#good namel

[blossom-hwa]

melody of the heart [1] | k.th

pairing: Taehyun x fem!reader genre:  fluff, a pinch of angst, regency era!au, nobility!au warnings: period typical misogyny word count: 17.8k notes: — this is for all the bridgerton girlies who have been going insane just like me <3 highly inspired by francesca/john's burgeoning romance from the first half, so hope you all enjoy! — some of the dialogue has been lifted from the show—I do not claim any credit for it. — this takes place in the same universe as my duke!yeonjun story, if you'll have me :) feel free to check that out as well! When your father calls you home from the continent to join the London season, for the first time in your life, you nearly throw a fit. You are not just the daughter of a viscount—you’ve made a name for yourself in England and abroad with your prodigious talent at the piano, having since childhood performed for royal courts far and wide. You have traveled far and beyond most other ladies of your rank, and to have your career halted all for the sake of marriage to a man who will likely force you to quit your craft is unthinkable. But all your life you have lived without raising a hand to your father, and so when the letter comes, you return home for the season, hoping and praying to make it through without stirring the waters.  Enter Taehyun Kang, Earl of Addiston—recently titled, in search of a wife, and as tired of the season already as you are. During a chance meeting at the season’s third ball you grow to know each other, and as time passes you grow to like each other, a mutual respect forming when you learn the depths of one another’s passions in the arts. In Taehyun you find a respite from the men who would clip your wings for the sake of finding a perfect wife. In you Taehyun finds a kindred spirit who would respect him for himself, and not the lands in his name. Together you navigate the grueling social activities of the London matchmaking project as acquaintances, then as friends, and maybe, just maybe— As lovers, too.  Part 1 >> Part 2

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As the white double doors begin creaking open, only one thought rings clear in the mess of your mind. 

I cannot be the diamond. 

Cannot. Will not. Your father wishes it, as does your governess and the entire unfamiliar extended family crowding your home for the season, but you can’t. Not least because you can’t handle the attention—just the idea of being presented to the queen makes you want the earth to swallow you whole—but also because the longer you can delay finding a husband, the longer you might still find a shred of freedom lingering on your fingertips. 

It's not fair. Late at night you lie in bed, staring at the dark ceiling as angry tears prick the corners of your eyes. Why is it that men should have the freedom to do as they wish, but women must be pushed into the confines of the household, meant to marry up just to add or promote a title for the family name? All you ever wanted to do was play the piano, and even though your father only saw your life’s passion as a way to make money, at least you could do it. You were good at it, too—you’ve played for the royal houses of Europe, met queens and kings and nobles of so many courts, and while you never quite loved being the spectacle of a child prodigy that your family painted you as, at least you were allowed to play. 

But now your father, who rarely contacted you since your mother died five years ago, suddenly breaks his frosty silence to demand that you come home, because the royal checks you’ve been receiving have now begun to dwindle and the only purpose you can now fulfill for your family is to become some rich gentleman’s meek wife. And to make matters worse, you won’t see a penny of the money you made yourself. It’s going to your dowry.

It won’t even be yours. 

What is most upsetting is that he’s not even entirely wrong. Not about the dowry—you’re still smarting over your hard-earned money being turned over to some nameless, faceless gentleman of the ton—but about your musical escapades on the continent. People were eager to watch a child prodigy perform. They cooed and smiled over you like the zoo attraction you were. But as you grew older, you also noticed the invitations dwindling, the interested courts growing smaller, the payments decreasing. All because you were a woman nearing marriageable age, and to be such a prodigy was no longer suitable for your gender. 

For all your usual mild-mannered shyness, this knowledge makes you want to break dishes against the wall. 

But since you’ve returned to England, you’ve kept your mouth shut as you are wont to do. You’re not the type to scream and rage when things don’t go your way. Silence comes more naturally to your lips than shouting and you find yourself nodding quietly to your father’s demands more often than not. Still, though, you can have this. You can have the fact that you will not be the diamond. 

You were worried about it at first. Your name is not unknown by the people of the ton and judging by what little you’ve heard of Lady Whistledown’s papers, your return has stirred some gossip around town. Enough gossip that people speculated the queen might crown you her diamond on the sole basis of your celebrity—and as self-centered as it is, you were anxious about that. But it turned out you actually didn’t have to worry, because as it turned out, you are terrible at being a debutante.

Everything about it hurts. The feathers on your head, the slim, constricting dress, the jewelry choking your neck and wrists and the pale, slippery gloves that slide against your fingers—you certainly don’t wear gloves when you play the piano. The headdress only accentuates your terrible balance and when your governess had you practice your walk for the first time, you’d tripped every other time you went down the hallway.

Which was not ideal, not for you or for your family. Because even though you don’t want to be the queen’s diamond, you also don’t want to be the one girl to trip on her face in front of dozens of people and the queen herself. Only instead of motivating you to be better, the thought of tripping kept making you more and more anxious to the point that you felt like you’d throw up each time you saw your debutante gown.

“Why don’t you treat it like a performance?” your governess had finally suggested, wringing her hands at your latest miserable attempt to walk down the hallway with those godawful feathers on your head. “As though you were to play for the queen.”

The thing is, you have performed for the queen. Not recently, given that you’ve been on the continent for a good many years and only returned a few months ago, but you did perform for her when you were much younger. But that’s—different. Somehow. Your governess and certainly your father might see both situations as the same, but for some reason the idea of parading down an aisle amid dozens of prying eyes, all the while wearing a tuft of white feathers on your head, is terrifying to you in a way that playing the piano for hundreds or more isn’t. 

It doesn’t make sense. Which is why you didn’t bother trying to explain to your governess why exactly her well-meaning advice wouldn’t work, just gave her half a smile and an empty nod as you prepared to try once more. And it had gotten better the more you practiced. Over time you got used to the swaying of the feathers above you, the tiny steps you must take to avoid the headpiece falling to the floor, and all the other millions of tiny things you never thought you’d have to pay attention to. Now, though, as the doors swing fully open, revealing the queen and her entourage at the end of the aisle, framed by every single eye in the room trained on you—

You freeze.

Time stretches and dilates all at once. Opulent ornaments blend with the walls, gold almost seeming to drip onto the white in a way that, to your spiraling mind, looks like blood. The sea of faces before you blurs into a mass and your heart is pounding, your breath coming out in shallow gasps that can’t be doing anything flattering for you in this stupidly tight gown. 

“Y/N.”

Your aunt hisses your name with her unfamiliar voice and suddenly the room comes back into focus. Too much focus. Now everything is too bright and too defined and the gold of the decorations seems to be blinding your eyes. You accidentally lock eyes with the queen at the end of the aisle and all you can feel is the need to throw up. 

But you can’t. 

Slowly, slowly, you take the first step. Then the next. Feathers sway and your head is starting to spin uncomfortably, but you keep your eyes trained on the end of the aisle, something akin to a smile (or at least a grimace) pasted upon your lips. 

You halt after what you think is the right number of steps, just a short distance in front of the queen. The same muscle memory that lets your fingers fly over piano keys helps you into your low curtsy, head dipping just enough to be respectful, not so much that the awful headdress tips over. Wait a moment, your governess’s voice echoes through your muddled mind. Count five seconds, then rise. 

Slowly, you stand, meeting the queen’s appraising eyes once more. Her expression doesn’t change. Relief prickles your chest—maybe she doesn’t recognize you, which means she won’t crown you the diamond for the sole purpose of your fame, or maybe she’s just disappointed and unimpressed—and that relief continues to spread as you stumble out of the room, dimly aware of your aunt following just behind you. 

“Well, you weren’t the diamond,” your aunt sighs. “But at least you didn’t fall. “

Yes, you think fervently as you accept a glass of water from a footman. And thank the heavens on both accounts. 

. . . . .

It’s only the second ball, and Taehyun is already not enjoying the season. 

Ugh. He slips into a darkened corridor and finally allows himself to take a deep breath, the sounds of the party muffled behind the walls. “How did you do this so easily?” he mutters to the phantom of his brother in his mind. 

Taemin’s casual grin smiles back at him from behind his mind’s eye and despite himself, Taehyun almost laughs. He knows the answer already. Taemin enjoys this—the socializing, the talking, all of it. His brother’s easy grace and pleasant manners are easily employed in the ballroom, where he can spread charm at will and revel in the attention he receives in reciprocation. It’s not that Taehyun can’t find his way around a conversation or take an easy turn around the dance floor. He can. It’s just that he doesn’t enjoy it the way Taemin does.

But even then, Taehyun still doesn’t understand how Taemin navigated the marriage mart so seamlessly. Surely he must have at some point grown fed up with the shiny veneer of the debutante season, the incessant pestering of the mamas when they found out the heir to one of London’s earldoms was newly seeking a wife. None of that seemed to bother Taemin that much, though. Two months he went through it with only the barest complaints, and by the third month he was happily married to a woman of a similar temperament. While they might not have been a love match at first, they were certainly an amicable and good one. 

Meanwhile, it’s been barely two weeks since the season started and Taehyun already wants it to be over.

He’s pushed it off enough, though. For three years he’s been allowed the excuse of first finishing his studies, then having to put the estate’s affairs in order—the news of the inheritance was rather abrupt, after all, and completely unexpected. He’s only related to the Addiston line distantly through his mother, not even his father—which is why he was able to inherit even as a second son—and they’d had no idea of the connection until the solicitor had shown up to their door with the news. But it’s been three years. With the weight of an estate on his unexperienced shoulders, the next logical step, to society, would be to find a capable wife to share the burden. His parents agree. So does his brother. 

And so does Taehyun. He just wishes the process of doing so wasn’t so…performative. So obviously meant for matches of rank instead of people. Taehyun knows that if he hadn’t gotten that chance inheritance, hardly anyone would look twice at him. He might be the son of an earl, but he’s only a second son, and the son of a second wife at that. While he’s certainly not at the bottom of the barrel of potential husbands, without his inheritance, he’d be garnering far fewer glances than he does now. 

Far fewer. 

In another better world, maybe it would be easier to find someone with whom he has a genuine connection without having to wade through all the social climbers in this one. Because that’s what he wants. A connection. Not someone who will simply look at his title and inheritance and pursue those instead of him.

But in this world, that might just be an elusive dream.

Taehyun sighs. It’s worse now that he lives alone and has grown used to his solitude. Sure, he has friends who come to barge in on him at different times of day—Kai and Beomgyu maintain little sense of decorum around him, in contrast to the Duke and Duchess of Hastings who, though good friends of his by now, do not come outside of calling hour without prior notice. They keep away the lonely spells in an estate that still doesn’t quite feel like his. But the silence isn’t unwelcome for a quieter person like he, and it remains a sharp contrast to the gaiety of the ton during the season. 

Which brings him back to here. Now. In some empty corridor of his host’s home, away from the staged smiles and bright lights of the ballroom. Somewhere he certainly shouldn’t be, but as long as he doesn’t get caught, Taehyun has little intention of returning to the fray until he can get his thoughts back in order. The muffled chatter of the party is still too loud here so he continues down the hallway, following the echoes of silence and…

Music?

He halts. Sure enough, now that he’s far enough from the noise of the ballroom, he can hear a soft, sweet melody coming from somewhere ahead of him. It’s haunting, lovely, and as he leans toward the sound he begins to recognize the notes of one of Beethoven’s sonatas. Part of the Tempest sonata, actually. One of the most difficult, and one of Taehyun’s personal favorites. 

Taehyun’s feet begin to move, the spell of the sonata carrying him to the end of the hallway. One of the doors has been opened just a crack and it’s easy to tell that’s where the secret pianist must be playing from, the melodies spinning into the air beyond the sliver of an open door.

Common sense tells him he should walk away. The musician seems to be alone—perhaps tired of the party, just like he—but nonetheless, that can’t spell good fortune for him, especially if they are a woman. Being caught alone with an unmarried debutante would only spell trouble for both of them, more her than he, and for her sake, at least, he can’t ruin her prospects just because he couldn’t turn away from her music. 

But something deeper keeps him rooted in place, breaths quiet and shallow, eyes half shut as he leans toward the door as much as he can without tripping over his feet. He enjoys fairy tales, though he is wont to admit it, loves stories of fantasy and magic, and he can’t help but compare these melodies to the spells he used to read about. For surely the pianist must be weaving a spell into the air, into every accent and crescendo, every passage of the sonata effortlessly magical to his ears. 

Taehyun loves music. He loves it almost as much as he loves literature. He took lessons and can play the piano as well as, if not better than many of his peers, but even he is nothing compared to the musician in that room. Nothing compared to the spell of their fingers dancing across the piano keys. 

Too soon, the music ends. And with its conclusion comes the realization that Taehyun needs to return to the party soon, or his absence will be noted—he’s already spent too much time away, if the two movements of the sonata he’s listened to are anything to go by. 

Taehyun forces himself to step away from the open door, from the lovely melodies and mysterious musician within. He doesn’t turn back even when a new piece begins, though soft notes follow him down the hall, all the way back to the party.

. . . . .

“Lady Taylor. Miss L/N.” The smile in front of you is sparkling in a way that leaves you dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the bright lights overhead. Either way, it is doing nothing to soothe the ache beginning to pulse between your temples. “I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”

No, you haven’t. You don’t recognize this face or its too-bright smile. “I don’t believe we have,” you return, curving your lips as much as you can. “To what do I owe the pleasure…?”

“Mr. Haynesworth,” he says, angular eyes narrowing into what could be a pleasant expression if you weren’t so tired. “I noticed you were quite a fine dancer, and wanted to ask if you had a spot on your dance card that I could perhaps take.”

Without really meaning to, you glance at your aunt. She looks back, mostly impassive, but gives you a small nod. Yes, allow him. 

Your tongue tastes bitter even as you smile at Mr. Haynesworth. “Yes, I do. In fact, my next dance is free, should you like to dance the quadrille.” 

“An excellent choice,” he replies, and you have to try hard not to roll your eyes as he begins to sign his name on the card. What wouldn’t you give to be at home, in bed, purposely thinking about everything and anything but the season and your daughterly duty to find a husband? Lady Arina Park isn’t here to subtly nudge you in the direction of a music room and as far as you know, none of the Tillings play an instrument, so you can’t even snatch a quarter of an hour alone with your thoughts and music like you did at the last ball. Besides, your aunt would certainly scold you if she noticed you were gone, just like last time. 

It's not like it matters, though, because the orchestra music is fading, which means the next dance is about to begin, and you won’t be getting a chance to take a break. Mr. Haynesworth looks up from your card with a little smile and offers a hand. “Just in time,” he says genially. You do your best to feign enthusiasm as you take it. 

I hate this, you can’t help thinking, watching other couples take to the floor. You like to dance—honestly, you enjoy almost anything that has to do with music—but right here, right now, with all the eyes trying to discern who will win Her Majesty’s seasonal title of diamond of the first water (because of all the girls presented this season she still hasn’t picked one, and you harbor a nasty hope that she never will), it’s too much. The bright lights of the ballroom. The slippery silk of your gloves against your hands. Mr. Haynesworth’s pleasant smile as he asks you questions against the background of the orchestra’s new tune, each of them polite, noncommittal, and as meaningless as the last. 

“How are you finding the party tonight?”

I think the candles are trying to burn right through my eyes into my brain. “Quite lovely indeed.”

“How are you finding London in general? It must be a change from abroad, no?”

Boring. Stifling. Rainy. “It is very different, Mr. Haynesworth, though not unpleasant. I imagine that with time, I will grow used to it too.”

“So you do intend to find a husband this season, if you say you will be here for some time?”

If my father didn’t want me husband hunting, I wouldn’t be here. “Yes, that would be my intention.”

“I hope you will come to enjoy London then, Miss L/N. It is an old city, and it certainly has its charms.”

Of course. “Of course.”

He spins you under his arm and you come to face to face, his nice smile suddenly very close to your eyes. You almost stumble—muscle memory had been leading this dance as you tried to answer his questions through your growing headache, and in the midst of that you’d forgotten this part. “I read Whistledown,” he says, completely oblivious to the brief spike in your heart rate. 

Inwardly, you sigh. Ah, so you’re either going to ask me about piano, or ask me about the fact that the queen still has not chosen her diamond of the season.

“She says you are quite the pianist, Miss L/N.”

…You would have preferred questions about piano over the nonexistent diamond, it’s true, but what exactly are you supposed to say to that? “I have been playing since I was young.”

“A true prodigy, then. I wonder why the queen has not yet chosen a diamond, though there is clearly one right here.” Despite the compliment, his thin eyes suddenly seem too narrow, the planes of his face too sharp as he leans in ever so slightly. “I hear you spent quite some time with other royal courts during your…little tour. How were your travels?”

You nearly pause. Your head still hurts and between the dancing and conversation, your mind is being split onto two different tracks, so it takes you a moment to realize why Mr. Haynesworth’s words offended you.

Little tour.

You do not like how he said the words little tour.

It sounds like how your father talks about your performances abroad. It sounds like when your aunt tells you to stop practicing, it’s time for your French lesson. It sounds like when your cousin sticks her head into the music room and asks you to play more softly since it’s distracting from the conversation downstairs. 

Dismissal. Accidental or intentional, it doesn’t matter. It’s dismissal of you, your talent, your work, your passion.

Maybe you would have preferred questions about the nonexistent diamond instead.

“I enjoyed traveling and meeting new people during my tour, though it would have meant little without the music,” you reply, unable to rein in some of the bite to your words. “Music is my passion, Mr. Haynesworth, and the piano my medium. I’m afraid without either, my life would retain little meaning.” And for the first time that evening, it seems that the higher powers are on your side, because the tune of the quadrille is fading, which means the dance is ending. Keeping your current smile plastered firmly to your face, you sweep into a brief curtsy. “I must see to my aunt, Mr. Haynesworth, and so I take my leave. It was good to meet you.”

Lies, all lies, but it gets you off the dance floor without another word from him. Weaving blindly through the crowd, you follow the paths of fewest people until the chatter of the ballroom is just a faint buzz in your ears and blissful silence fills the air instead. 

A rush of air leaves your lips all at once and you put a hand to your chest, where your heart is beating just a little too uncomfortably fast. You’re outside the house, in the gardens, but in almost full view of the front of the home where carriages are lined up, their footmen at the ready. It would be lovely to just be alone, but in public that cannot be for fear of compromise, so you take solace in what little solitude you have now under the moon and stars.

You close your eyes for a long moment. You hadn’t realized earlier how hot the ballroom felt, but you certainly know it now as cool night air breezes across your face turned up to the sky. The stars twinkle overhead, comforting pinpricks of light so unlike the burning intensity of the candles and chandeliers within, and all at once you’re hit with the overwhelming thought that you absolutely do not want to go back inside. 

