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mcmansionhell · 8 months ago

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the motel room, or: on datedness

Often I find myself nostalgic for things that haven't disappeared yet. This feeling is enhanced by the strange conviction that once I stop looking at these things, I will never see them again, that I am living in the last moment of looking. This is sense is strongest for me in the interiors of buildings perhaps because, like items of clothing, they are of a fashionable nature, in other words, more impermanent than they probably should be.

As I get older, to stumble on something truly dated, once a drag, is now a gift. After over a decade of real estate aggregation and the havoc it's wreaked on how we as a society perceive and decorate houses, if you're going to Zillow to search for the dated (which used to be like shooting fish in a barrel), you'll be searching aimlessly, for hours, to increasingly no avail, even with all the filters engaged. (The only way to get around this is locational knowledge of datedness gleaned from the real world.) If you try to find images of the dated elsewhere on the internet, you will find that the search is not intuitive. In this day and age, you cannot simply Google "80s hotel room" anymore, what with the disintegration of the search engine ecosystem and the AI generated nonsense and the algorithmic preference for something popular (the same specific images collected over and over again on social media), recent, and usually a derivative of the original search query (in this case, finding material along the lines of r/nostalgia or the Backrooms.)

To find what one is looking for online, one must game the search engine with filters that only show content predating 2021, or, even better, use existing resources (or those previously discovered) both online and in print. In the physical world of interiors, to find what one is looking for one must also now lurk around obscure places, and often outside the realm of the domestic which is so beholden to and cursed by the churn of fashion and the logic of speculation. Our open world is rapidly closing, while, paradoxically, remaining ostensibly open. It's true, I can open Zillow. I can still search. In the curated, aggregated realm, it is becoming harder and harder to find, and ultimately, to look.

But what if, despite all these changes, datedness was never really searchable? This is a strange symmetry, one could say an obscurity, between interiors and online. It is perhaps unintentional, and it lurks in the places where searching doesn't work, one because no one is searching there, or two, because an aesthetic, for all our cataloguing, curation, aggregation, hoarding, is not inherently indexable and even if it was, there are vasts swaths of the internet and the world that are not categorized via certain - or any - parameters. The internet curator's job is to find them and aggregate them, but it becomes harder and harder to do. They can only be stumbled upon or known in an outside, offline, historical or situational way. If to index, to aggregate, is, or at least was for the last 30 years, to profit (whether monetarily or in likes), then to be dated, in many respects, is the aesthetic manifestation of barely breaking even. Of not starting, preserving, or reinventing but just doing a job.

We see this online as well. While the old-web Geocities look and later Blingee MySpace-era swag have become aestheticized and fetishized, a kind of naive art for a naive time, a great many old websites have not received the same treatment. These are no less naive but they are harder to repackage or commodify because they are simple and boring. They are not "core" enough.

As with interiors, web datedness can be found in part or as a whole. For example, sites like Imgur or Reddit are not in and of themselves dated but they are full of remnants, of 15-year old posts and their "you, sir, have won the internet" vernacular that certainly are. Other websites are dated because they were made a long time ago by and for a clientele that doesn't have a need or the skill to update (we see this often with Web 2.0 e-commerce sites that figured out how to do a basic mobile page and reckoned it was enough). The next language of datedness, like the all-white landlord-special interior, is the default, clean Squarespace restaurant page, a landing space that's the digital equivalent of a flyer, rarely gleaned unless someone needs a menu, has a food allergy or if information about the place is not available immediately from Google Maps. I say this only to maintain that there is a continuity in practices between the on- and off-line world beyond what we would immediately assume, and that we cannot blame everything on algorithms.

But now you may ask, what is, exactly, datedness? Having spent two days in a distinctly dated hotel room, I've decided to sit in utter boredom with the numinous past and try and pin it down.

II.

I am in an obscure place. I am in Saint-Georges, Quebec, Canada, on assignment. I am staying at a specific motel, the Voyageur. By my estimation the hotel was originally built in the late seventies and I'd be shocked if it was older than 1989. The hotel exterior was remodeled sometime in the 2000s with EIFS cladding and beige paint. Above is a picture of my room, which, forgive me, is in the process of being inhabited. American (and to a lesser extent Canadian) hotel rooms are some of the most churned through, renovated spaces in the world, and it's pretty rare, unless you're staying in either very small towns or are forced by economic necessity to stay at real holes in the wall, to find ones from this era. The last real hitter for me was a 90s Day's Inn in the meme-famous Breezewood, PA during the pandemic.

