dexterous hands with which to manipulate the world around them, keen ears with which to hear more stories of the world around them, and keen eyes with which to see through all secrects of the world around them. Rina Naqi’la gave all freely, and thus were born the Imps. Quickly, Rina Naqi’la’s clever creations went about forming societies and honoring their god through their studies. They even grasped the use of magic, and incorporated it into their lives. The other Great Spirits looked upon Rina Naqi’la living happily with their creations and felt burning envy. The animals that roamed their lands did not speak and give praise as the Imps could. Some, in their jealosly, even plotted to steal Rina Naqi’la’s Imps off to their own lands. Fearing discord would soon sow itself among their comapnions, the clever Ishin-bol-gan (a trickster god who sometimes selflessly aids travelers and gamblers) proposed a game: each Great Spirit must choose one creature of their domain and raise it properly into a new Kindred, for each that you raised properly, reaching the level of Rina Naqi’la’s Imps, you would recieve all of their praise and offerings. However, if you were to abandon your project halfway, or right after they were raised, this Ishin-bol-gan would come and steal all of your praise and ensure you could never make miracles again! This made many Great Spirits quite upset with Ishin-bol-gan, but not only Rina Naqi’la, but Yelassera and Gerrush’n quietly supported them. Thus, the various Great Spirits were spurred to buckle down and create their own Kindred. Tolos-Gokken raised the boarkin* in the northwest Yelassera raised the deerkin in the north Palo-ashao raised the canikin in the center-east Wennaba-houl raised the taurkin in the center-west … At last, there was only Elahimeri of the south. Elahimeri wished to participate as well, and share in the joy of creation and fostering growth, but she could not. Her domain was the water’s surface, the tidepools, the in-between places of land, sea, and sky. She had not the swift deer and strong boars of the land-bound Spirits, nor the mighty sailfish and clever octopi of her ocean-bound kin. She tried to craft something like the boarkin and imps from her seastars and urchins, but she could not seem to succeed. Just as she was about to despair at her work, Rina Naqi’la alighted upon her domain. He saw her dedication, her pure desire to love and nurture something of her own, and offered his aid. Together, they choose a humble diving bird (in some versions, a mudskip) and crafted it into a new Kind, the “fisherkin” of the coast.

*note that there exist other, native names for the various Kindred. However, for the sake of consistency within this translation, these names have been localized to some form of "–kin." The one exception is the imps. Being the eldest of the Kindred, what animal they were originally raised from has been lost to time.

[uvation]

From Siri to Sonic Sommelier: AI Collaboration is Reshaping Entertainment 

Get ready for a smarter music experience! YouTube Music is testing AI-powered radio that lets you describe your mood for a custom playlist. Plus, a built-in song recognition tool eliminates the need for extra apps. Let's explore how AI is transforming entertainment! 

The AI Revolution Hits Your Playlist: YouTube Music's Innovative Features 

The world of entertainment is undergoing a fascinating transformation. Artificial intelligence (AI) is no longer confined to science fiction; it's rapidly becoming an integral part of our everyday experiences. From movie recommendations to personalized news feeds, AI is subtly influencing how we consume content. And the music industry is no exception. 

One of the leading music streaming platforms, YouTube Music, is at the forefront of this AI revolution. They're testing two groundbreaking features – AI-powered radio and song recognition – that promise to personalize your music experience like never before. 

AI Radio: Your Music, Your Way 

Imagine a radio station that curates music specifically for you, catering to your mood, activity, or even a specific genre with a unique twist. This isn't a scene from a futuristic film; it's the reality YouTube Music is aiming to create with its AI-powered radio feature. 

Currently in beta testing with select users in the US, this innovative feature allows you to ditch the pre-made playlists and become the architect of your own sonic journey. Simply look for the "Ask for music any way you like" card in your YouTube Music home feed. There, you can converse with the AI using natural language prompts like "Upbeat dance music for my workout" or "Relaxing jazz for a chilled evening." Based on your request, the AI will curate a personalized radio station, weaving together a seamless flow of music that perfectly aligns with your desires. 

This conversational approach to music streaming marks a significant step towards a truly user-centric experience. No more endlessly scrolling or settling for generic playlists. With AI radio, you can express your musical preferences in a natural way, letting the AI curate the perfect soundtrack for any moment. 

Collaborating with AI: A Brighter Entertainment Future 

These innovative features from YouTube Music are just a glimpse into the exciting future of AI-powered entertainment. The ability to create personalized playlists based on natural language prompts and effortlessly identify songs in the real world represents a significant shift in how we interact with music. 

As AI technology continues to develop and refine, we can expect even more groundbreaking applications in the entertainment industry. Imagine AI-powered movie recommendations that not only consider your genre preferences but also take your mood into account. Or picture personalized news feeds that curate content based on your specific interests and reading habits. 

The future of entertainment is undoubtedly intertwined with the evolution of AI. By collaborating with AI, entertainment platforms can deliver a truly user-centric experience, catering to individual preferences with an unprecedented level of accuracy and ease. So, get ready to embrace a more interactive and personalized entertainment landscape, where AI becomes your personal curator, guide, and perhaps even your musical muse.  

The Ripple Effect: AI in Various Entertainment Sectors 

The impact of AI extends far beyond music streaming. Here's a glimpse into how AI is transforming other entertainment sectors: 

Movie & Television: Recommendation algorithms powered by AI are already a mainstay in streaming services like Netflix and Hulu. These algorithms analyze your viewing history and preferences to suggest movies and shows you're likely to enjoy. AI is also being used in content creation, with applications like generating realistic special effects or even writing scripts. 

Gaming: The gaming industry is embracing AI to create more immersive and dynamic gaming experiences. AI-powered characters can adapt to your playstyle, offering a more challenging and engaging experience. Moreover , AI is being used to generate realistic game environments and populate them with believable non-player characters (NPCs). 

Virtual Reality (VR): AI plays an important role in enhancing the realism and interactivity of VR experiences. AI can be used to create dynamic environments that react to your actions and emotions, blurring the line between the virtual and real world. 

Personalized Content Creation: Social media platforms like Instagram and TikTok are leveraging AI to personalize content feeds, showcasing content most likely to resonate with individual users. This not only enhances user engagement but also paves the way for creators to reach a more targeted audience. 

Challenges and Considerations: 

While AI offers exciting possibilities in the entertainment industry, some challenges need to be addressed: 

Data Privacy: AI algorithms rely heavily on user data to personalize experiences. Ensuring user privacy and data security is paramount as AI becomes more integrated into entertainment platforms. 

Algorithmic Bias: AI algorithms can perpetuate biases present in the data they are trained on. Entertainment platforms need to be mindful of these biases and develop algorithms that are fair and inclusive. 

The Human Touch: While AI offers convenience and personalization, it's important to strike a balance. Human creativity and curation will always be essential in the entertainment industry. 

 A Future Filled with Possibilities 

The collaboration between AI and entertainment holds immense potential for the future. With continued development and responsible implementation, AI can create more engaging, personalized, and accessible entertainment experiences for everyone. So, get ready for a future where AI becomes an invisible partner, seamlessly enhancing the way we discover, consume, and create entertainment.