“I’m not going to survive this season,” you mutter, then quickly glance around—no one should have heard that, it sounds so whiney and childish. But in the moment it feels so true. And for two terrible seconds, you feel an overwhelming lump in your throat, a tightening in your chest—

No. You will not cry. Not here, not now. You bite back the tears, suddenly feeling so alone even in the solitude you sought. No one is on your side. Not your father, your own flesh and blood. Not the aunt who accompanied you here. Not even your governess, who is sweet and kind but ultimately bows to the whims of your father. Only your mother ever understood your calling to music and she’s dead, five years buried underground, and for all you have healed since that dark time, you still miss her. 

You miss her so, so much. 

One deep, shaky breath. Then another. Slowly, your heart rate calms into something that feels more normal, and you tilt your head back up to the sky, letting the midnight blue wash across your vision like a soft blanket. It comforts you enough that you almost don’t hear the footsteps against the stone path until they’re just a few feet away from you.

“Good evening,” a quiet, unfamiliar voice says. 

Conversation. Exactly what you wanted to avoid in the ballroom. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem so daunting out here. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the sky. Maybe it’s the gentle quality of this man’s quiet voice that makes it seem like he seeks the same solace from the night that you do, and nothing more.

“Good evening,” you reply, not quite looking at him as you dip a small curtsy. “Forgive me. I was only—”

“In need of some quiet?” He turns around and between the dark hair and half smile and large eyes, your breath lodges in your throat. But any nervousness at this man’s handsome face fades away when you see the softness hidden in his expression, the gentle uncertainty caught between his broad shoulders. “I have been in search of it all night.”

For all your previous mood, this man’s small smile makes you want to smile too. And so you let your lips curve slightly, more than you thought you could without forcing it, and as you do they begin to curve more. “It seems we are of the same spirit,” you say, and the night seems to laugh quietly with you both. “Miss Y/N L/N, good sir.”

“Taehyun Kang, Earl of Addiston.” He bows slightly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

. . . . .

A comfortable silence has fallen, and Taehyun has little desire to disturb it, but your name keeps rolling around his head, a little too familiar for someone he’s only met today. There’s something about your face, too. He’s certain the two of you have never been introduced—he’s fairly sure he would have remembered your smile, which seems to complement the night sky perfectly—but at the same time…

Someone opens the door to the mansion and a few orchestral notes follow them outside. Orchestra. Music. 

Oh. 

“Might I ask…” he begins slowly. He almost wishes he could take back his words when you turn to him, but he’s already started, so he continues. “You are Miss Y/N L/N, the celebrated pianist?”

You lips part, like you didn’t expect the question. Embarrassment starts to crawl up his cheeks—it would be mortifying if you said no, even more so if you had no idea who he was talking about—but then you nod, surprise still coating your features. “Yes, my lord. I am.”

Oh. Oh. This is—maybe worse than if you’d said no. Because this means Taehyun is in the presence of someone famous, someone with celebrity, someone he admires and respects even though they’ve never met face to face before—

Calm down. “I saw one of your performances a few years ago,” he says, forcing his voice to remain level. You open your mouth to say something but Taehyun barrels on because if he doesn’t say it now he’ll never say it again. “I was in Germany to visit a friend. We went together. I, um—” and this is when he stutters, because of course it is—“I found your performance most impressive. Particularly Beethoven’s Appassionata. Your interpretation…it was perfect to me. There was a delicacy to it that made it uniquely beautiful.” He coughs and prays the night hides the warmth that has crept into his cheeks. “I suppose I just wanted to say that you are a very talented musician, and you must have worked very hard to come so far.” 

You look away, and in that moment Taehyun does fear that he said too much. He might have presumed a level of familiarity you weren’t comfortable with, or maybe you don’t appreciate being complimented in public, or maybe he just said the wrong thing—but then you look back at him, and even with only the moon and stars to light your face, it’s plain to see the smile curving across your lips, pleased and proud and limited only by the shyness and humility of your nature, evident as you give him a small curtsy again. “Thank you very much, my lord,” you say, and if your smile was complemented by the night before, now it sparkles at brightly as any of the stars. “It means…so much to me that you would say such a thing. Truly.”

Taehyun smiles. A little more shyly than he’d like, but no matter. “It is not a difficult thing to say these things,” he replies. “Your performance then was impeccable, as I’m sure it is now.” And now that the connection has been made, a memory from the second ball of the season suddenly returns, of a dark corridor and a beautiful sonata. Were you—? “If I may ask, were you the one playing the piano at the Kims’ ball just a week ago?” 

You blink. “You…heard that?”

All of a sudden Taehyun realizes the implications of his words—that he was at the ball, that he decided to leave to wander the dark corridors, that he heard you playing and not only didn’t hasten away at once but stayed to listen for long enough to make this connection. None of them paint him in the best light, and one of them is far worse than the others, if taken the wrong way. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, and if his face wasn’t warm before, it certainly is now. “I happened upon it by accident. I was only trying to find some quiet away from the ball—” 

“Much as you were just now,” you interrupt, and Taehyun almost flushes even more before he sees the small, amused smile on your lips. 

“Yes,” he agrees sheepishly. “I heard music coming from one of the rooms and it was…beautiful. The Tempest is one of my favorite of Beethoven’s works. You played it wonderfully, and I couldn’t help but stay and listen for some time.” He bows his head. “I hope I have not been too forward or made you uncomfortable. If I have, I do apologize.”

“Do not apologize,” you say, a bashful hint returning to your own voice that Taehyun finds very endearing, especially when you duck your head slightly. “Please, my lord. I am only…deeply honored that you hold me in such high regard.”

Taehyun relaxes, his own smile growing wider. “Earning that regard was not difficult,” he says. “Even my friend, who has much less knowledge of music than I do, was fairly blown away, and almost inspired to take piano lessons because of you.”

You laugh. “You must jest, my lord.” 

“I do not,” he replies, laughing as well. “He is not here tonight, but perhaps someday you two will meet, and his praise will be even more effusive than mine.” 

“In that case, I eagerly await that day.” You look at him, a question in your eyes. “Might I ask, my lord—you mentioned that you have some knowledge of music? Are you a musician yourself?”

“Oh, I…dabble.” Taehyun laughs a little. “With the piano. I quite enjoy it, but I am nowhere near as good as you.”

“But you have a musician’s ear and heart,” you say, conviction in your tone, and Taehyun finds himself rooted under the strength of your gaze, under the stars, under the night sky. “You appreciate the art and the work that goes into it, which is more than I can say for most.”

Taehyun opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I suppose you are right.”

You duck your head a bit, shoulders suddenly hunching. “I apologize, if I was too forward—”

“Not at all!” he says quickly. “No, not at all. Forgive me, it has simply been a long night and my conversing skills are somewhat frayed at the moment. I appreciate your words, Miss L/N. Very much.”

For a moment, you seem to search his face, like you’re looking for something. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, and when you do, your shoulders thankfully relax. “I was only speaking what I felt to be the truth, my lord. And, for what it is worth…” You pause, your expression somewhat strange before it settles into a genuine smile. “This conversation is one of only a few that I have truly enjoyed tonight.”

He laughs, your quip unexpected but welcome. “It must have been a long night for you too, then?”

“You have no idea.” This time, you two laugh together. “Actually, I’m sure you do. There are only so many times you can be asked the same questions and give the same answers, or hear the same topics and remain sane.” You shake your head. “If the queen plans to choose a diamond this season, I wish she would just hurry up and do so. It seems to be all anyone can talk about nowadays.”

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “She has not yet chosen one?”

“Apparently not.” You shrug. “My cousins say Lady Whistledown writes about it in every issue. I suppose it is a source of gossip, but…to be quite frank, I do not understand why the queen’s opinion on one woman reigns so supreme in the marriage mart. Should not the couple choose each other based on their own perceived merits, and not solely because the queen approves of one but not the other?” A short pause, and then your shoulders slump. “Though perhaps I only do not understand because I have been away for so long.”

“Well, I quite agree with you,” Taehyun says frankly. “I do agree that the queen’s approval would be a feather in anyone’s cap, but anyone who only sees the title of diamond and nothing else, I believe, would not make a happy marriage, even if the diamond agreed to the match. I don’t believe a title alone is any sort of solid foundation upon which to make a partnership.” 

You look up, meeting his eyes, and a moment of understanding seems to pass between the two of you. A smile that looks much like relief curves your lips. “I agree, my lord,” you say softly. “It is a relief to know that I am not the only one of these opinions.”

Taehyun came outside for fresh air, for a respite from the chaotic buzz of the party inside. He came outside for solitude. But though he found conversation instead, he finds himself feeling better than he perhaps would have, had he immediately gained the silence he sought. Your quiet, frank honesty is as refreshing to Taehyun as the night air itself and he realizes he would love to continue your conversation, if not for—

“Y/N!”

Both of you start at the sudden shout of your name from the mansion doors. An older woman comes striding out, a stranger to Taehyun but evidently more familiar to you. Not altogether welcome, though, it seems—your shoulders tense and immediately your gaze shutters somewhat as the woman draws closer. “Lady Taylor,” you say quietly, turning back to Taehyun with a smile significantly more strained than before. “My aunt, and my chaperone tonight.”

He nods once. “I see.”

“Y/N, I’ve been looking for you for half the night,” Lady Taylor scolds as soon as she is near enough, which does little to endear her to Taehyun after she interrupted his time with you. “Why do you insist on disappearing so?”

“My apologies, Aunt Taylor,” you say. Taehyun doesn’t miss the brief clench of your fingers at your sides. “I went to find some fresh air, and then found myself caught up in conversation with Lord Kang.” You gesture to him. “Lord Kang, please meet my aunt, Lady Taylor, Viscountess of Wentworth.”

Taehyun bows politely as your aunt curtsies. “A pleasure, my lady. I am Lord Kang, Earl of Addiston.”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the mention of his title, and he bites back a sigh. So she knows of his estate and inheritance, too. “Charmed, my lord,” is all she says, though, before turning back to you. “Please forgive my interruption. Y/N, you must come back inside. The ball is not yet over, and several gentlemen are still waiting to dance with you.”

You glance down at your dance card, then back up at him, your face twisted in apology. “I must do as my aunt says,” you say quietly. “Though it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

“And the same to you.” He smiles as easily as he can, and maybe he’s just hoping, but your smile seems to become a little less forced too. “It is getting late and I’m sure your dance card must be full, so I will not keep you further. However…” He inclines his head slightly, respectfully. “Perhaps if we meet again, I hope you will indulge me if I ask you to save a dance for me, so that we might continue our conversation where it left off?”

This time, he’s sure he’s not imagining the softening of your face and the return of some sparkle to your eyes. “I would be honored to, my lord,” you say, curtsying. “Have a good night.”

He bows. “I wish the same to you.”

. . . . .

The last few days since the Tillings’ ball have been dreary and wet, full of gray clouds and rain. Today, though, when you wake, the clouds have cleared to reveal the bright sun set against a shimmering blue sky. When your cousins come bursting into the music room to take you on a walk, you don’t even argue—the afternoon looks beautiful, and even you are itching to go outside. 

“You spend so much time cooped up in that little room,” your oldest cousin scolds when you meet everyone in the entryway, though there’s a smile on her face so you try not to take her words the wrong way. “You need some fresh air.”

You smile back as best as you can. “I appreciate the concern, Lilly, but worry not. I’m as eager to see the sun as you are.”

It is pleasant, feeling the sun on your skin after days of grey skies and intermittent rainfall pattering on your windows as you tried to practice. Truth be told, by yesterday you were feeling restless, too, so you can’t even blame the children of your family for wanting to run around as they do now, leaping happily under the blue sky. 

You stick to the back of the group, quietly watching Lilly and your other cousins try to corral their children under the watchful eye of Aunt Taylor. Jieun looks particularly frazzled as she tries to chase down her youngest and you take pity on her, scooping up the child the next time she runs past and giving her little forehead a small tap that makes her giggle. “Be careful,” you warn gently, handing her to a grateful Jieun. “Don’t get hurt, or your mother will worry, yes?”

It's not just your family. It seems as though the entirety of London has come out to enjoy the wonderful weather. The park is green and bright and almost seems to shimmer under the sun, and laughter and chatter fill the air with faint birdsong. You may enjoy spending your time cooped up in that little room, as your cousin says, but you are glad you came out today for the sun on your skin and the joy in the air.

“You are good with the children,” Lilly says beside your ear. You start—you hadn’t realized she was so close until she spoke. “Won’t it be wonderful when you have children of your own, and they can all play together?”

Please, Lilly. “Maybe.” 

“Sound more excited, will you?” she laughs. “You can’t mean to not have children. Or are you already married to your music?”

Your smile is wavering, but you heave it back up with the teeth-gritting reminder that she doesn’t mean it badly, she doesn’t mean it badly, she doesn’t mean it badly. “I’m not married to my music, insofar as I cannot marry an intangible thing,” you respond as dryly as you can. “I’m not sure even the priests at Gretna Green would agree to perform such a ceremony.”

“You know what I mean,” Lilly says, scooping up one of her children. Both of them seem to eye you in a way that makes you feel defensive. “When will you emerge from your music room, Y/N, to see the rest of the world around you?”

That’s not fair, you want to say. I have emerged from my music room. I just find that I don’t necessarily enjoy what—or who—awaits me outside.

Like the incessant demand that you marry and produce children for an unnamed man who will control you for the rest of your life. 

“I see the world as much as I like to,” is all you say instead, but Lilly has already been distracted by her toddler trying to wiggle out of her arms. You leave her to it, and drift behind everyone once more. 

It’s not that you don’t want to have children. It’s not even that you don’t want to get married. It’s just that you resent the fact that it is your only option. You don’t even think you’d mind marriage and children if you could still live with your music, but the way everyone else talks about it, it’s always one or the other. Give up marriage for the piano. Give up the piano for marriage.

Not that the first option is even a choice. 

You take a deep breath. Breathe in the fresh air, the scent of flowers and grass. The sky doesn’t seem as blue as before, nor does the sunshine feel as welcoming, but it’s still there, and it’s still pleasant enough. Lilly means well, and she doesn’t mean to be dismissive. You’re still unmarried and still not the diamond. The world isn’t ending.

Jieun’s youngest finds her way behind your skirts once more, giggling when you turn around to chase her down. A smile finds its way to your face that isn’t forced because she really is adorable, and her little laughs soften your expression when you swing her up and warn her again not to hurt herself.

“Miss L/N?”

You whirl around. As does the rest of your family. 

“…Lord Kang?”

There he is standing just a few feet away, looking as surprised to see you as you are to see him. “Miss L/N,” he says again, a smile spreading across his face. “I didn’t expect to see you, though I suppose you and your family are here to enjoy the weather as well?”

“Yes, we are.” You smile back, trying not to cringe when the toddler still in your arms tries to grab at your hair. Thankfully, Jieun appears to relieve you of her child in that moment, whispering hurried apologies into your ear as she whisks past. “My family thought it would be good for the children to see the sun.”

“And for you!” Lilly whirls into the conversation with a beatific smile and the outward countenance of nothing but an angel. You grit your teeth as she continues. “My cousin spends far too much time indoors at that piano of hers, she hardly sees the sunlight.”

Lord have mercy. 

“Well, I have heard she is quite accomplished at it,” Lord Kang replies easily, that smile never wavering on his face. “Something has clearly come of all those hours she has dedicated to practicing.” He turns to you with that lovely smile and those dark eyes, and while he was handsome under the night sky, it can’t compare to what he looks like now, under the sun. “It seems good fortune has brought us together before the next ball of the season, Miss L/N. Would you mind if I joined your walk, so that we might continue our conversation from the other night?”

Well. You blink once or twice, casting a glance at your aunt, who seems about as confused as you are. In the absence of her input, you choose to assent. “Of course, my lord. We would be honored.”

And so the walk continues, though Lilly and Jieun continue to shoot you confused and excited glances every so often. You ignore them as you best you can, which isn’t hard when Lord Kang is beside you. 

“It’s good to see you, my lord,” you say. “How have you been since the Tillings’ ball?”

“Well enough, though the rain has been somewhat dragging on my mood over the past few days.” He shrugs. “Such is London, though.”

“It is a bit dreadful to think of, if this is what it’s always like,” you say, only half joking. “More time for me to practice, I suppose, though I must admit I am very happy to see the sun.”

“And to be with your family?”

“…Of course,” you respond quickly, though you’re sure he can see exactly how you feel about the group you’re walking with, judging by his half smile. 

“I understand,” he says quietly. “It is not always easy when one’s kin doesn’t quite appreciate the depths of one’s interests.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “You have experience with it too, my lord?”

“With music, somewhat,” he admits. “But more so reading. My family is well-read, of course, but many of them cannot fathom that I would usually rather be in my library than socializing with the ton.”

“I would agree with your sentiment.” The two of you laugh. “What do you like to read?”

It takes a little prodding, but your question eventually launches Lord Kang into a spiel about classics, about authors old and new, novels and philosophy and literature of times so far in the past that you almost can’t fathom it. Truth be told, you don’t know much about what he speaks of—you enjoy reading, but your books of choice tend to be the popular novels of today, and while you recognize some of the classic titles he mentions you can’t say you particularly enjoyed them. But listening to him talk about them, hearing the passion behind his every word, is captivating in a way that you’d never have thought possible when speaking of Plato and Aristotle. And in the midst of this, he never makes you feel out of place or stupid. He answers each of your questions with enthusiastic verve no matter how basic they are, and by the time his friends are calling for him from the end of the park, you’re both so wrapped in your conversation that you almost don’t hear them. 

“I’m afraid I must go,” Lord Kang apologizes when you finally point out the two men making their way towards you. “I promised I would meet them later.” He suddenly looks a little shy, which is a more endearing expression than you’d have expected on his handsome face. “I hope I did not bore you with my talk. I know this subject is not the most interesting to everyone and I can get…carried away with it.”

“Not at all,” you respond immediately. “Truly, not at all. I love hearing about the interests that others have, and clearly this is a deep one of yours. I enjoyed our conversation immensely.” You draw a short breath. “In truth, it was…very good to speak with someone other than my family today.” Your smile, though not forced, feels considerably smaller than it was before. “I do not have many friends in the ton, as I was abroad for so long. Thank you for taking pity on a poor soul such as I, and speaking to me as one.”

Lord Kang steps forward and takes your hand gently, so gently. When he looks into your eyes it is as though he sees all of your soul and your breath catches at the warmth of his palm against yours. “It was never pity,” he says sincerely. “You are a wonderful person with whom to speak, and if I may presume, the beginnings of a very good friend. I look forward to the next time I may see you.” 