At first my reaction to seeing the room was cautionary. It was the last room in town, and certainly compared to other options, probably not the world's first choice. However, after staying in real, genuine European shitholes covering professional cycling I've become a class-A connoisseur of bad rooms. This one was definitively three stars. A mutter of "okay time to do a quick look through." But upon further inspection (post-bedbug paranoia) I came to the realization that maybe the always-new brainrot I'd been so critical of had seeped a teeny bit into my own subconscious and here I was snubbing my nose at a blessing in disguise. The room is not a bad room, nor is it unclean. It's just old. It's dated. We are sentimental about interiors like this now because they are disappearing, but they are for my parents what 2005 beige-core is for me and what 2010s greige will become for the generation after. When I'm writing about datedness, I'm writing in general using a previous era's examples because datedness, by its very nature, is a transitional status. Its end state is the mixed emotion of seeing things for what they are yet still appreciating them, expressed here.

Datedness is the period between vintage and contemporary. It is the sentiment between quotidian and subpar. It is uncurated and preserved only by way of inertia, not initiative. It gives us a specific feeling we don't necessarily like, one that is deliberately evoked in the media subcultures surrounding so-called "liminal" spaces: the fuguelike feeling of being spatially trapped in a time while our real time is passing. Datedness in the real world is not a curated experience, it is only what was. It is different from nostalgia because it is not deliberately remembered, yearned for or attached to sweetness. Instead, it is somehow annoying. It is like stumbling into the world of adults as a child, but now you're the adult and the child in you is disappointed. (The real child-you forgot a dull hotel room the moment something more interesting came along.) An image of my father puts his car keys on the table, looks around and says, "It'll do." We have an intolerance for datedness because it is the realization of what sufficed. Sufficiency in many ways implies lack.

However, for all its datedness, many, if not all, of the things in this room will never be seen again if the room is renovated. They will become unpurchaseable and extinct. Things like the bizarrely-patterned linoleum tile in the shower, the hose connecting to the specific faucet of the once-luxurious (or at least middling) jacuzzi tub whose jets haven't been exercised since the fall of the Berlin Wall. The wide berth of the tank on the toilet. There is nothing, really, worth saving about these things. Even the most sentimental among us wouldn't dare argue that the items and finishes in this room are particularly important from a design or historical standpoint. Not everything old has a patina. They're too cheaply made to salvage. Plastic tile. Bowed plywood. The image-artifacts of these rooms, gussied up for Booking dot com, will also, inevitably disappear, relegated to the dustheap of web caches and comments that say "it was ok kinda expensive but close to twon (sic)." You wouldn't be able to find them anyway unless you were looking for a room.

One does, of course, recognize a little bit of design in what's here. Signifiers of an era. The wood-veneer of the late 70s giving way to the pastel overtones of the 80s. Perhaps even a slow 90s. The all-in-one vanity floating above the floor, a modernist basement bathroom hallmark. White walls as a sign of cleanliness. Gestures, in the curved lines of the nightstands, towards postmodernity. Metallic lamp bases with wide-brimmed shades, a whisper of glamor. A kind of scalloped aura to the club chairs. The color teal mediated through hundreds if not thousands of shoes. Yellowing plastic, including the strips of "molding" that visually tie floor to wall. These are remnants (or are they intuitions?) of so many movements and micromovements, none of them definite enough to point to the influence of a single designer, hell, even of a single decade, just strands of past-ness accumulated into one thread, which is cheapness. Continuity exists in the materials only because everything was purchased as a set from a wholesale catalog.

In some way a hotel is supposed to be placeless. Anonymous. Everything tries to be that way now, even houses. Perhaps because we don't like the way we spy on ourselves and lease our images out to the world so we crave the specificity of hotel anonymity, of someplace we move through on our way to bigger, better or at least different things. The hotel was designed to be frictionless but because it is in a little town, it sees little use and because it sees little use, there are elements that can last far longer than they were intended and which inadvertently cause friction. (The janky door unlocks with a key. The shower hose keeps coming out of the faucet. It's deeply annoying.)

Lack of wear and lack of funds only keep them that way. Not even the paper goods of the eighties have been exhausted yet. Datedness is not a choice but an inevitability. Because it is not a choice, it is not advertised except in a utilitarian sense. It is kept subtle on the hotel websites, out of shame. Because it does not subscribe to an advertiser's economy of the now, of the curated type rather than the "here is my service" type, it disappears into the folds of the earth and cannot be searched for in the way "design" can. It can only be discovered by accident.