You fight to keep your voice steady against the rush of heat in your cheeks. “And I you, my lord. Have a wonderful evening.”

The setting sun perfectly frames his lovely smile. “Until next time, then.” 

The pressure of his lips against your skin lingers long after he has disappeared, long after you have returned home, and long after you have retired for the night.

. . . . .

Beomgyu pounces the moment they’re all seated at the club. “So who was that?”

Taehyun really should have expected this. Even with that knowledge, though, he still has to roll his eyes. “Who are you talking about?” he can’t resist asking. Beomgyu is annoying. He has to be annoying back, sometimes. 

“The girl you were with. The debutante.” Beomgyu grins, undeterred. “Who is she?”

Taehyun gives up. He’ll never win against Beomgyu. “Miss Y/N L/N,” he says, conceding defeat. “We met at the Tillings’ ball a few days ago.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “The pianist?” 

“That’s the one.” Taehyun grins. “I told her you were almost inspired to take lessons because of her.” Kai groans, and Taehyun’s smile only widens. “She was flattered.”

“And I bet she laughed,” Beomgyu adds. 

“She did.”

Kai just screams into his hands. 

“I don’t believe that you didn’t make a fool out of yourself either,” Beomgyu accuses amidst Kai’s muffled screaming. “You admired her at least as much as he did, probably more for your love of music. How much of an idiot did you look when you realized it was her?”

Taehyun is an honest man, but only to a point. “Not much at all.”

Beomgyu snorts, but that’s when their drinks arrive, so Taehyun thanks the higher powers for intervening before he was forced into revealing the truth of warm cheeks and night air. “And how goes you and your lady friend?” Taehyun asks before Beomgyu can pick up his line of questioning again. “Last I remember, she was threatening to slit your throat with your own letter opener. Have there been any recent developments?”

It’s Kai’s turn to laugh while Beomgyu scowls. “Oh, are there,” Kai snickers. “It’s only the most interesting thing in Whistledown right now, second only to the continued absence of a diamond in the field of this season’s debutantes.”

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “It’s made it into Whistledown?”

“An entire paragraph on the row they had at the last party in the country, right before the season started.” Kai grins. “I know you aren’t a fan of the gossip papers, Taehyun, but you have to read this one. I’ll send you a copy tomorrow. I can only wonder why Whistledown decided to wait until this issue to write about it, though perhaps such a sensational story needed several weeks to perfect.” 

Beomgyu scowls even harder as Taehyun laughs. “I don’t know why that woman Whistledown can’t mind her own business,” he complains. “It was a private argument.”

“A private argument in the gardens outside the host’s home, loud enough that we heard it from inside,” Taehyun says dryly.

“Yes, well, she’s irritating,” Beomgyu snaps, taking a gulp of his drink like he needs it to clear his memory. “Why do you keep asking me about her? I don’t want to talk about it, she’s infuriating.”

“You sure talk about her a lot for someone who says he doesn’t want to talk about her,” Taehyun smirks. “Also, you’re the one who tried to embarrass me first.”

Beomgyu growls. “It’s just ridiculous that she’s still angry over something from when we were children!”

“I don’t know, Beomgyu.” Taehyun shakes his head, hiding a smile. “I was there, and that was a lot of cake. And it washer birthday.”

“Yes, well, she threw dirt at me after that!”

“It sounds to me like you’re still pretty hung up over something from when you were children, too.” Kai sips at his drink, eyes glittering amusedly over the glass. 

Beomgyu just glares at both of them. 

“Alright, we’ll stop.” Taehyun snickers. “At least until I read the copy that Kai’s going to give me.”

“Read all you want.” Beomgyu rolls your eyes. “It’s one paragraph. And from the look you were giving the L/N girl earlier, that’s not even going to be the most interesting part of the paper to you.”

Taehyun blinks. “What?”

“She’s been in the papers,” Kai says. “She’s famous, remember? Whistledown gave her a whole half paragraph when she returned to town and her father announced her debut.”

Taehyun resists the urge to hit himself over the head. If he’d been in the habit of reading the gossip papers, maybe he wouldn’t have been so damn blindsided when he spoke to you at the Tillings’ ball the first time. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I always make sense,” Kai sniffs, pointedly ignoring both Taehyun and Beomgyu’s snorts. “But how is she, as a person and as a debutante? I’m quite curious as to the persona behind the world-famous pianist.”

Taehyun opens his mouth, then closes it. Takes a sip of his drink. How exactly should he describe you to people you haven’t even met? You’ve only spoken twice—does he even have the right to say anything? “She’s very sweet,” he eventually says. “A bit shy, I think. It’s interesting—she doesn’t seem to enjoy being in the spotlight, though she clearly enjoys piano and performance. But she’s very humble, and I think she’s a very bright young lady.”

“Not without her own sort of wit and charm, then?” 

Beomgyu’s looking at Taehyun in a way he isn’t quite sure what to make of, but he answers anyway. “Very much so. You would probably enjoy a conversation with her.” He smirks at Beomgyu over his glass. “She’d probably like you, against her better judgment.”

Beomgyu cackles. “Of course she would, I’m a joy to be around.”

“You’re certainly something to be around, though I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘joy,’” Kai intones, taking a sip of his drink. “Is she adjusting to London well? She was abroad for a good many years.”

A snippet of your conversation from earlier comes to Taehyun’s mind. Your admission that after spending so much time away from London, you don’t have many people with whom to have a simple conversation with, just as simple friends. “She seems to be fine,” Taehyun replies slowly. “Though she mentioned it was a bit difficult to make friends after so long abroad.” He can’t imagine how hard the season must be for you, with a family who doesn’t respect your passion and no one to really confide in. For all he teases Kai and Beomgyu, he can’t imagine navigating life without them.

“The Duchess of Hastings was in a similar situation before she married Yeonjun,” Beomgyu says, and he’s giving Taehyun that strange, discerning look that he couldn’t decipher before. “Why don’t you introduce the two? Her Grace also quite enjoys music, I think they would get along quite well.”

“Invite her to the Hastings’ gathering next week,” Kai adds. “Of course ask the duchess first, but I’m sure she’d be happy to extend the invite.”

That’s actually brilliant, and Taehyun is privately put out that he didn’t think of the idea first. The more he thinks of it, the more he’s certain that you and his cousin could be good friends. “Yes, I’ll do that,” he says, half-rising out of his chair. “I’ll write to the duchess as soon as I can.”

“Surely not now?” Kai raises an eyebrow at Taehyun’s half-standing position. “You still have the whole night, there’s no reason to leave your drink unfinished.”

Taehyun flushes and sits back down. Kai’s comment makes complete sense—why was he standing up so urgently, anyway? “Of course,” he says, taking a sip to hide his embarrassment even though it’s definitely not fooling anyone. “By the way, Kai, how are your family affairs going? Surely your uncle still isn’t trying to lay claim to any part of your inheritance.”

It’s an obvious ploy to distract from his own embarrassment but Kai thankfully takes the bait, immediately putting forth an impassioned spiel about his arguments with his uncle’s idiotic solicitor that would put any of Shakespeare’s soliloquies to shame. It’s easy enough to laugh along and commiserate with Kai’s troubles that Taehyun allows his mind to wander a little, to the thought of you and the duchess meeting, to the beautiful music that is sure to follow, to the smile that will hopefully adorn your lips when you meet another woman who appreciates music as much as you. 

“You’re smiling an awful lot, Taehyun,” Beomgyu says, bringing Taehyun’s attention back to the present. He’s smirking a little and so is Kai, but Taehyun for the life of him cannot understand why. “Did you find Kai’s story really that funny?”

“No, I’m sorry.” He sips his drink, gesturing for Kai to continue. “I just got a little lost in thought.”

Kai keeps talking, and Taehyun goes back to listening. In the back of his mind, though, he’s hearing soft melodies in the darkened corridor of a mansion, and seeing the night sky twinkling above. 

. . . . .

Maybe someday receiving callers will no longer make you feel like flying to pieces. 

Today, however, is not that day. 

Four gentlemen callers—one of them Mr. Haynesworth, with whom you almost couldn’t hide your displeasure at seeing. The other three were pleasant enough and mostly inoffensive, but by the time the fourth caller came, you were running out of ways to begin small talk and based on your aunt’s subtle glare in your direction, it had probably started to show. 

It’s somewhat amusing, if not also somewhat depressing, how bad you are at speaking with strangers. You’ve performed for royal courts and houses of nobility for years, but when it comes to carrying a conversation, you can only bumble your way through inane small talk for so long before you run out of the headspace for it. Though privately, you think that’s a little unfair—it seems only right that it would be the caller’s job to ensure the conversation kept going, since they were the one who made the call, so you shouldn’t have to put in all the effort. But based on every glare or sniff or cough your aunt sent in your direction whenever the conversation faltered, that apparently is not the case.

It’s over, though. At least you think it is—it’s nearly five and no one has showed up since the last caller left. And if it isover, that means you have no one to entertain for the rest of the day. Your governess has already promised to bring your dinner to your room, and you plan on locking yourself in your music room for the rest of the night after that.

It’s like a reward.

“The biscuits are almost gone,” Aunt Taylor says, standing up from the settee. “I will have a servant bring more.” She fixes you with a stern stare. “Don’t slouch. It is not quite five, and you may still receive another caller yet.” She then sweeps out of the room, and once she’s gone, you slump into the cushions a little more, ignoring your governess’s fretful eyes. 

As if anyone would come calling now, really. Ten minutes to five, which means hardly enough time to begin a conversation once the initial pleasantries were dished out even if someone arrived right at this second. You sink a little further into the couch. Aunt Taylor won’t be back for another couple of minutes at least. You can take at least that long to be comfortable. 

Sooner than you’d like, footsteps sound in the hall outside. You quickly pull yourself up, smoothing out your dress, and await the renewed presence of your aunt. 

Only it isn’t your aunt. You blink when a footman enters instead, a card held in his hand. “A caller, my lady,” he says, squinting at the card. “Lord Kang, Earl of Addiston.”

What?

Of course, it is then that your aunt decides to sweep back into the room. “Another caller?” she asks sharply as a trailing servant places a refilled plate of biscuits on the table. “Who?”

Thankfully, your governess has recovered from the surprise more quickly than you have. “A Lord Kang, my lady,” she says. “Earl of Addiston.”

Your aunt throws you a sharp glance. Inwardly, you wilt a little—she’ll be sure to interrogate you after this, asking you to recount every last detail of your and the earl’s conversation yesterday in the park even though you already told her everything you could remember last night during dinner—but for now she says nothing as she nods to the footman. “Bring him in, please.”

For some reason, when you stand, your heart begins to race. You force yourself to take slow, deep breaths. It may be Lord Kang, but he called with only five minutes—now less—left on the clock. Surely he can’t have much to say. 

Though, a little voice in the back of your mind says, you’d much rather talk to him than any of the four who came earlier today.

Footsteps sound lightly in the hall, thankfully keeping you from pursuing that train of thought down unsavory paths. But then Lord Kang appears in the doorway, looking as handsome and gentle and polite as he has every time you’ve spoken to him, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice steady as you welcome him to your home. 

“Lord Kang.” You curtsy, your smile widening in a way that comes more easily now than it has all day. “Welcome. I hope you have been well since we last spoke.”

“I have been, and it is a pleasure to see you all again,” he replies, bowing politely. His eyes meet yours and, in the sunlight streaming softly through the window, they almost seem to sparkle. “I apologize for calling so late in the hour, but I had some business I had to attend to before I delivered this to you.” He produces a small envelope from a pocket and extends it to you.

You look at your aunt, who seems equally bemused as you. “If I may ask, my lord, what is this?” you ask, feeling the smooth paper between your fingers. 

“My cousin, the Duchess of Hastings, is hosting a small party next weekend,” he says, either ignoring or not hearing the collective half-gasp in the room at the mention of the duchess. “She and the duke have just come in from the country for the season, and she is holding a gathering for some friends and family. I mentioned that I had met you, and she was quite excited to extend you an invite—she is also an avid enjoyer of music and wonderful pianist, so I am sure you two will get along very well.”

You feel a little lightheaded. Sure, you’ve performed for royalty, but you’ve never been on close terms with any of them. You were very clearly the entertainer and they the entertained, with very little chance to cross that line even if you were of a mind to. But now Lord Kang is offering you the chance to become acquainted to a duchess, just a step below royalty, and who loves music and is a pianist at that—

One corner of the envelope digs into your finger. Just a slight pain, but enough to remind you that this is real and not a dream.

A quick glance at your aunt earns you a subtle but very emphatic nod, so you look back to Lord Kang with a smile wider than it has been all day. “Please tell the duchess that I would be delighted to come,” you say. “Thank you for the invite, my lord. I do look forward to this event.”

“It is my pleasure.” Lord Kang smiles, and you don’t think it’s your imagination when you muse that it might be a little brighter than it was before. It’s certainly not your imagination when you briefly think you might like to look at that smile for a lot longer. But then the clock chimes and the smile falls, replaced by a sheepish expression. “Apologies again for calling so late, my lady.”

You shake your head. “It was no inconvenience at all.”

“Be that as it may, I will not keep you longer than the calling hour lasts,” he says, sweeping a bow. “Good day, Miss L/N, Lady Taylor. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

. . . . .

“Taehyun!”

Taehyun turns to the sound of his name, not bothering to hide the wide smile spreading across his face when he sees who called for him. “Your Grace,” he greets as his cousin comes closer, her eyes sparkling. “It’s good to see you.”

She waves a hand. “Dispense with the formalities,” she sniffs, and then they both laugh. “How have you been? Oh—remind me before you leave, but my footman will help bring some of the books I need to return to your carriage.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” he says sincerely. “I also brought some of my own books to recommend, as well as the ones you asked for. And I’ve been well, though I’ve learned that the season is rather more…daunting, than I would have expected.”

The duchess nods sympathetically. “I don’t honestly believe it’s fun for anyone,” she admits. “Except maybe the dancing. But there are plenty of young ladies this season who would be a good match for anyone, if Whistledown is to be believed. Speaking of.” Her gaze wanders to the entrance. “Is that her? The debutante you asked to invite?”

Taehyun turns around, catching sight of a familiar face, and smiles. “Yes, that is.”

You step into the room with a sort of trepidation that Taehyun sorely understands. In the moments before you see him, you look somewhat lost, your own eyes wide as you take in the whole room. Your expression seems a bit overwhelmed so Taehyun wastes no time in catching your eye, and when you recognize him something like relief seems to pass over your face. Somehow, you two meet in the middle of the fray and for one strange moment Taehyun finds himself almost breathless. “Lady Taylor. Miss L/N,” he greets, pressing a soft kiss to your gloved hand. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Please allow me to introduce you to Her Grace, the Duchess of Hastings.”

Lady Taylor curtsies, as do you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she says, her strong voice carrying just a hint of awe. “I am Lady Taylor, Viscountess of Wentworth, and this is my niece, Y/N L/N, daughter of the Viscount L/N.”

“It is wonderful to meet you both,” his cousin says, beaming widely. “And especially an honor to have met you, Miss L/N. You’ve caused quite a stir in town with your own fame here and abroad.”

Surprise flutters across your expression, replaced with a sort of embarrassed pride that Taehyun finds very endearing. “Your words do honor me, Your Grace,” you say, voice soft and shy, something of a far cry from the animation you displayed during the Tillings’ ball, or during your brief promenade in the park. You don’t look frightened, though, just somewhat in awe, so Taehyun brushes off his initial concern. “Particularly since the earl has mentioned that you are a lover of music, too. You give me high praise.”

Taehyun watches his cousin laugh and blush a little, and happiness bursts in a small bubble in his chest. She’s settled beautifully into her role as duchess and into her life with Yeonjun, but she’s still looking to widen her own circle of friends after spending so long abroad. The two of you begin to converse, your own shy face animating the more you speak, and with a smile and quick excuse, Taehyun ducks out of the conversation, heading toward the other end of the room. 

Yeonjun catches his eye first. “Taehyun!” he calls, beaming wide. 

“Your Grace,” Taehyun replies, settling into the circle that includes the duke, Beomgyu, Soobin, and Kai. “How have you all been?” 

Yeonjun pulls an exaggerated frown. “Hasn’t my wife told you to dispense with the pleasantries when we are among friends?” he asks, and Taehyun laughs because yes, she did exactly that. “Come, have a drink.”

Taehyun accepts the proffered glass and takes a sip. “You really pulled out all the stops for this,” he says approvingly, swirling the amber liquid inside. 

“What can I say?” Yeonjun shrugs airily. “My wife organized this. The least I could do is help make the event a success.”

“With expensive alcohol,” Soobin deadpans. 

“Exactly.”

Next to Taehyun, Beomgyu coughs very strangely. It almost sounds like he’s saying something like head over heels, actually. Then he yelps and Taehyun looks down just quickly enough to see Soobin’s foot pressing hard onto Beomgyu’s. 

Kai and Taehyun exchange glances. Taehyun has to look away to avoid bursting into laughter. 

“Don’t worry, Beomgyu.” Yeonjun beams beatifically over his own glass of expensive alcohol, sharp eyes glinting at his cousin. “Someday you’ll find a lady who will send you into fits of apoplexy with her beauty and wit, and on that day you’ll understand. Or maybe you’ve already found her.” He adopts a thinking expression. “Who was it that Whistledown mentioned? The lady from your childhood, Miss—”

Beomgyu lets out an incomprehensible noise somewhere between a screech and a snarl, and if they weren’t in Yeonjun’s own home, Taehyun thinks Beomgyu might have jumped the duke. As it stands, though, they begin bickering, which leaves Kai, Soobin, and himself to look at each other with raised eyebrows and exasperated smiles. 

“Let’s step away from the rabble,” Soobin suggests, and the three of them drift a short distance away. “I don’t understand how I’m related to them, sometimes.”

“Well, every family has its own set of strange relations,” Kai mutters. 

“You would know,” Taehyun says, and they all snort. 

“Do the inheritance squabbles still show no sign of ending?” Soobin asks curiously. “I would have thought by now that it’s become abundantly clear your uncle has no real claim to anything your grandfather left.”

Kai rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately not. But let us not speak of it now, please. Not in polite company,” he says, indicating the rest of the room. “Join me at the club sometime, and I will update you on all of it.”

“Of course,” Soobin says, dipping his head in apology. “How about you, Taehyun? How goes the season? I know you intended to find a wife by the end of it.”

Without really meaning to, Taehyun’s gaze wanders to the other end of the room, where you are still engaged in lively conversation with the duchess. “It is tiring in a way I did not really expect,” he replies. “Taemin didn’t complain much when he went through it, at least. But…” He pauses, wondering how much to tell. “I have met some very interesting young ladies.”

Kai snorts. Taehyun flashes him a short glare. “What?”

His friend doesn’t back down, just raises one mischievous eyebrow over his drink. “Well, I just think that I would say there’s one young lady that you find more interesting than all of the others.” 

Taehyun’s ears burn. He very purposely avoids looking in your direction again. 

“Well, do tell.” Soobin cocks his head, his own eyes glinting. “And don’t spare details.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Taehyun snaps, ignoring Kai’s snicker. “I’ve been speaking to Miss L/N, is all. The pianist,” he clarifies, and Soobin’s eyes widen in recognition. “She’s a very lovely young woman. Accomplished, not just with the piano, and very kind.”

“So lovely, actually, that he asked Her Grace to invite her today,” Kai adds. 

“Which one is she?” Soobin asks, ignoring Taehyun’s hiss of you suggested inviting her first! “Is she the lady speaking to the duchess now, with the rather dour-faced woman behind her?”

Taehyun sighs in defeat and nods. “Yes, she is.”

They all turn together, and almost at the same moment, the duchess turns in his direction as well. She catches his eye and immediately starts to head his way, bringing a small group with her. Kai glances at him with an eyebrow raised, but all Taehyun can do is shrug with similar confusion.

“Lord Kang,” she says as soon as they’re near enough to speak. “Mr. Huening. I understand that the two of you have seen Miss L/N perform before in Germany?”

They nod. “It was a most impressive performance,” Taehyun says earnestly. “A lovely program, played beautifully and wonderfully well.”

“Incredibly so,” Kai chimes in. “In fact, I was almost inspired to take music lessons because of it.”

You look supremely embarrassed, but the smile on your lips is still sparkling in your eyes in a way Taehyun hasn’t seen yet. “So you are the friend Lord Kang mentioned when we first met,” you say, and Taehyun has to laugh even as Kai flushes in embarrassment. “Oh—please do not be embarrassed, Mr. Huening. Your words do me a great honor, truly.”

“You are far too modest, my lady,” Taehyun replies, and while everyone’s attention turns to him, he keeps his eyes fixed on yours. “The praise is well earned, I hope you know that.”

“Which only means that the lady should honor our humble request,” Lord Jung says, a twinkle in his eye. “We were just asking that she take a turn on the pianoforte for us. A private performance, if you will, from one of the most accomplished musicians in our society. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for many of us, after all.”

A chorus of agreement sounds from your little group and begins to ripple outwards to the rest of the room as well. People begin to turn, expectation and excitement bright in their faces, but Taehyun glances at you only to find your expression somewhat frozen. 

All at once he remembers the dark night at the Tillings’ ball, the exhaustion clear in your face and your voice when you admitted you were searching for quiet, too. Are you tired now in the same way? He subtly inches a little closer to you and whispers lowly, “You do not have to if you do not wish to.”

You look up at him and your expression clears, eyes turning soft as you smile at him. “Worry not, my lord,” you reply. “I would love to perform. I was just momentarily overwhelmed—I wasn’t expecting quite so much enthusiasm. I do thank you for your concern, though.”

Taehyun smiles, shaking his head. “You are too modest,” he repeats. “The enthusiasm is only to be expected with a name such as yours. I am excited to hear what you play for us, too.”

You don’t have the chance to refute his praise because his cousin is taking your arm and leading you to the empty piano, the rest of the room excitedly whispering behind you. Taehyun watches you sit down at the keys, running your fingers over them with an almost reverent touch, your head bowed slightly over the sea of black and white as though in prayer.

And maybe it is a prayer, Taehyun thinks. Reverence paid to your love, music—like one paying thanks to their god. The thought is beautiful, and as you straighten slightly, positioning your hands at the instrument, he can’t help but admire you more. 

He doesn’t recognize the piece you play. It’s a lovely work, the quiet melody evocative of the night and dark while short, bright stanzas bring to mind the stars, and as your fingers waltz softly across the keys, Taehyun loses himself in the beauty of the music and the beauty of you. It is not that you weren’t beautiful before—far from it, actually—but seeing you in your element, with people who clearly appreciate your work and talent, is a spectacle Taehyun knows he will never tire of watching. It isn’t just the music. It’s the way you play it, the way you move with the melody—it’s the way you embody the music with your whole being that adds to the beauty of the moment, and the loveliness that is you. 

You finish the piece to silence, everyone’s collective breath hushed as you coax the last note from the piano strings. For a long moment, even after the final echoes of music have faded away, you remain bowed over the keys, eyes closed, hands suspended in the air before they drop softly to your lap. 

The first clap hardly breaks you from your reverie. Even as the applause grows, even as you curtsy to the shouts of Brava filling the room, you still seem like you are being pulled from the loveliest dream. Briefly, Taehyun wonders what it would be like to be in that dream with you—would it be like floating among the stars, letting their soft light wash over his body, or would it be like lying on a field of green grass at night, staring up at the moonlit sky?

You meet Taehyun’s eyes and in a moment you seem to jerk awake—your smile widens, your expression brightens, and he can’t help but do the same as you curtsy again and again. All the time his eyes never leave your face, his mind never leaving the beauty of your performance. 

Kai sidles up to his ear and snorts when Taehyun barely notices him. “You are going to court her, aren’t you?” he asks without preamble. 

“Yes.” Taehyun doesn’t even turn his eyes away from you to reply. “Yes, I am.”

. . . . .

At the start of the season, you’d hoped that the daily parade of balls, gatherings, promenades, and callers would die down a bit as the weeks went on. The season itself is six months, already half a year—you really thought there would be no way that the steady stream of events could continue for so long. 

This, apparently, is not the case. 

It’s been a month and there is no sign of the flow ebbing even slightly. Even when there aren’t massive balls that the entire ton is invited to, there are still the smaller gatherings—small parties, invites to dinner, promenades in the park—and even during the events where only the women are present, the talk always seems to turn to the season, to the debutantes, to engagements and marriage, and most of all, the fact that the queen has still not chosen a diamond. 

You’ve heard all manner of stupidity about this last topic of gossip, and it honestly annoys you more than anything else you’ve seen during the season. If the queen hasn’t chosen a diamond by now, you’d like to say, perhaps that means she simply does not plan to. But apparently the idea of a diamond being absent for the entire season is simply unthinkable to the mamas of the ton, and so after the separation of the sexes at every dinner party you attend, you’re forced to listen to them run the topic into the ground. 

The duchess’s gathering last weekend was a lovely respite from such talk. It was a much smaller gathering, mostly friends and family of the duchy who no longer have much of a stake in the season or who have lived long enough for them not to care. You were very lucky to have gotten an invitation to it at all. It was the first event you attended that you truly enjoyed from start to finish and you walked away from it with both a lingering happiness, a possible good friend in the duchess, and a promise of a call from the lord who invited you to the gathering in the first place. 

Even now, you can’t stop the rush of heat to your face when you remember his sincere compliments after your performance at the duchess’s. The way his large eyes sparkled so earnestly, his words sweet but respectful—it is true that you have only known him for a few weeks, but in that moment, you remember thinking that with every meeting your estimation of his character only seems to improve. And it isn’t just because he is effusive in paying you compliments for your performances. Lord Kang…he sees the person behind the performer, the hard work behind the talent. Of course it helps that he is somewhat of a musician himself—you’d love to hear him play sometime—but he clearly respects the work anyone puts into their own craft, from what you gathered in the conversations you shared with others at the party. 

Before you left, he had found you again and asked, somewhat shyly, if you enjoyed reading about music history or theory. When you responded yes to both, he told you he had several volumes on the subjects in his library, and would be happy to lend them to you if you wished. 

Aunt Taylor was not pleased by your stammering reply. Neither were you. But it was such a kind gesture that it took you aback for a good few moments, and by the time you had finally managed to convey that you would love that, you felt a true mess. Lord Kang didn’t seem perturbed by it at all, though. His smile only widened, and he said that then he would have to call sometime the next week, to see you and bring them to you. 

Your governess is certain he means to court you. So do your cousins, though Aunt Taylor has forbidden them from gossiping about it as it isn’t a sure thing yet. You aren’t quite as certain as they are, but deep inside, battling with the part of you that fears marriage and its shackles of responsibility, another part of you hopes that she is right.

The prospect of Lord Kang’s call is really what keeps you going through the seemingly endless nights of dinner parties and mindless chatter, small talk made with family friends you hardly remember and debutantes who either talk about topics you don’t know or care little about, or who look like they want to be there about as much as you do. You find a few kindred spirits among those who are bold enough to whisper their disdain aloud, though, and they make the time more worth it. 

Still, when the morning of Lord Kang’s call comes, you can’t help but feel as though a new light shines on the day. Cousin Lilly slyly remarks that you look more excited than usual as she removes her toddlers from the drawing room in anticipation of calling hour, and even Aunt Taylor’s hissed instructions to sit straight or you’ll turn a perfectly good suitor away doesn’t dampen your mood much as you settle into the couch, watching servants flit about with last minute preparations. 

Just a few minutes after the clock strikes three, a footman enters the room. “Lord Kang has come to call, my lady,” he says. 

You force yourself to breathe properly as your aunt tells him to bring Lord Kang in. For once, you thank the heavens for your aunt’s beady-eyed attention to detail. While her sharp critiques may sting more than they help when directed at you, it means that the room is clean and bright. Lord Kang should find himself most comfortable when he comes in. Or so you hope. 

Lord Kang enters the room with little fanfare, but with an abundance of quiet grace that, for all your earlier nervousness, immediately calms your nerves. After the initial greetings, he remarks on the careful décor of the room and pays compliment to your aunt, who actually looks briefly stunned before she accepts his praise. You’re smiling widely by the time he turns to you—maybe too widely for your aunt’s liking, but you can’t help it—and dare you say it? His eyes seem to sparkle a little more when he looks at you. 

“My lady,” he says, kissing your hand. “I trust you have been well since we last saw each other.”

“Quite so, and I hope I might say the same for you,” you reply. Honestly, you’re quite proud of yourself for keeping your voice so steady when your heart leapt so wildly the moment his lips touched your knuckles. 

“You may,” he says, eyes crinkling with a little mischief. “And as promised, I have brought you the books I mentioned when we spoke last time. I do hope you enjoy them.”

“I’m sure I will,” you say, taking the small stack of books with delight. Their worn covers speak of frequent and fond use, you note, scanning the titles embossed on their spines. “Oh!” you exclaim, sliding one of them out of the stack. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to read this for quite some time.” You beam up at Lord Kang. “Thank you so much, my lord.”

“It is my pleasure,” he replies, a lovely soft smile on his lips. “And, please, take your time reading them. Do not endeavor to return them sooner than you’d like—I’ve read them all, so you need not rush.”

“You are most kind,” you reply sincerely. “Oh, which reminds me.” Placing the books on a nearby table, you pick up a few sheets of music from the drawing room piano. “You mentioned last time that you had not heard the piece I played, and that you found it quite beautiful,” you say, extending the music to him. “I thought…I thought you might like to have the music. If you wanted to learn it yourself.”

Lord Kang takes a moment before he accepts the music from your hand, which makes you a little nervous—what if he doesn’t care for your gift? There’s no way it really compares to the volumes he’s lent you, you think miserably, but it’s all you could think of to give in return. But then he looks up from the black notes inked on the page, and that lovely smile of his has widened along with his bright eyes. “Thank you so much,” he breathes. “This is…the most perfect gift, my lady. I hope you will not mind me borrowing it for a time.”

“Oh, do not worry about returning it,” you say, smiling. “This is a new copy—I have my own for myself. This one is for you.”

“Well, in that case, I know what I will be doing when I return home,” Lord Kang replies, and the two of you laugh. “I can only hope to learn this piece half as well as you have.”

You laugh again, hiding a shy smile behind your hand. “Again, my lord, you flatter me too much.”

“No, I fear the world does not flatter you enough.” His words are so sincere, so earnest that you momentarily find yourself at a loss for words. And it’s then, of course, that you notice you’re both still standing. You haven’t even offered him a seat yet. 

“You really are too kind,” you reply, internally screaming. “Please my lord, do sit. We have some refreshments if you should like any, and our cook can prepare others if you are feeling particular.”

Lord Kang truly does have perfect manners, you note as you sit down together. He compliments the chef, your aunt, your governess, all so quickly and smoothly you barely have a moment to bat an eye. And then, when you’re floundering a little for a way to begin a conversation, he again takes the lead and engages you easily with a question about the composer of the music you gave him. 

It’s so easy to talk to him. Not just because he’s a wonderful conversationalist, which he is, but you feel comfortable around him in a way that you haven’t felt with any of the other suitors you’ve entertained over the past couple of weeks. Part of it is your shared interests, of course, but he listens to you with an attentive and respectful air that makes talking to him so much easier. It doesn’t feel fake, the way it does with some of the other men. It feels as though he really cares about you, your interests, and what makes you happy. 

And because of this, it’s not difficult to reciprocate in kind. As he mentioned during your promenade, Lord Kang clearly loves literature. When you ask about his library, his enthusiasm about the subject is infectious. At some point you land on the topic of an author that you both have read, one that he enjoyed and you didn’t, and it sparks a lively back-and-forth that has both of you laughing in the end. You’re nowhere near as well-read as he is, and in this conversation it unfortunately shows—his opinions on the author are deep and nuanced while you struggle to articulate what it is about the writing that made you dislike it so—but he remains patient and respectful, and despite your lack of knowledge, just like when you spoke during your promenade, you never feel out of place or embarrassed. 

“You are so well-read, my lord,” you say at the end of your little debate. Your throat rasps a little from speaking so much but you hardly notice, you’re smiling so hard. “How did you come into possession of so many books, and how do you have the time to read them all?”

“Well, both my mother and father enjoy collecting books, so I grew up surrounded by them,” he replies. Of course, you think—such a love for literature must have been cultivated from a young age, just as your love for music. “I took it upon myself to read as many as I could when I was a child, and so when I went to school I quite enjoyed my classics lessons. Upon inheriting the earldom, I was pleased to learn that the estate came with a very large library that the previous lord had left.” At that, Lord Kang’s smile softens. “I’ve been spending all the free time that I can reading as much as possible. The late lord must have been collecting books for a very long time, though—sometimes I wonder if I will be able to finish them all before I pass on.”

You nod in sympathy. “I feel the same about all the sheet music I have collected over the years. I always want to add more to my repertoire, but there’s just so much in the world. I could certainly never hope to finish it all, though perhaps that is the beauty in it. The beauty in creation, I mean.” You glance at the music you gifted him, lying on the table beside you two. “I believe art is a tribute to humanity, to human emotion and empathy. People will be composing and writing throughout my life and long after my death, and to know that this beauty continues on even though I will not be there to share it…I think that is beautiful. It is a wonderful tradition, passed on through the ages, and I will always be honored to have been a part of it.”

A short silence falls after your declaration. Suddenly self-conscious, you look up to find Lord Kang’s eyes riveted to yours. “That is a lovely way of seeing things,” he says softly. “I had never thought about art before in such a manner.”

You duck your head, heat crawling up your cheeks. “Many perspectives exist when it comes to the philosophy of the arts, my lord. This is only mine.”

He cocks his head, meeting your eyes again. “And a lovely philosophy it is, my lady.”

Thankfully—or unthankfully, really—you’re saved from having to come up with a response by the entrance of your footman. “Another caller has arrived,” he says, glancing at you, then Lord Kang, then at your aunt. “Shall I send him in?”

You glance up at the clock. Already half an hour has passed, though to your mind it feels like only seconds have slipped away—certainly not thirty minutes, already ten minutes over what a normal call would be. Inwardly you curse the next caller for having come too soon—actually, for having come at all—because while you may not know him well, you’re quite certain Lord Kang’s impeccable manners will have him clearing out before the next caller comes in. 

To your chagrin, you’re right. Lord Kang quickly stands and you follow suit, still cursing the clock and the caller. “I will not intrude upon your next call, my lady,” he says, and maybe it is delusion but you fancy he sounds somewhat put out when he says this. “I have already taken too much of your time.”

“Not too much at all, my lord.” You curtsy to his short bow. “I did not realize so much time had passed, but I quite enjoyed our conversation. And thank you kindly for lending me your books. I will be sure to enjoy them.”

“Of course.” He inclines his head with an enchanting smile. “And I must thank you again for your kind gift, my lady. Perhaps by the next time we meet, I will have learned to play it.”

You grin. “I do hope so. It would be so lovely to hear you perform sometime.”

With that, Lord Kang makes his goodbyes, and you’re left to welcome the next caller. He is thankfully not Mr. Haynesworth, as you had privately been dreading, but really, you feel that any caller would have paled in comparison to Lord Kang. Lord Kim, whom you met at the last ball you attended, isn’t rude or vile or even awkward. He’s a gentleman, all things considered. But after the requisite greetings, he begins the call with an outright statement about his plans for the future, which leaves you half-floundering for a response after your previous lively conversation with Lord Kang. 

Lord Kim doesn’t share any of your interests. He barely feigns interest in your music, and though he doesn’t say it outright, you’re almost certain he would want you to give up the piano if you were to marry. Though that’s not even what bothers you the most, you realize only when he’s about to leave—it’s the fact that he didn’t even ask you about it. It’s the expectation that he seems to have that you would do what he says without question, without the respect of even considering your passions and interests when planning out the rest of your possible life together. 

Later that night you lie awake in your bed, staring at the dark ceiling as you run through the events of the day. In an ideal world, you ask yourself, if you were to be married, what would make it a perfect marriage?

No conflict. Perfect understanding of one another, and perfect respect. But really, those are impossible demands. You’re not sure any marriage would be perfect without conflict, anyway—such a relationship sounds awfully like a domineering husband and submissive wife, which you hope to fully steer clear of. 

But understanding and respect, even if not perfect, doesn’t seem like it should be so unattainable. Marriage, you think, should be a partnership. And a partnership implies a mutual respect for one another, no? And maybe the definition of respect varies from one person to another, but for you, it involves a consideration of your interests and how deeply they play a role in your life. Because for you, before now, almost your entire life was music. You can’t—won’t—give it up just to play a role in society. So is there anyone who might give you that respect?

The answer is obvious already. 

You sigh, rubbing a thumb over where Lord Kang kissed your hand earlier in greeting. He certainly seems to be the ideal, at least for you. Your mind returns to your avid conversation, and his complete attentiveness to you. 

Few people have listened to you like he did today. Your mother did before she died, and sometimes your governess does, but not many others. You need that, you realize. You need someone, or something, to hear you—it’s partly why you poured so much of yourself into the piano when your mother passed, because it felt like only the instrument could hear you and understand your pain, your grief. That is what you need in marriage. In partnership. 

And, you think, remembering large eyes and a soft, wide smile, there’s only one person you know who seems to fit this ideal. 

. . . . .

“You look like you’re having quite a lot of fun.”

Taehyun turns from where he’s been staring at the drink table for probably a little too long. “Yeonjun? I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

The duke picks up two glasses and hands one to him. “We weren’t certain if we were going to come either. The duchess decided last night that she wanted to get out of the house for some time, so here we are. ”

Taehyun nods. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the two of you out much since you returned to town.”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks since we returned,” Yeonjun defends. “There was and still is much to sort out, and unfortunately I have to return to the country next weekend to supervise the removal and fixing of some of the farmers’ equipment.” He sighs. “I hate responsibility.”

“It will all be fine, I’m sure,” Taehyun comforts. Yeonjun and his wife are two of the most capable people he knows; he’s certain they will be alright no matter what challenges they face. “Join us at the club tomorrow afternoon,” he offers. “Kai, Beomgyu, and Soobin will be there too.”

Yeonjun brightens immediately. “I will be there.” Then he squints his eyes into a mock frown. “Are you all now meeting without me? Is it because I’m old, and married, and jaded now?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Taehyun snickers into his drink as Yeonjun’s pout deepens exaggeratedly. “No, we just met up a few times when you were still in the country. You’ll be included in every invite now, I promise.” He pauses. “Though of course if you are busy, you are under no obligation to come.”

“Thank you very much.” Yeonjun grins, that eye smile that drove so many debutantes insane appearing on his face. “But enough about me. Now about you.” He fixes Taehyun with a stern eye. “I thought you were looking for a wife? You won’t have much luck with that, staring at this array of drinks.”

Taehyun makes a face. “I think many of these mamas want to find their daughters husbands more than I want to find myself a wife,” he mutters. 

Yeonjun nearly chokes into his drink. “That’s certainly one way to put the issue,” he coughs out, recovering. “Though I heard from Beomgyu that there is already a lady you have decided to court?”

“…Yes.” Taehyun narrows his eyes. “How did you know that? I only told Kai.”

“He says he heard it from Kai, so I think we know what happened there.” Yeonjun shrugs as Taehyun sighs. “Apparently you didn’t say it was a secret.”

He didn’t. But all the same… “He’ll be the death of me, someday,” Taehyun mutters. “But yes, I have someone in mind. Miss L/N. You met her a couple of weeks ago, at the gathering.” He pauses, then decides he may as well just be out with it. “I’ve been calling on her since.”

“That is wonderful to hear,” Yeonjun replies sincerely. “Is she here tonight?”

“She said she would be.” Taehyun glances around the room. “I specifically asked, because we keep seeming to miss each other at all the other balls. If I’m there, she isn’t, and if I’m not, she is.” They share a little laugh. “I haven’t been able to find her here since I arrived, though.” He gestures helplessly at the drink table. “Hence…”

Yeonjun makes a little ‘o’ of understanding. “I see. And you do not want to dance with any of the other debutantes?”

“I already have,” Taehyun says, glancing at the bustling dance floor. “I’m just…tired, I suppose.” He tries to smile. “You know how it is.”

He doesn’t, not really. In the year since Taehyun gotten to know the duke, he’s come to the conclusion that Yeonjun is like Taemin when it comes to things like this—ever social, ever happy to entertain and be entertained. But also like Taemin, he understands that Taehyun is different, and tires of these things much more easily than he does. “I understand,” Yeonjun replies sympathetically. A little glint enters his eye when he sees something just behind Taehyun. “If you’d like, I can cover you for a bit. So you can find some quiet.”

Taehyun casts a glance back. Sure enough, a small group of mamas and their daughters seem to be eyeing him and the duke. “That would be most appreciated,” he says gratefully. 

Within moments, Yeonjun has skillfully engaged the group of ladies in conversation and has also managed to snag a hapless Wooyoung into joining him, leaving Taehyun to slip past the throng. As the rooms grow less crowded and the corridors quieter, he takes a deep breath, reveling in the silence. 

Only it isn’t completely silent, even in this empty room. If Taehyun listens carefully, he can catch a hint of a melody that isn’t just the remnants of the orchestra fading in from a nearby corridor. 

Within moments, he’s heading down the corridor, a smile curving his lips as he searches for the source of the music. 

He finds the room with a little difficulty, following the sound of your performance down corridor after corridor. When he finally stumbles upon the slightly cracked open door, Taehyun is reminded of the second ball of the season, where he heard you that first time. He didn’t know it was you then, but he certainly knows it is you now. It helps that this is a piece he’s heard you play before—it’s a lovely Mozart sonata you performed when he called on you a few days ago—but your style is also so distinctive that even though Taehyun has only heard you play a handful of times, even not knowing the piece, he’s almost certain he would still know it was you. 

Taehyun smiles just beyond the room, leaning closer towards the open door. He won’t disturb you—even though he aims to court you, he would never trap you into a proposal by having someone catch the two of you alone together. He just wants to listen. And perhaps, when you’re finished, he’ll be able to catch you when you return back to the party, and you two can share a dance. 

It’s strange that in all the times you’ve met, the two of you have not yet danced together once. Taehyun aims to rectify that as soon as he can, if you will allow it. 

And allow it you will, he thinks. He’s certain he’s not the only one who has noticed how well you two get along. You must have felt it too, just as you must also have seen by now that he is quite interested in you.  And he’s almost sure that you are interested in him too, if your shy smiles and sweet words are anything to go by. 

Closing his eyes, he leans closer to the music. A brilliant sparkle of notes swirl under your fingers, the melody leaping with a joy that lingers in his ears and widens his smile. Cheerful and sweet, though there’s a noise that doesn’t sound right entering the piece. It’s strange—it sounds something like—

Footsteps?

Taehyun quickly ducks into a nearby empty room, praying no one saw him. The low conversation of the small group continues without interruption and he breathes a sigh of relief. They keep coming closer, though, and he thinks he can hear the voice of Lady Arina Park telling Her Majesty—she brought the queen?—that she must see the Gérard painting in this room, it’s quite famous and apparently not a fake—

Holding his breath, Taehyun watches them enter the room where you’re playing. But the music doesn’t stop, not just yet. He almost smiles—it’s not hard to believe you would be so lost in the melody that you wouldn’t notice a small group of people entering the room—but that smile freezes in place when the queen makes an exclamation and the music ends abruptly. 

Taehyun swallows. This might not be good. The queen can’t be pleased that you would avoid a ball to play the pianoforte—maybe he can help, just enter the room and act surprised to see everyone. He could easily claim he was curious about the music. 

He edges into the hallway just in time to hear you apologizing profusely. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was only taking a small pause from the ball—”

“Because you delight in your endeavors.” Taehyun stops short when he hears the smile in Her Majesty’s voice. He should leave—from her tone, you are probably not in trouble, which means it’s better for him not to be here. He wouldn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping on Her Majesty. Still, though he can’t help but hear the queen’s words as he takes soundless steps down the hallway. “Someone who performs not for me, but for themselves. Brava.”

That, Taehyun can agree with. Yet while part of his heart leaps in happiness for you—it is, after all, no small feat to impress the queen—another part of him remembers your desire for quiet at the Tillings’ ball and wonders what the queen’s attention might mean for an introverted woman like you. 

You mumble something that he doesn’t quite catch. And as Taehyun steps down the corridor, he hears the queen speak again, pleasure clear in her tone. 

“A performance that sparkles,” she declares. “Just like a diamond.”

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :) Note: part 2 will be posted in three days, on June 17 at 8pm EST :)

[hirsheyskisses]

HIII you tagged killer so you write for him right??

if so could you do hcs for him with an s/o who respects his space outdoors (like know he doesnt enjoy pda) but when theyre alone/indoors they're the most affectionate ever, killer deserves sm cuddles <333 ♡♡♡

thank you!!!

Behind Closed Doors.

KILLER x READER

(Short Scenario)

A/N: YESSS I write for Killer. I did a special hugs chapter with him involving some cuddles.. so let's give him some more!

☆ as a pirate, romance wasn't something many had time for. Killer, being a vice captain to a supernova crew, that case grew even more so.

☆ however, when you came into the picture, he made an exception. You are his other half, after all.

☆ now, you both acknowledge the dangers, especially of showing it out in public, that you're lovers.

☆ not to mention, the rest of the crew (specially Kidd) will kinda make teasing remarks about any affections shown in front of them. Which quickly became a No-go for killer: no pda.

☆ he has to keep up his duties.

☆ however, when those rare, calm nights come around, with just the two of you..

Your hushed giggles filled the pitch black room, a hand resting upon your waist as his other began to fidget with his mask, pulling it off and gently placing it down on his nightstand.

A gentle click informed you the door had been locked, and your hands traveled up his chest, one wrapping around his shoulders to play with his hair, the other around his lower back. Killer guided you to the bed and you pulled him down, shoes getting kicked off somewhere in the process.

"Long day?" You whispered, hand moving up to his head, fluffing up the rather flattened bit of his hair. "Kidd had me running in circles after the Marines attacked." He responded, and that was answer enough. He laid you down and carefully allowed his weight to rest on you, burying his face into your neck. Killer was half propped on his elbow- no matter how many times you reassured him it was okay to fully lay, he refused until he was actually asleep.

His other arm came to rest around your head, and you could feel his breathing slow until it was even, and relaxed.

"You work so hard. You've done good, Killer."

"' m still not used to this.. feels nice." He groaned softly, nuzzling a bit closer.

...

"Hey- what are you-"

In the beginning stages of your relationship with him, affection was a weird subject. He didn't like it in public, and you had delayed doing so in private. But being drunk and overly confident, you had followed him to his room and wrapped your arms around him. "You're so warmmm! I like you~ have I told you that?"

Killer slid his mask off, setting it on the nightstand. The room, as always, was dark, and he was even more so grateful for it than usual: because he could feel the blush. "..you have." He responded, "good. So pretty." You buried your face into his golden hair, not noting how he had froze, or how his body was heating up.

"..think you drank too much." Killer concluded, awkwardly turning his body to wrap his arms around you. "'S okay. I love you." You'd whispered, nuzzling closer, and then grabbing the hem of his shirt to gently tug him down to your level. "Whatcha doin- mmph-" you silenced him with a kiss, a quick one, pulling away with a smug smirk.

You continued to press a kiss to each of his cheeks, nose, forehead, and neck. "Hey- (Namel- that.. kinda tickles." He gasped softly, probably the closest thing anyone would get to anlaugh out of him, as your hair brushed against his chin. "Wanna hold you," you'd slurred, and Killer couldn't help but melt.

"Then.. cmere." He guided you to his bed and gently pressed you against it, your beautiful giggles filling his mind and stomach with butterflies. The blonde leaned over you, and, taking what you'd done to him, and began to press soft kisses to your face. "I love you, too, sweetheart."

...

Thus began you both seeking out the calm nights, or those moments of silence of holding each other when no one was looking.

"You'll get used to it, kill." You responded, fingers now gently brushing through his mane, and he couldn't resist pressing gentle kisses to your neck.

"Love you, so much." Killer murmured, shivering at the still foreign, but not unwelcome, feeling of your hands across his shoulders, down his back, and your breath against his face. "Love you too. Now.. relax," you whispered, hands now massaging at his tense shoulders.

These moments, where he had you alone, were what he lived for- because each time you touched him, Killer was putty in your hands.

[houseboywife]

The tale of the three Ornsteins: a Dark Souls identity theft story

Dragonslayer Ornstein is one of the most iconic characters in Dark Souls, and for a good reason. His design is incredible, and his fight in tandem with Smough is one of the best in the series to this day. It is therefore interesting to see how strangely handled is actual in-game presence his. I am perfectly aware that a lot of this is a result of somewhat inelegant retcons, but I will attempt to bridge all of the information together to paint a picture that I find to be, if not completely satisfying, at least consistent with what I believed happened to our good old dragonslayer.

Let's start with what we learn in Dark Souls 1, which is the most straightforward. Ornstein is a being of incredible strength as the leader of the Four Knights of Gwyn, Lordran's elite soldiers who are all unquestionably loyal to their Lord. Unfortunately, by the time of Dark Souls 1, the other Knights have either died or left, so he's left alone guarding the capital City of Anor Londo. He's however joined by his good buddy Executioner Smough: and by good buddy I mean insane psycho. Smough was considered as a candidate for the position of Knight of Gwyn, but the recruiters probably changed their minds after learning that he enjoys grinding the bones of people in his meals. Also, not a surprise, he really enjoys murder.

Anyway, the important point being is that Ornstein and Smough are guarding the chamber to Gwynevere, and fight you to the death if you want to go in. This begs a question: why exactly? Gwynevere is an illusion concocted by Gwyndolin, since she has left Anor Londo long ago. Hell, Gwyndolin is actively trying to get some poor sucker to link the fire, which would require you to get the Lordvessel, which is given to you by Gwynevere/Gwyndolin. Who also doesn't seem to be particularly concerned by the two strongest knights in the realm having just died.

So the main hypothesis is that Ornstein and Smough have been placed there by Gwyndolin to test you. After all the linking of the fire is a sacred act, and you'd wanna make sure that the person you send to do it would actually be able to: after all, as shown by Dark Souls 3, you can actually fail to link the fire. So perhaps, as I said, what Gwyndolin is doing is testing you: and I get using Smough for the task, considering that everyone hates him and he also is probably willing to prove himself to join the Knights, but Ornstein? At the twilight of the kingdom of Lordran, what use is there to having the strongest knight left sacrifice himself to test a random Undead? Well, hold on that thought. For now, let's just say that the Chosen Undead kills both and proceeds to link the flame, or walk away from it.

Back with a vengeance

So let's move on to Dark Souls 2 now. Here we are in Drangleic, a completely different land set after Dark Souls 1. Which makes it very strange that in that game you can find an "Old Dragonslayer", identical to Ornstein, chilling in a church.

Now, let's not beat around the bush here: this is probably an impostor (among us????). A couple things make it pretty clear: first off, instead of using lightning attacks he wields darkness, which doesn't mean much in itself: however the Soul that you get from this boss says that "the Old Dragonslayer is reminiscent of a certain knight that appears in old legends", I'm leaning towards him being just an imitator. After all, beings with Fire Souls (Is it even a thing? You get what I mean) aren't able to come back from death, and killing Ornstein is mandatory to the story of Dark Souls 1, which we know already happened by the time of 2. The only alternative is that the Ornstein in Dark Souls 1 was an illusion, but that would be a bit silly, right?

The Ornstein in Dark Souls 1 was an illusion

Well, uh, this is awkward. Dark Souls 3 comes in and, with extreme confidence, makes everything so much more confusing. This is becaus, after defeating Gwyn's firstborn, the Nameless King, you find none other than Ornstein's armor. But hey, it could be just a repli-

Golden armor associated with Dragonslayer Ornstein, from the age of gods, and imbued with the strength of lightning. In the dragonless age, this knight, who long guarded the ruined cathedral, left the land in search of the nameless king.

Uhhhh, let's check Smough's armor maybe?

Grotesque armor associated with Smough, the last knight to stand in defense of the ruined cathedral.

Well, at least now we know that the Old Dragonslayer was a faker????

Ok ok so, what happened? It seems like that, before the events of Dark Souls 1, Ornstein left his post to search for the Nameless King, and left Smough behind in Anor Londo. So well, the logical explanation is that the first one you fight is actually an illusion made by Gwyndolin. But! The "illusion" also drops Ornstein's own Souls behind. Now, this is a bit of a pickle.

Before I go further, let me clarify something: Gwyndolin is also a character you can kill in Dark Souls 1 that returns in Dark Souls 3, but his fight is optional, and likely considered non canonical in 3. After all, there are other characters you can murder that show up again, the difference is that Ornstein is as far from optional as you can get.

So let's entertain that the Dragonslayer is an illusion: why does he drop his Soul, then ? I have an idea of what could have happned. First off, in Anor Londo you fight sever other illusions fashioned by Gwyndolin that all drop souls upon death. This, to me, seems to suggest that our favorite god of ambigous gender can't just conjure something out of nothing: they need souls.

Here's another piece of the puzzle: in the Dark Souls universe you can totally detach at least part of your soul from your body and be none the wiser. We see this with Gwyn, who gave a portion of his Souls to the Four Kings and other loyal subjects, and with Vendrick who, perhaps in shame, locked his own Soul away in the Shrine of Amana before going hollow. So I believe that the most likely explanation is that Ornstein, before departing to find the Nameless King, left his Soul (or a portion of it) to Gwyndolin in order for them to fashion an illusory guardian out of his likeness. Smough was there too, I guess. Probably Gwyndolin just wanted to get rid of him. That makes everything work out, more or less!

So let's answer one last question. Why did Ornstein seek the Nameless King? I've seen some people say that he was loyal to him all along, and some particularly creative theories state that he transformed into the dragon that the Firstborn rides. I find this to be a somewhat unsatisfactory explanation. Particularly the dragon part, of course, because the only character we ever saw meddle in dragon transformation experiments was Aldia who is probably the smartest person in the entire world, and even he didn't really get it perfectly right. Also there is absolutely zero evidence of it. Regarding the rest, well, I suppose it would be possible that Ornstein was loyal to the Nameless King, but why? He is a dragonslayer, after all, and the King was cast away specifically for having betrayed the gods in favor of the dragons (as a sidenote, the fact that the Ring of the Firstborn in Dark Souls 1 is slightly mistranslated and it made people think that he was banished for "losing the annals" is very funny. He was lost to the annals, there's no magical item named "the annals" which he lost lmao).

Anyway, I think Ornstein left to confront the Nameless King over his betrayal: perhaps he did so once his location on the Archdragon Peak became known. Talk to him? Kill him? Who knows. But is significative that the Dragonslayer Armor is found in the Nameless King's boss arena. I think that him and Ornstein engaged in a fight and, perhaps weakened by the lack of his Soul, the latter was defeated and died there. Whether this happened before or after Dark Souls 1 I do not know, but I have a feeling that this is how the warrior met his demise.

Now, why did From Software decide to add this lore in Dark Souls 3 I have no idea, considering it's very marginal in the game itself and it could have easily been left unsaid. Perhaps this was the plan all along. I will admit that not getting to fight the real Ornstein is somewhat disappointing, but also having him show up in person in Dark Souls 3 would have been a bit much. Even then, one thing is certain: despite never actually meeting him, he's certainly a memorable guy.

[sethcertified]

「 GREEN IS THE COLOR ! 」 . . . 📁 [name’s] version

the outsiders : dallas winston

wrd count : 1.3k

⊹˚.⋆ synopsis . . . [name] gets jealous when he witnesses dally flirting with a pretty, redhead girl

⊹˚.⋆ starring . . . dallas winston & male reader

Dallas Winston was a flirt. That was an undeniable fact. I was aware of this fact when we started dating. Maybe going along with him despite knowing this made me stupid. Maybe it just meant I was in love. Maybe it meant both.

I had seen him run his mouth before to all types of girls; greasers and socs and hoods alike, but I never had any fears of him cheating on me.

Even now as he chatted up some redhead I had no fears of him cheating on me; just crippling jealousy.

She was a real pretty gal, and I could see why Dally had decided to make her his target of attraction for the night. She was practically any guy's wet dream.

Cherry was her name. Suiting with her long, silky mop of dark red hair. I had my doubts if her hair color was real with the vibrancy and youth of the color, but hearing the same wonder leave Dally's mouth in such a crude manner made me gag at even considering the thought.

My foot bounced against the ground as I remembered the scene that happened a few moments ago. More specifically I remembered the words he uttered to her.

"Are you a real redhead?

But that was just the start of it. The way he got close to her as he spoke was the first bubble of envy to boil up in the pit of my stomach. Even the way he drew out the words as he spoke to the gorgeous girl fueled my ever-so-growing jealousy.

I knew his charm was working on her too as the scene played before my very eyes. The way she giggled and tried to hold back the smile as he flirted with her was telling.

"How can I find out if it's your real red hair?"

His fingers twirled the said hair around, and my fingers gripped the metal seat roughly.

"Is this the same red hair that you have-" Dally pointed down at the girl's crotch before his pointed finger up to her face, "on these eyebrows, too?"

A deep frown covered my face. They looked good together. Better looking than Dally and I for sure. These thoughts were clouding my mind as second after second passed. With a shake of my head, I stood up from my seat next to Johnny and left the destination of my friends, and the soc girls entertaining them.

I wasn't sure where I was going, but | was sure it had to be far away from them. Small feelings of guilt built up in me for abandoning my brother Ponyboy, but he had Johnny to keep him company. I just couldn't bare to see the flirting fiasco between Cherry and Dally.

And that's how I got here; against a rackety, old fence while my mind danced with entanglements of Cherry and Dally. The reasonable option was for me to go home, and pass out on the couch, so I didn't have to deal with my relationship troubles, but my yearning for Dally to find me and rid me of this envy trumped my logical thinking.

The ground was rough, and the sky was painted with billions of stars. As embarrassing as it was those things were my only source of company as the hands-on my watch flew by in a circular motion. The sight of my watch was just making me feel shittier as the minutes flew by.

Standing up with a shove against the old, beat-up fence I began to tromp away from the drive in movie theater. Dally wasn't coming to be my Prince Charming and save the day no matter how long I waited for him, so what was the point in waiting any longer?

My fingers trailed across the lining of the fence dragging against my movements trying to distract me from my troublesome thoughts. All wanted was to get home as soon as possible and then cry myself to sleep.

"[Namel!"

My name? I turned in the direction of the shout with a small boost in my mood. Maybe Dally did come for me after all?

My dream was proven true as I caught sight of a sprinting denim-clad Dallas Winston. His hair flopped and flew against the wind as he dashed straight at me.

Dally's large hands held my shoulders like they were his lifeline as he caught his breath trying to soothe his aching abdomen from the run,

"What-what are you doing?"

"Walking home? Did you run the whole time trying to find me? You're sweating like a pig!"

"Only for you, sweetheart."

"Oh, please," I rolled my eyes at his cheeky words.

Dally recovered from his hunched-over position and was analyzing me with his dark, firey eyes. I didn't dare to make eye contact with him. One of the reasons I fell for the dangerous boy was his ability to read me with just a split second of eye contact. I was well aware that if he saw the look of envy in my eyes he would connect the dots in mere seconds.

"God, man. You gave me one big scare back there. How many times do we have to get it through you Curtis brothers' heads that walking alone is dangerous for guys like us!"

"Dally, please save the lecture for another time.

I'm going home no matter what. I don't care what those Socs do to me on the way."

"Don't be stupid! You saw what they did to Johnny."

We shared a hard look at the mention of Johnny's recent attack. He was jumped by a group of Socs, and since he was a total recluse only really speaking with Ponyboy or Dally.

"You're right. I'm sorry." | looked down at my feet as I anxiously awaited his response. Dally wiped the sweat off his brow, "It's fine. Just don't do it again, man. The boys and I were worried about you."

"Speaking of the boys where's Johnny and Ponyboy?"

"They left with those socs girls. Johnny told me to back off from them. Can you believe it? Johnnycakes telling me to back off!"

Did Johnny notice my departure? Johnny was pretty observant... I gave the quiet boy an internal thank you. Without him, Dally wouldn't have come to find me, "You need to give Johnny more credit, Dal. He has his moments.”

Dally stuffed his hands in his pockets as we began walling in unison. As much as I should've been upset or mad at the man; his presence was a blessing to be around.

"Yeah, he does. Johnny's a good kid, you know.

Him and Ponyboy." Dally turned to me with a smirk, "Pony gets it from you."

A small smile placed itself on my lips, "You are such a smooth talker."

Dallas interlocked our hands as he stopped our walking movements, "Johnny saw you leave earlier. Think it's why he told me to back off."

I blinked at Dally unsure of where this conversation was going. He continued, "That redhead girl? She meant nothing to me. As bullshit as it sounds coming from a guy like me, you're the only one for me. You're my boy."

"Really?"

I smiled bashfully at Dally. His usual hard demeanor was gone, and I could feel myself falling in love with him all over again. Dallas Winston was not one for apologies, yet he could push past his pride and be vulnerable with me just to give my envy a break.

"Really."

I gripped our interlocked hands tighter as I leaned in for a kiss. Our foreheads touched as our lips danced together in a slow, stubborn waltz of forgiveness and understanding.

Our breathing mingled as we pulled apart. His breath tainted mine with the taste of Coca-Cola. Cherry would never get to enjoy the taste of Dallas Winston and his Coca-Cola lips and as petty as that made me I was more than glad to embrace that fact.

✎ notes . . . yes, this is a repost. tumblr deleted my old acc >:( ﹒⟢ ˚ ⊹ 🌪 ﹒⟢ ˚ ⊹ d.v.

©️ sethcertified 2023

[myceliumforum]

Mycelium Coining Forum

Welcome to this blog, yet another coining blog you can see in tumblr, please red this post and all the links attached before interacting and to have a better understandment around how this blog works

There's not a specific topic about what would be coined here, you can find queer, MOGAI, LIOM, alterhuman, xenogender, disorders, systems/CDD and a lot of things from different topics, the only thing that stays the same is that all of this is coined by me

Not all my coins will be attached with a flag, some coins might just be the term/word, others can have a png symbol, others maybe a drawing or image that isn't a flag, maybe it could be a mix of two or more of this things, it will depend a lot in the word/term coined itself, but you can also

Requests...

Most of the things I post here are coined for me and my system but I do take requests from people

Take in consideration that I'm not a super friendly coiner when it comes to requests, I'm very specific and I will not hesitate in delete and deny take any request

Also to add, if you do make a request make sure you're not in my DNI, I will not make request of people in my DNI, doesn't matter if I'm able to do the request

Please check the information about requests here

Request status: Open

Inbox requests: 3

Boundaries...

I have no problem with people archiving my terms, but please do tag me and reblog if do

In the same manner, do not tag me for promos or similar

I'm aware I can't make people that fall into my DNI to not use what I coin, therefore I ask that if you fall in my DNI, well don't interact (interaction = likes, follow, reblog, requests, comments), I can't stop you from using my terms but I will ask to not do it

DNI

Basic DNI, radqueers, TERFS, trans meds, trans-ID, cishet, anti xeno/neogenders. anti MOGAI/LIOM, anti good faith/contradictory labels, anti therian/otherkin/alterhuman, discourse blogs (syscourse, queer/lgbtqcourse, etc), NSFW blogs, close minded, conservatives, baiters, anti-recovery, pro-contact paras, "I'm x I can't discriminate them", stigmatize disorders and mental illness, "this is cringe" people, exclusionist, extremists

Directory...

Requests: What I'll do, won't and rules

Tag masterlist

Terms masterlist (Coming soon)

Flag masterlist (Coming soon)

About the owner...

Hello, you can call me Namel or Nazu, my pronouns and He/They/It, I'm the primary alter who will run this role, an alter you might ask? Well I have DID and therefore this one body holds different identities, I'm one of them

I doubt any other alter would want to use this blog outside me, so you can use my name and pronouns when talking here in the blog

I love coining and doing this kind of things, so I decided to do this blog just for fun and to share a little bit of my passion for blogging, I also have a personal blog but I will not share it here because I simply don't want to

[persmo]

Ask game! 💙📺🍃🌈🍬 /not forcing all the questions

Ask game here

💙 - Do you switch frequently or do you go longer periods between switching?

Well it depends on what you see as switching. For example a new alter coming to front or having access to the body is consider switching well almost daily more than one time, but if you ask about switching like me, the host, leaving and another alter taking the principal fronting control it can be very rare and take long times

It mostly depends on triggers, sometimes it can feel like being P-DID but I know it's not because I can leave front and I'm not always conscious, but I don't tend to leave front or the main control of the body lmao

📺 - Do you make/buy gifts to other alters in the systems?

Normally nope, my system needs to be more good with me if they want more gifts. If drawings are consider a gif well I kinda do it

One time I make our grandma buy a toy kitchen for one little... He never fronted again so yeah I don't buy gifts since then 😭

🍃 - Do you have specific alters that cannot access headspace at all?

Yes, tho we're not sure why this happens ??? Sometimes I, the host, can't even enter there LMAO

I guess it depends in a lot of factors that I'm not very aware of, idk

🌈 - Do you get frontstuck often? What do you do to try to get ‘un-stuck’?

EVERY FUCKING TIME

I cannot front without being frontstucked and IT SUCKS HORRIBLE, like the only way for me leaving the front is being so triggered and in a very delicate/dangerous state so another one needs to front, but outside that it feels almost IMPOSSIBLE for me to leave the front

If not with bad triggers and crisis I can't un-stuck myself... I hate here

🍬 - What’s the funniest thing another alter has said to you? (internally or externally communicated)

I have a list, hold on

"I'm gonna sue you for being the host" "Namelnom, tf is a subsystem of yous? I won't be adopting them all, With Spider-Namel is enough" "Sorry I fucked your parent... Also I'm you mom now-" (She was my aunt before being my mom ??? 😭) "You unfurrified physically but not mentally, fucking furry"

My system is wild LMAO

Thanks for the asks son :D

[call-metiger]

Alright I did a short dive into this, and it seems that a lot of sources remove it. There's only one link with the actual list, and it's not a great site. Here's the Imgur link, I didn't check it. Here's some of my favs + what I think they roughly "translate" to:

Boye (Boy) Birdismowthe (Birdsmouth) Cryere (Crier) Curteyne (Curtain) Comforte (Comfort) Compaynowne (Companion) Creper (Creeper) Druggeman (Drugman) Dolfyn (Dolphin) Dredefull (Dreadful) Dappir (Dapper) Elfyn (Friend of the Elves) Envye (Envy) Flame Foxe (Fox) Feete (Feet????) German Gebage (GARBAGE???????) Hosewife (HOUSEWIFE) Justyne Liberall (Liberal) Labell (Label) Lewde (Lewd) Litilman (LITTLEMAN) Litilboye (LITTLE BOY) Mustarde (Mustard) Mistirman (Misterman) Organ Oribull (Horrible) Pretyman (Pretty man) Pretiboy (Pretty boy) Pastey (Pasty) Rage Soylarde (????) Salmon Spowse (Spouse) Sturdy Trailer Barefote (Barefoot) Blankette (Blanket) Badde (Bad) Balle (Ball) Brayneles (Brainless) Coke Dragon Farewell Lusty Meyntenawnse (Maintenance) Makehitgood (Make it good?) Myne (Mine) Nameles (Nameless) Purchase Swepestake (Sweepstake) Snacke (Snack) Tripper Welcome

One of the most important things I have learned today..

[phytochorion]

How the Forest Finds the Island

Chapter Eleven - Legend Has It

Sen and Si-woo touched down in the ginkgo grove.

"Need help planting them?", offered Si-woo.

"Ah, it's alright. I think I can manage," Sen reassured him, fluttering his hands in acknowledgement. "I need to work out a good spot to sow them. I'd rather not grow them too close to these ones. They won't compete that way, and it'll lessen the chance of disease."

"Wise choice," clucked Si-woo. "Well, best of luck. I'm off to spread these spores!"

He launched skyward, the little waving figure of Sen dwindling behind him.

⸙ ⸙ ⸙

Sen plonked down meditatively on the flat stone and drew up some plans within his head. To the west of him was the sea. To the east, approximately, was the fort. North, an open plain of low-lying plants stretched towards the mountains, encompassing some of the areas he and Si-woo had flown to. And south? He hadn't travelled much that way, except a few brief flyovers. Perhaps he could find a good planting spot there.

He had also to consider the request Jake had made of him, to plant some ginkgos around the fort. While Sen hadn't committed to anything, he felt that after being so lucky to receive a personalised gift from the admiral, he should share some of his good fortune. Besides, the Pioneers had welcomed him and his friends so warmly, he didn't wish to let them down.

Hopping to his feet and lifting the cask of treasured seeds, he spread his wings and took off. Soon his garden slipped out of view. Although it had seemed like a lengthy trek when he and his friends had walked to the fort, it was only a few minutes by air.

Landing on the scree slope near the woven construction, he couldn't see any activity. Approaching on foot, he spied the lone figure of Kai Namele, reclining in the sun.

"Afternoon, Kai," he called.

"Admiral! I wasn't- oh, Hi Sen. What's up?"

"I was coming to plant some ginkgos. Jake wanted more trees in this place."

"Oh yeah, oh yeah he mentioned!" Kai stood, whirling his considerable wingspan to balance. "Want any help with that?"

"Oh, would you? If you aren't busy, I'd be much obliged."

"Nah, I'm in no hurry. This is the first time I've been back on terra firma in who knows how long. I don't think Baegu plans to go to sea again for some time, so why not take it easy?"

They walked together in a wide circle, scoping out a suitable site. Sen noticed disturbed soil, evidence of recent plantings. It seems the Pioneers had roped a few others into their grand designs as well. They'd soon have the most diverse garden on the island.

Finding a good spot, they started to dig. Kai was remarkably strong, and even without magic, his coarse hands and toned arms moved hard-packed dirt like it was soft silt. As they worked, Kai talked. Sen, out of breath before he had dug even half as much, merely listened.

"Belek's a fantastic worker. Wouldn't think it to look at 'em, but they're strong, and probably the most sensible person on board, after the admiral, and maybe Cullodena. You must be proud to have such a cousin."

Sen nodded and brushed a strand of the supple lignin that composed his tresses behind one ear.

"I haven't seen Ellis for yonks. Remember Ellis? Sure ya do, it's only been a couple million years!"

"Anyhow, Jake got some of the crew to contribute to the grounds of the fort like you're doing. Then they dispersed to find nice spots for their own gardens. They should be back tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Baegu went back to the ship to make sure the bugs don't return."

"By himself?"

"Think he took Ponnarasu."

That reassured Sen. He knew Sirichai was sensible and well able to defend himself, but even so…

"I don't know how you do it," he admitted to Kai. "Flying overseas is one thing, but crossing them in a little wooden craft, even one as fine as the admiral's- well, it's my idea of a nightmare."

Kai smirked. "There's few fairies who'd disagree. We're creatures of the soil and sky, but the sea is an alien element. That said, there are some who dwell in the depths. And there's worse things out there than salt water."

"Like fire."

"True. Though my cycads are so gnarly they can sit out the fiercest inferno. They even evolved to spread their seeds in the blaze, bless their little hearts."

Sen was chuffed by the genuine emotion in his friend's voice.

"It's grazers and parasites that are really the thorn in your side, pun intended," continued Kai. "You ever met Veronica?"

"I'm going with no," said Sen, climbing up from the hole they'd dug and wiping his hands together.

"Nasty piece of work. Looks pretty innocent, but she's so damn- what's the word for that- unscrupulous. I feel like any time something goes wrong for me, she's the root cause."

"I know the feeling," Sen clucked sympathetically, thinking back to his own recent run-ins with parasites.

"Ok, we ready to cover these over?" Asked Kai, looking down at the seeds nestled in the dark ground.

"I'll impart a little magic," replied Sen, kneeling and focusing.

"Hm. Not much I can do, I'm afraid. My magic deals pain, not prosperity… oh! There is one thing!"

Kai adopted a wide stance. Closing his eyes and extending his hands, he projected magic into the soil below. Touching his head to the ground, Sen watched out of the corner of his eye as spongy, branching roots uncoiled from Kai's feet and disappeared underground.

Once Sen had gifted the plot with fertility and resilience, he sat up, intrigued by the shimmering motion of Kai's roots. The effect spread through his body, out to his hands, and, like dew on new leaves, pulsed out of his skin in lustrous droplets. Coalescing, they became a mirror-like orb which levitated between the fairies.

"Kai. What in the great green world is that?"

"Mercury. And I advise you take a few steps back, it's very toxic."

Sen hastily did as he was told. "Then what are you doing with it??"

"I'm doing you a favour, is what I'm doing. You'd rather I leave it in there with your plants? This whole island chain is volcanic, heavy metals accumulate in the soils. And believe me, you don't want them near your seeds."

"So what do we do with it?"

"I hadn't quite planned that far yet."

Sen massaged his temples. "So we have an ethereal, toxic sphere and nowhere to go?"

"Oh, hold up, I know! Sen, you can cover your seeds over, I'll get rid of this. I'll be gone awhile, you don't need to wait for me. See you when I see you!"

With that, Kai dashed off to the fort. Sen watched him go, shrugged, and carefully piled earth over the ginkgo seeds.

⸙ ⸙ ⸙

Continuing his quest, Sen lifted off from a gneissic ridge and glided south, to parts unknown. He scanned the terrain, looking for other spots with the sandy soil and plentiful water he desired. The land was, at first, similar to the fern prairie of the foothills, but the further he flew, the rockier and more barren it became. The topsoil would be too thin for trees, he suspected.

Up ahead, the ground dipped into a small gorge. Water trickled down the sides, while eroded regolith had accumulated on the valley floor. It looked promising, and he doubted he'd find much better out here. Just to be sure, he flew some distance more, but after seeing nothing but sharp crags, scrambling rhyniopsids and shallow, weedy pools, he swung around and returned to the gorge.

Fluttering gently down, his bifurcated wings acting as parachutes, his bare feet softly made contact with the cool, wet stones. Algae flourished here. It formed a pleasingly slimy layer beneath his feet, it hung in dripping pleats from the overhanging walls, it coloured the water in microscopic abundance.

Sen took a few steps onto the grainy grit, its crunch echoing dimly. He was, almost without realising it, holding his breath. The air was so still it felt a shame to disturb it.

Gently, he stole along the shaded ravine, mossy walls towering high above. Rounding a corner, the terrain opened up a little. There were a series of gravel pools where the dripping water had collected. Sunlight filled the sky.

A truly special place. And quite amenable for young ginkgos, Sen hoped. The banks of sandy till around the pools looked stable, and light should be sufficient, especially once the trees were a good height.

He paced up and down, finally settling on a patch of soft sediment by a small pool. He put the seed pod down, knelt and began to dig into the earth with his hands.

"Hiya," a voice behind him said.

Sen practically leapt out of his skin.

"Aiyaaaaa??! Who's what who where who's that?", he babbled, his wings buzzing so fast he nearly careened into the cliffside. Wresting back control of his body from his instincts, he cautiously descended to ground level.

A fairy with curling dreadlocks and a brightly patterned gilet had materialised as if from nowhere.

"Hey mon, nothing to be scared of," he said, raising his hands placatingly. "It's just me, ol' Wilbur."

"I…" Sen breathed through his nose. "Forgive me. I didn't know there was someone living here already. I can find another place to-"

"Oh, no worries," insisted Wilbur. "We haven't had anyone pass this way in I don't know how long." Looking back over his shoulder he shouted "Con! C'mere, some new guy just dropped in!"

Turning back to Sen, he shook his head. "Mind me asking your name?"

"Not at all. Gongsun Sen, at your service," he answered, bowing. Straightening up, he caught sight of another fairy emerging from a cleft in the rock. Striding over, he proffered a hand. "Con Ringarooma, at yours."

Sen shook hands, amazed by the strength of his grip, but moreso by his crown. It was the single most impressive adornment he had ever laid eyes on. Tall, pointing skyward and capped with perfectly spherical, smooth, almost luminescent capsules, while other fairies' crowns were functional, Con's was a work of art.

"Can I offer you some moss punch?", suggested Wilbur.

Sen blinked. "Pardon?"

"Moss punch! Come on, you'll love it."

"I suppose it's good to try new things," acquiesced Sen.

Wilbur clapped his hands and hustled back inside the narrow fissure, re-emerging with a basket of ingredients. As he mixed them, Con asked Sen where he'd come from. Sen told him of the grove, the fort, the admiral. Con listened impassively but attentively.

"And what of you, Mister Ringarooma? What plants do you nurture?"

"All of these." Con swung his arm slowly, encompassing the gorge. As Sen got his eye in, he began to notice just how richly festooned with moss it was.

"It's beautiful," he observed, and Con cracked a smile.

"Hey, don't give him all the credit!", interjected Wilbur. "What about these, huh?" He spread his arms to display a clump of luxurious ferns, sori sprinkling rich, reddish-brown spores on the moist ground.

"Very pretty," agreed Sen. "Though I think you should meet my friend Aliwen, I've never met a fairy who can grow ferns like her."

"Hmmph. You'll have to introduce me," answered Wilbur, hands on hips.

"Anyway, soup's up, enjoy." He handed Sen and Con each a spore cup full of sweet, gloopy liquid. Sen wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but had to admit it wasn't bad. Between slurps, he decided to press on with the reason he'd come here.

"So, Wilbur. Your hospitality is admirable, but I don't wish to impose. I'm planning on growing quite a few trees, and in this space I fear they'll shade out everything else."

Wilbur lay back, a tussock of moss for his pillow. "Not a problem. We're shade tolerant, eh?"

He elbowed Con.

"If we were any more shadow seeking, we'd be fungi," quipped the tall moss fairy.

"That settles it, then. Plant all the trees you please!"

"Thank you." Sen stood and bowed. "Your offer is very generous, and I shall make the most of it. I'll make a start now, before sundown."

"Need help?", asked Wilbur.

"Oh, you've done plenty, I can handle this," chirped Sen, face already smeared with mud.

"In that case, I'm gonna check out the fort you mentioned. Take care."

He sprinted down the gorge, leaping over one of the pools and gradually gaining altitude. Then he was gone. Con sat still for a while, then packed up the utensils.

Sen worked through the evening on his hands and knees, scooping a hollow for each lovingly placed seed. He used a small breath of magic to infuse the soil with life generating influence, but not as much as for the original grove. He'd trust Wilbur and Con to let him know if problems arose.

Looking up, Sen saw the myriad stars twinkling. He wiped transpiration from his brow, flexed his stiffening joints and headed to the cliff face.

"Con? I'm going now. Thank you again for letting me sow these."

Con's elegant crown protruded through the gap, followed by the rest of him.

"Think nothing of it, Gongsun Sen. You have been a most polite visitor."

"And you a most gracious host," chirped Sen. "I hope to return soon."

Stepping back with a small wave, he turned and in a single fluid motion lifted into the air. The journey back seemed quicker. He was less encumbered, the empty seed pod sitting easily in his grasp. And the sweet feeling of a homeward flight swelled in his chest.

Navigating by the stars and a few landmarks he recognized on the ground, he zeroed in on his grove and dropped lightly into the branches. Snuggling up in his welcoming nest, he embraced the comforting tide of sleep.

[dlwood951]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: SOLD Vintage 80s Namell Pink and Blue Sweater SZ Small.

[ursa8772]

Weekly EDM Favorites 2023 - Week Twelve

Best of Week Ten: A Mere Blip In Your Timeline - OBLVYN: This one wasn’t a difficult choice. Nothing else really came close that week to being as good as this track is. There’s so much emotion packed in.

CHOMP - Tokyo Machine: The energy of this track is fantastic all the way through, and the video game sound Tokyo is known for add flavor as always. But where this track really comes together is the b-section of the drops. They really come out of nowhere and absolutely demolish. I’m not sure what this Chompo project is, but I am excited to hear more from it.

I’ll Be There - STAR SEED, Nina Sung: There’s no sound quite like Star Seed’s, and they’re back again with an electrifying track. There’s a lot going on, but they manage it well and deliver a cohesive and enjoyable sound.

No Turning Back - juuku ft. Namelle: juuku is definitely a name to keep an eye on. Each track I’ve heard so far has delivered an innovative sound, and this one is no exception. This is a fast-paced and relentless track that’s really fun to listen to.

The Rage - OMAS, Awon ft. Micah Martin: I’ve seen OMAS’s name pop up a few times now, and this is my favorite track so far. Awon is a new name for me, on the other hand. This is a melodic take on dubstep that maintains much of the aggression of heavier sounds. Micah Martin adds so much to the track, as always.

Shades of Black - bitttrfly, GLNNA: Circus electric has been doing a lot better than the main label in my opinion. This is a properly destructive track that delivers a lot of high energy.

Trinite - Sharks, Skybreak, Paper Skies: The sound design is as crazy as one would expect for this collaboration. Watery textures for days. Honestly the arrangement from a lot of color bass feels a bit off to me a lot of the time, and I was worried about that, but this is done pretty well, the sounds compliment each other the way they should to produce a good final product.

u want me - Godlands: I had been unimpressed with Godlands’ discography so far, and I wasn’t expecting much from this release, but I was pleasantly surprised. This is a minimalistic, but very enjoyable release. The sounds are all satisfying to listen to, and the use of the vocal sample as a sustain is creative. Would love to hear more like this from Godlands.

Follow the playlist here to hear all these tracks and previous weeks as well.

[thebobby1432world]

Afsana Khan Wiki, Biography, Age, Height, Weight, Family, Net Worth

Afsana Khan Wiki: Afsana Khan is an Indian playback singer, actress, and songwriter from the Punjabi music industry. She first rose to fame and gained huge opportunities with her track Titliaan, along with singer Hardy Sandhu, and was recognized for her singing on the famous song Dhakka with Sidhu Moosewala. Afsana Khan WikiBoyfriends, Affairs, Husband Favorite Things Since then, she has made many more remarkable tracks, making headlines as a contestant in Big Brother season 15. Afsana was born on June 13, 1994, in the village of Badal in Sri Muktsar Sahib, to singer Khuda Baksh and four sisters: Raftaar Kaur, Raman Khan, Rajia Sultaan, and Neetu Khan.

Afsana Khan Wiki She completed her schooling at the Government Senior Secondary School, Badal. Her estimated net worth is $3.5 million. Although there is limited information on her educational qualifications, she has managed to make quite a name for herself in the industry as one of the most well-known and successful playback singers and songwriters in India.

Afsana Khan Wiki

NameAfsana KhanBirth PlaceVillage Badal, Sri Muktsar SahibDate Of Birth13 June 1994Age28 years old (as of 2023)HeightIn centimeters – 165 cm In feet inches – 5’5”WeightIn Kilograms – 65 kg In Pounds – 143 lbsEye ColorBrownHair ColorBrownProfessionSingerSexual OrientationStraightSchoolGovernment Senior Secondary School, BadalCollegeNot KnownReligionIslamNationalityIndianHome TownVillage Badal, Sri Muktsar Sahibillage Badal, Sri Muktsar Sahib, PunjabDebutTV: Voice of Punjab Season 3Fathers NameLate Sheera KhanMothers NameAsha BegumBrothersKhuda Baksh (singer)SisterRaftaar Kaur, Raman Khan, Rajia Sultaan, and Neetu Khan Boyfriends, Affairs, Husband BoyfriendsNot KnownMarital StatusEngagedFianceSaajzHusbandNone Favorite Things Favorite ActorsRanbir KapoorFavorite ActressNot KnownFavorite FoodRajma-ChawalFavorite Singer(s)Sonu Nigam, Diljit Dosanjh, Neha KakkarFavorite BrandZaraFavorite DestinationsCanadaFavorite Color(s)Blue Disclaimer: The above information is for general informational purposes only. All information on the Site is provided in good faith, however, we make no representation or warranty of any kind, express or implied, regarding the accuracy, adequacy, validity, reliability, availability, or completeness of any information on the Site. Read the full article

[empyreanparadisaea]

Deep in thought about his given task, Kaveh barely registers the first excuse me directed towards him. It was on the second one that he did, making him look up at the older gentleman. His cheeks were red from embarrassment as he cleared his throat. “S-Sorry. I was busy waiting for the Namel—”

Oh! This man was his contact! This only makes him flounder more. “Oh my goodness I'm so sorry!” He bows politely out of habit, as he usually fumbled back in his academic days. But he quickly comes back up, snapping his fingers.

Instantly a small droid zips by in the shape of a suitcase. “Right, the Mythus requisition. Forgive me for the delay. I was just thinking about them and got lost in thought. Mehrak, the papers please.” 

The unusual droid beeps as it pops open, revealing its contents. Slender fingers graze over the papers, searching for the right one. “Mythus, Mythus, Mythus… Ah!” The file is pulled out. Right there in the side it had the official stamp of the Armed Archeologists. While inside had a thick stack of papers.

Rules, regulations and limits to what the Nameless could or couldn't do. A lot of them were ridiculous in Kaveh's opinion. But he would keep those thoughts to himself. “Here you go Mr. Yang. Please give it a quick glance to make sure it's all adequately detailed.”

[dailybiblelessons]

The Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

Complementary Hebrew Scripture from the Latter Prophets: Isaiah 35:4-7a

Say to those who are of a fearful heart,  “Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God.  He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense.  He will come and save you.”

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,  and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer,  and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.¹ For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,  and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool,  and the thirsty ground springs of water.

¹Jesus quotes these words in response to the messengers who come from John the Baptist to ask whether he is the one who is to come. Jesus' speech is in Matthew 11:2-6 and Luke 7:18-23.

Semi-continuous Hebrew Scripture from the Writings: Proverbs 22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23

A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches,  and favor is better than silver or gold. The rich and the poor have this in common:  the Lord is the maker of them all. Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity,  and the rod of anger will fail. Those who are generous are blessed,  for they share their bread with the poor. Do not rob the poor because they are poor,  or crush the afflicted at the gate; for the Lord pleads their cause  and despoils of life those who despoil them.

Complementary Psalm 146

Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord, O my soul! I will praise the Lord as long as I live;  I will sing praises to my God all my life long.

Do not put your trust in princes,  in mortals, in whom there is no help. When their breath departs, they return to the earth;  on that very day their plans perish.

Happy are those whose help is the God of Jacob,  whose hope is in the Lord their God, who made heaven and earth,  the sea, and all that is in them;¹ who keeps faith forever;  who executes justice for the oppressed;  who gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets the prisoners free;  the Lord opens the eyes of the blind. The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;  the Lord loves the righteous. The Lord watches over the strangers;  he upholds the orphan and the widow,  but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.

The Lord will reign forever,  your God, O Zion, for all generations. Praise the Lord!

¹This passage is found at least three times in the Christian Scriptures. In Acts 4:24 it is part of a prayer in which believers pray for boldness. The prayer is at Acts 4:23-31. Later in Acts (14:15), Paul uses the phrase in responding to the crowds in Lystra, who want to offer sacrifices to him and Barnabas. His speech is at Acts 14:8-18. Finally, in Revelation 10:6, it is part of a speech by an angel holding a small scroll. The speech is at Revelation 10:1-7.

Semi-continuous Psalm 125

Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion,  which cannot be moved,  but abides forever. As the mountains surround Jerusalem,  so the Lord surrounds his people,  from this time on and forevermore. For the scepter of wickedness  shall not rest on the land allotted to the righteous,  so that the righteous might not stretch out their hands to do wrong. Do good, O Lord, to those who are good,  and to those who are upright in their hearts. But those who turn aside to their own crooked ways  the Lord will lead away with evildoers. Peace be upon Israel!

New Testament Epistle Lesson: James 2:1-17

My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ? For if a person with gold rings and in fine clothes comes into your assembly, and if a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in, and if you take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say, “Have a seat here, please,” while to the one who is poor you say, “Stand there,” or, “Sit at my feet,” have you not made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts? Listen, my beloved brothers and sisters. Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him? But you have dishonored the poor. Is it not the rich who oppress you? Is it not they who drag you into court? Is it not they who blaspheme the excellent name that was invoked over you?

You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to the scripture, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”¹ But if you show partiality, you commit sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors. For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become accountable for all of it. For the one who said, “You shall not commit adultery,²” also said, “You shall not murder.”³ Now if you do not commit adultery but if you murder, you have become a transgressor of the law. So speak and so act as those who are to be judged by the law of liberty. For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,” and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.

¹Leviticus 19:18   ²Exodus 20:14 and Deuteronomy 5:18   ³Exodus 20:13 and Deuteronomy 5:17

New Testament Gospel Lesson: Mark 7:24-37

From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.¹

Then he returned from the region of Tyre, and went by way of Sidon towards the Sea of Galilee, in the region of the Decapolis. They brought to him a deaf man who had an impediment in his speech; and they begged him to lay his hand on him. He took him aside in private, away from the crowd, and put his fingers into his ears, and he spat and touched his tongue. Then looking up to heaven, he sighed and said to him, “Ephphatha,” that is, “Be opened.” And immediately his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly. Then Jesus ordered them to tell no one; but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it. They were astounded beyond measure, saying, “He has done everything well; he even makes the deaf to hear and the mute to speak.”

¹There is a parallel passage at Matthew 15:21-28, which was the Saturday Gospel reading.

Year B Ordinary 23 Sunday

Selections from Revised Common Lectionary Daily Readings, copyright © 1995 by the Consultation on Common Texts. Unless otherwise indicated, Bible text is from The New Revised Standard Version, (NRSV) copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All right reserved. Footnotes in the Hebrew Scriptures (Old Testament) that show where the passage is used in the Christian Scriptures (New Testament) from Complete Jewish Bible (CJB) by David H. Stern, Copyright © 1998 and 2006 by David H. Stern, used by permission of Messianic Jewish Publishers, www.messianicjewish.net. All rights reserved worldwide. When text is taken from the CJB, the passage ends with (CJB) and the foregoing copyright notice applies. Parallel passages are as indicated in The Holy Bible Modern English Version (MEV), copyright © 2014 by Military Bible Association. Used by permission. All rights reserved. When text is taken from the MEV, the passage ends with (MEV) and the foregoing copyright notice applies. Footnotes in the Christian Scriptures (New Testament) that show where a passage from the Hebrew Scripture (Old Testament) is used are from The Holy Bible, New International Version® (NIV®), copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. When text is taken from the NIV, the passage ends with (NIV) and the foregoing copyright notice applies. Image Credit: Michael Gilbertson for The Lectionary Company.

[asfdhgsdkjhgb]

hehe name crisis go brr

[reallyromealone]

Ciaooo vita. Come stai spero bene. Posso richiedere famiglia tenjiku che guarda neonato reader indossare l'uniforme tenjiku e tutti gli fanno la foto. E tipo gli uomini più grossi(mochi e mucho) lo prendono in braccio e gli fanno il solletico con le sue enormi dita, mentre kisaki sorride leggermente per la dolcezza del neonato. Grazie mille ti adoro 💕

"Hi life. How are you? I hope good. I can request tenjiku family watching newborn reader wear tenjiku uniform and all take the picture of him. And like the bigger men (mochi and mucho) pick him up and tickle him with his huge fingers, while kisaki smiles slightly for the sweetness of the newborn. Thank you so much I love you 💕"

Ciao tesoro! è così carino e lo adoro! Spero ti piaccia!

English version under the keep reading cut

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Gli haitani ridacchiarono mentre indossavano l'uniforme su little (nome), un bambino adottato dalla banda di Tenjiku qualche settimana fa.

Chi potrebbe buttare via un ragazzo così caro?

Il bambino ha cambiato con chi stava una settimana, i fratelli Haitani stavano appena finendo il loro turno mentre si avvicinavano all'incontro "è (nome)..." Kakucho iniziò mentre i membri della banda guardavano i tre con soggezione, in particolare il piccolo (nome ) in una minuscola uniforme Tenjiku e quando è stato sollevato per mostrare la piccola scritta kanji su di lui, c'era scritto "leader supremo e presidente del club del culo pulito" entrambi all'interno delle battute tra le figure del fratello maggiore / padre al bambino.

Era l'unico che poteva piangere e urlare qui e ottenere ciò che voleva in un batter d'occhio.

"Oh, devo fare una foto di questo" ha detto Mochi già tirando fuori il suo telefono a conchiglia e tutti hanno sciamato sul bambino e persino Kisaki stava sorridendo al bambino!

Mucho sollevò delicatamente il bambino tra le sue braccia e iniziò a solleticarlo, il suono delle risate come musica per le loro orecchie mentre (namel scalciava felicemente i suoi piedini, indossando versioni minuscole delle scarpe che Izana indossava comunemente.

"Dio è prezioso" disse Shion e Izana annuì in accordo "certo che lo è..."

"Dopotutto è un bambino Tenjiku"

The haitanis giggled as they put the uniform onto little (name), a baby adopted by the Tenjiku gang a few weeks ago.

Who would throw such a darling boy away like that?

The babe altered who he stayed with by week, the Haitani brothers just finishing up their turn as they walked to the meeting "is (name)..." Kakucho started as the gang members looked at the three in awe, specifically little (name) in a tiny Tenjiku uniform and when lifted to show the little kanji script on him it said 'supreme leader and president of the clean butt club' both inside jokes amongst the big brother/father figures to the baby.

He was the only one who could cry and scream here and get what he wanted at the drop of a hat.

"Oh I gotta get a picture of this" Mochi said already pulling out his flip phone and they all swarmed the baby and even Kisaki was smiling at the baby!

Mucho gently lifted the baby in his arms and began tickling him, the sound of laughter like music to their ears as (namel kicked his little feet happily, wearing tiny versions of the shoes Izana commonly wore.

"God he's precious" shion said and Izana nodded in agreement "of course he is..."

"He's a Tenjiku baby after all"

[tseneipgam]

"One would never defeat one’s circumstances by working and saving one’s pennies; one would never, by working, acquire that many pennies, and, besides, the social treatment accorded even the most successful Negroes proved that one needed, in order to be free, something more than a bank account. One needed a handle, a lever, a means of inspiring fear. It was absolutely clear that the police would whip you and take you in as long as they could get away with it, and that everyone else—housewives, taxi-drivers, elevator boys, dishwashers, bartenders, lawyers, judges, doctors, and grocers—would never, by the operation of any generous human feeling, cease to use you as an outlet for his frustrations and hostilities. Neither civilized reason nor Christian love would cause any of those people to treat you as they presumably wanted to be treated; only the fear of your power to retaliate would cause them to do that, or to seem to do it, which was (and is) good enough. There appears to be a vast amount of confusion on this point, but I do not know many Negroes who are eager to be “accepted” by white people, still less to be loved by them; they, the blacks, simply don’t wish to be beaten over the head by the whites every instant of our brief passage on this planet. White people in this country will have quite enough to do in learning how to accept and love themselves and each other, and when they have achieved this—which will not be tomorrow and may very well be never—the Negro problem will no longer exist, for it will no longer be needed."

"the Negro’s experience of the white world cannot possibly create in him any respect for the standards by which the white world claims to live. His own condition is overwhelming proof that white people do not live by these standards. Negro servants have been smuggling odds and ends out of white homes for generations, and white people have been delighted to have them do it, because it has assuaged a dim guilt and testified to the intrinsic superiority of white people. Even the most doltish and servile Negro could scarcely fail to be impressed by the disparity between his situation and that of the people for whom he worked; Negroes who were neither doltish nor servile did not feel that they were doing anything wrong when they robbed white people. In spite of the Puritan-Yankee equation of virtue with well-being, Negroes had excellent reasons for doubting that money was made or kept by any very striking adherence to the Christian virtues; it certainly did not work that way for black Christians. In any case, white people, who had robbed black people of their liberty and who profited by this theft every hour that they lived, had no moral ground on which to stand. They had the judges, the juries, the shotguns, the law—in a word, power. But it was a criminal power, to be feared but not respected, and to be outwitted in any way whatever. And those virtues preached but not practiced by the white world were merely another means of holding Negroes in subjection."

"Negroes in this country—and Negroes do not, strictly or legally speaking, exist in any other—are taught really to despise themselves from the moment their eyes open on the world. This world is white and they are black. White people hold the power, which means that they are superior to blacks (intrinsically, that is: God decreed it so), and the world has innumerable ways of making this difference known and felt and feared. Long before the Negro child perceives this difference, and even longer before he understands it, he has begun to react to it, he has begun to be controlled by it. Every effort made by the child’s elders to prepare him for a fate from which they cannot protect him causes him secretly, in terror, to begin to await, without knowing that he is doing so, his mysterious and inexorable punishment. He must be “good” not only in order to please his parents and not only to avoid being punished by them; behind their authority stands another, nameless and impersonal, infinitely harder to please, and bottomlessly cruel. And this filters into the child’s consciousness through his parents’ tone of voice as he is being exhorted, punished, or loved; in the sudden, uncontrollable note of fear heard in his mother’s or his father’s voice when he has strayed beyond some particular boundary. He does not know what the boundary is, and he can get no explanation of it, which is frightening enough, but the fear he hears in the voices of his elders is more frightening still. The fear that I heard in my father’s voice, for example, when he realized that I really believed I could do anything a white boy could do, and had every intention of proving it, was not at all like the fear I heard when one of us was ill or had fallen down the stairs or strayed too far from the house. It was another fear, a fear that the child, in challenging the white world’s assumptions, was putting himself in the path of destruction. A child cannot, thank Heaven, know how vast and how merciless is the nature of power, with what unbelievable cruelty people treat each other. He reacts to the fear in his parents’ voices because his parents hold up the world for him and he has no protection without them."

"Yes, it does indeed mean something—something unspeakable—to be born, in a white country, an Anglo-Teutonic, antisexual country, black. You very soon, without knowing it, give up all hope of communion. Black people, mainly, look down or look up but do not look at each other, not at you, and white people, mainly, look away. And the universe is simply a sounding drum; there is no way, no way whatever, so it seemed then and has sometimes seemed since, to get through a life, to love your wife and children, or your friends, or your mother and father, or to be loved. The universe, which is not merely the stars and the moon and the planets, flowers, grass, and trees, but other people, has evolved no terms for your existence, has made no room for you, and if love will not swing wide the gates, no other power will or can. And if one despairs—as who has not?—of human love, God’s love alone is left. But God—and I felt this even then, so long ago, on that tremendous floor, unwillingly—is white. And if His love was so great, and if He loved all His children, why were we, the blacks, cast down so far? Why?"

"when I faced a congregation, it began to take all the strength I had not to stammer, not to curse, not to tell them to throw away their Bibles and get off their knees and go home and organize, for example, a rent strike. When I watched all the children, their copper, brown, and beige faces staring up at me as I taught Sunday school, I felt that I was committing a crime in talking about the gentle Jesus, in telling them to reconcile themselves to their misery on earth in order to gain the crown of eternal life. Were only Negroes to gain this crown? Was Heaven, then, to be merely another ghetto? Perhaps I might have been able to reconcile myself even to this if I had been able to believe that there was any loving-kindness to be found in the haven I represented. But I had been in the pulpit too long and I had seen too many monstrous things. I don’t refer merely to the glaring fact that the minister eventually acquires houses and Cadillacs while the faithful continue to scrub floors and drop their dimes and quarters and dollars into the plate. I really mean that there was no love in the church. It was a mask for hatred and self-hatred and despair. The transfiguring power of the Holy Ghost ended when the service ended, and salvation stopped at the church door. When we were told to love everybody, I had thought that that meant every body. But no. It applied only to those who believed as we did, and it did not apply to white people at all. I was told by a minister, for example, that I should never, on any public conveyance, under any circumstances, rise and give my seat to a white woman. White men never rose for Negro women. Well, that was true enough, in the main—I saw his point. But what was the point, the purpose, of my salvation if it did not permit me to behave with love toward others, no matter how they behaved toward me? What others did was their responsibility, for which they would answer when the judgment trumpet sounded. But what I did was my responsibility, and I would have to answer, too—unless, of course, there was also in Heaven a special dispensation for the benighted black, who was not to be judged in the same way as other human beings, or angels. It probably occurred to me around this time that the vision people hold of the world to come is but a reflection, with predictable wishful distortions, of the world in which they live. And this did not apply only to Negroes, who were no more “simple” or “spontaneous” or “Christian” than anybody else—who were merely more oppressed. In the same way that we, for white people, were the descendants of Ham, and were cursed forever, white people were, for us, the descendants of Cain. And the passion with which we loved the Lord was a measure of how deeply we feared and distrusted and, in the end, hated almost all strangers, always, and avoided and despised ourselves."

"To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread. It will be a great day for America, incidentally, when we begin to eat bread again, instead of the blasphemous and tasteless foam rubber that we have substituted for it And I am not being frivolous now, either. Something very sinister happens to the people of a country when they begin to distrust their own reactions as deeply as they do here, and become as joyless as they have become. It is this individual uncertainty on the part of white American men and women, this inability to renew themselves at the fountain of their own lives, that makes the discussion, let alone elucidation, of any conundrum—that is, any reality—so supremely difficult. The person who distrusts himself has no touchstone for reality—for this touchstone can be only oneself. Such a person interposes between himself and reality nothing less than a labyrinth of attitudes. And these attitudes, furthermore, though the person is usually unaware of it (is unaware of so much!), are historical and public attitudes. They do not relate to the present any more than they relate to the person. Therefore, whatever white people do not know about Negroes reveals, precisely and inexorably, what they do not know about themselves."

"When the white man came to Africa, the white man had the Bible and the African had the land, but now it is the white man who is being, reluctantly and bloodily, separated from the land, and the African who is still attempting to digest or to vomit up the Bible. The struggle, therefore, that now begins in the world is extremely complex, involving the historical role of Christianity in the realm of power—that is, politics—and in the realm of morals. In the realm of power, Christianity has operated with an unmitigated arrogance and cruelty—necessarily, since a religion ordinarily imposes on those who have discovered the true faith the spiritual duty of liberating the infidels. This particular true faith, moreover, is more deeply concerned about the soul than it is about the body, to which fact the flesh (and the corpses) of countless infidels bears witness. It goes without saying, then, that whoever questions the authority of the true faith also contests the right of the nations that hold this faith to rule over him—contests, in short, their title to his land. The spreading of the Gospel, regardless of the motives or the integrity or the heroism of some of the missionaries, was an absolutely indispensable justification for the planting of the flag. Priests and nuns and schoolteachers helped to protect and sanctify the power that was so ruthlessly being used by people who were indeed seeking a city, but not one in the heavens, and one to be made, very definitely, by captive hands. The Christian church itself—again, as distinguished from some of its ministers—sanctified and rejoiced in the conquests of the flag, and encouraged, if it did not formulate, the belief that conquest, with the resulting relative well-being of the Western populations, was proof of the favor of God. God had come a long way from the desert—but then so had Allah, though in a very different direction. God, going north, and rising on the wings of power, had become white, and Allah, out of power, and on the dark side of Heaven, had become—for all practical purposes, anyway—black. Thus, in the realm of morals the role of Christianity has been, at best, ambivalent. Even leaving out of account the remarkable arrogance that assumed that the ways and morals of others were inferior to those of Christians, and that they therefore had every right, and could use any means, to change them, the collision between cultures—and the schizophrenia in the mind of Christendom—had rendered the domain of morals as chartless as the sea once was, and as treacherous as the sea still is. It is not too much to say that whoever wishes to become a truly moral human being (and let us not ask whether or not this is possible; I think we must believe that it is possible) must first divorce himself from all the prohibitions, crimes, and hypocrisies of the Christian church. If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving. If God cannot do this, then it is time we got rid of Him."

"in the end, it is the threat of universal extinction hanging over all the world today that changes, totally and forever, the nature of reality and brings into devastating question the true meaning of man’s history. We human beings now have the power to exterminate ourselves; this seems to be the entire sum of our achievement. We have taken this journey and arrived at this place in God’s name. This, then, is the best that God (the white God) can do. If that is so, then it is time to replace Him—replace Him with what? And this void, this despair, this torment is felt everywhere in the West, from the streets of Stockholm to the churches of New Orleans and the sidewalks of Harlem."

"The real reason that nonviolence is considered to be a virtue in Negroes—I am not speaking now of its tactical value, another matter altogether—is that white men do not want their lives, their self-image, or their property threatened."

"“I’ve come,” said Elijah, “to give you something which can never be taken away from you.” How solemn the table became then, and how great a light rose in the dark faces! This is the message that has spread through streets and tenements and prisons, through the narcotics wards, and past the filth and sadism of mental hospitals to a people from whom everything has been taken away, including, most crucially, their sense of their own worth. People cannot live without this sense; they will do anything whatever to regain it. This is why the most dangerous creation of any society is that man who has nothing to lose. You do not need ten such men—one will do."

"substituting for the names inherited from slavery the letter “X.” It is a fact that every American Negro hears a name that originally belonged to the white man whose chattel he was. I am called Baldwin because I was either sold by my African tribe or kidnapped out of it into the hands of a white Christian named Baldwin, who forced me to kneel at the foot of the cross. I am, then, both visibly and legally the descendant of slaves in a white, Protestant country, and this is what it means to be an American Negro, this is who he is—a kidnapped pagan, who was sold like an animal and treated like one, who was once defined by the American Constitution as “three-fifths” of a man, and who, according to the Dred Scott decision, had no rights that a white man was bound to respect. And today, a hundred years after his technical emancipation, he remains—with the possible exception of the American Indian—the most despised creature in his country."

"Consequently, white Americans are in nothing more deluded than in supposing that Negroes could ever have imagined that white people would “give” them anything. It is rare indeed that people give. Most people guard and keep; they suppose that it is they themselves and what they identify with themselves that they are guarding and keeping, whereas what they are actually guarding and keeping is their system of reality and what they assume themselves to be. One can give nothing whatever without giving oneself—that is to say, risking oneself. If one cannot risk oneself, then one is simply incapable of giving. And, after all, one can give freedom only by setting someone free. This, in the case of the Negro, the American republic has never become sufficiently mature to do. White Americans have contented themselves with gestures that are now described as “tokenism.” For hard example, white Americans congratulate themselves on the 1954 Supreme Court decision outlawing segregation in the schools; they suppose, in spite of the mountain of evidence that has since accumulated to the contrary, that this was proof of a change of heart—or, as they like to say, progress. Perhaps. It all depends on how one reads the word “progress.” Most of the Negroes I know do not believe that this immense concession would ever have been made if it had not been for the competition of the Cold War, and the fact that Africa was clearly liberating herself and therefore had, for political reasons, to be wooed by the descendants of her former masters. Had it been a matter of love or justice, the 1954 decision would surely have occurred sooner; were it not for the realities of power in this difficult era, it might very well not have occurred yet. This seems an extremely harsh way of stating the case—ungrateful, as it were—but the evidence that supports this way of stating it is not easily refuted. I myself do not think that it can be refuted at all. In any event, the sloppy and fatuous nature of American good will can never be relied upon to deal with hard problems These have been dealt with, when they have been dealt with at all, out of necessity—and in political terms, anyway, necessity means concessions made in order to stay on top. I think this is a fact, which it serves no purpose to deny, but, whether it is a fact or not, this is what the black populations of the world, including black Americans, really believe. The word “independence” in Africa and the word “integration” here are almost equally meaningless; that is, Europe has not yet left Africa, and black men here are not yet free."

"Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us. But white Americans do not believe in death, and this is why the darkness of my skin so intimidates them. And this is also why the presence of the Negro in this country can bring about its destruction. It is the responsibility of free men to trust and to celebrate what is constant—birth, struggle, and death are constant, and so is love, though we may not always think so—and to apprehend the nature of change, to be able and willing to change. I speak of change not on the surface but in the depth—change in the sense of renewal. But renewal becomes impossible if one supposes things to be constant that are not—safety, for example, or money, or power. One clings then to chimeras, by which one can only be betrayed, and the entire hope—the entire possibility—of freedom disappears. And by destruction I mean precisely the abdication by Americans of any effort really to be free. The Negro can precipitate this abdication because white Americans have never, in all their long history, been able to look on him as a man like themselves."

"What it comes to is that if we, who can scarcely be considered a white nation, persist in thinking of ourselves as one, we condemn ourselves, with the truly white nations, to sterility and decay, whereas if we could accept ourselves as we are, we might bring new life to the Western achievements, and transform them. The price of this transformation is the unconditional freedom of the Negro; it is not too much to say that he, who has been so long rejected, must now be embraced, and at no matter what psychic or social risk. He is the key figure in his country, and the American future is precisely as bright or as dark as his. And the Negro recognizes this, in a negative way. Hence the question: Do I really want to be integrated into a burning house?"

"This past, the Negro’s past, of rope, fire, torture, castration, infanticide, rape; death and humiliation; fear by day and night, fear as deep as the marrow of the bone; doubt that he was worthy of life, since everyone around him denied it; sorrow for his women, for his kinfolk, for his children, who needed his protection, and whom he could not protect; rage, hatred, and murder, hatred for white men so deep that it often turned against him and his own, and made all love, and trust, all joy impossible—this past, this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity, human authority, yet contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful. I do not mean to be sentimental about suffering—enough is certainly as good as a feast—but people who cannot suffer can never grow up, can never discover who they are. That man who is forced each day to snatch his manhood, his identity, out of the fire of human cruelty that rages to destroy it knows, if he survives his effort, and even if he does not survive it, something about himself and human life that no school on earth—and, indeed, no church—can teach. He achieves his own authority, and that is unshakable. This is because, in order to save his life, he is forced to look beneath appearances, to take nothing for granted, to hear the meaning behind the words. If one is continually surviving the worst that life can bring, one eventually ceases to be controlled by a fear of what life can bring; whatever it brings must be borne. And at this level of experience one’s bitterness begins to be palatable, and hatred becomes too heavy a sack to carry. The apprehension of life here so briefly and inadequately sketched has been the experience of generations of Negroes, and it helps to explain how they have endured and how they have been able to produce children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school. It demands great force and great cunning continually to assault the mighty and indifferent fortress of white supremacy, as Negroes in this country have done so long. It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate. The Negro boys and girls who are facing mobs today come out of a long line of improbable aristocrats—the only genuine aristocrats this country has produced. I say “this country” because their frame of reference was totally American. They were hewing out of the mountain of white supremacy the stone of their individuality. I have great respect for that unsung army of black men and women who trudged down back lanes and entered back doors, saying “Yes, sir” and “No, Ma’am” in order to acquire a new roof for the schoolhouse, new books, a new chemistry lab, more beds for the dormitories, more dormitories. They did not like saying “Yes, sir” and “No, Ma’am,” but the country was in no hurry to educate Negroes, these black men and women knew that the job had to be done, and they put their pride in their pockets in order to do it. It is very hard to believe that they were in any way inferior to the white men and women who opened those back doors. It is very hard to believe that those men and women, raising their children, eating their greens, crying their curses, weeping their tears, singing their songs, making their love, as the sun rose, as the sun set, were in any way inferior to the white men and women who crept over to share these splendors after the sun went down. "