When I look at all of these objects and things, I do so knowing I will never see them again, at least not all here together like this, as a cohesive whole assembled for a specific purpose. I don't think I'll ever have reason to come back to this town or this place, which has given me an unexpected experience of being peevish in my father's time. Whenever I end up in a place like this, where all is as it was, I get the sense that it will take a very long time for others to experience this sensation again with the things my generation has made. The machinations of fashion work rapaciously to make sure that nothing is ever old, not people, not rooms, not items, not furniture, not fabrics, not even design, that old matron who loves to wax poetic about futurity and timelessness. The plastic-veneered particleboard used here is now the bedrock of countless landfills. Eventually it will become the chemical-laced soil upon which we build our condos. It is possible that we are standing now at the very last frontier of our prior datedness. The next one has not yet elided. It's a special place. Spend a night. Take pictures.

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#architecture #design #1980s #datedness #essay #the backrooms #oddcore #dreamcore #weirdcore

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vexwerewolf · 4 months ago

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If we talk about the aesthetics of technology in Lancer, we can divide each of the Big 4 along lines of form and function.

IPS-N: Pure Function

IPS-N cares only what a mech does. It doesn't need to look good or pretty doing it - it only needs to be able to do that thing well. It's notable that the Raleigh, arguably the most form-oriented of the IPS-N frames, is also considered to be the company's biggest commercial failure - they strayed from their core design principles and got punished for it.

Harrison Armory: Form Follows Function

Harrison Armory still leans pretty heavily towards the functionality side of things, but it isn't satisfied with doing a good job alone. Yes, the mechs have to perform well, but they also have to look good doing it. There's no practical application for the Sherman's sleeveless coat or the Tokugawa's dainty little tassels, but they don't hinder combat functionality and they make the mechs look dashing. In comparison to IPS-N's coarse, industrial, almost unfinished look, HA mechs look stern, austere and imposing. There's a smoothness to them that you just don't get on IPS-N frames.

SSC: Function Follows Form

SSC is where we start to plunge into aesthetics-forward mech design. The Death's Head isn't six-legged because it's a sniper - the Death's Head is a sniper because it's six-legged. SSC came up with a mech design and asked: "what would this do best?" A six-legged chassis provided a more stable firing platform for precision weaponry, so that was what it did. Shapes and appearances are invented, and then a use case is discovered for them.

HORUS: Pure Form

It might seem weird to classify HORUS as "pure form" when their mechs largely don't have a consistent visual identity outside of the examples in the book. However, if we look a little deeper at the definition of "form," the explanation becomes clear: in some ways, HORUS is in the business of making statements, not mechs.

For anyone who's actually played a HORUS mech in Lancer, you may have noticed how awkward they are to actually pilot. Their statlines are, on paper, often very poorly suited to the sort of work they have to do. The Gorgon is built to attract attention and draw fire but has no armor. The Manticore is meant to be a front-line fighter but is quite slow. The Minotaur is meant to be a tech platform but has a low sensor range. The Pegasus' one functional trait doesn't apply to any of the weapons in its equipment package!

This is because HORUS mechs are designed purely as a testament to a certain discipline of technology. I remember expressing irritation with a friend's NeoGeo-for-X-Box emulator once, that you couldn't reconfigure the controller mapping so that it was easier to play with the X-Box controller. He remarked that it was meant as a historical preservation tool that perfectly duplicated the functionality of the NeoGeo, and that the only reason you could even play games using it at all is because that was a function of NeoGeo arcade cabinets.

That's how HORUS mechs are - their usability as chassis is broadly a side-effect.

#ips-n #harrison armory #smith-shimano #ssc #horus #lancer #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer-rpg #in golden flame #design aesthetics #form vs function

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reasonsforhope · 1 year ago

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"Cody Two Bears, a member of the Sioux tribe in North Dakota, founded Indigenized Energy, a native-led energy company with a unique mission — installing solar farms for tribal nations in the United States.

This initiative arises from the historical reliance of Native Americans on the U.S. government for power, a paradigm that is gradually shifting.

The spark for Two Bears' vision ignited during the Standing Rock protests in 2016, where he witnessed the arrest of a fellow protester during efforts to prevent the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline on sacred tribal land.

Disturbed by the status quo, Two Bears decided to channel his activism into action and create tangible change.

His company, Indigenized Energy, addresses a critical issue faced by many reservations: poverty and lack of access to basic power.

Reservations are among the poorest communities in the country, and in some, like the Navajo Nation, many homes lack electricity.

Even in regions where the land has been exploited for coal and uranium, residents face obstacles to accessing power.

Renewable energy, specifically solar power, is a beacon of hope for tribes seeking to overcome these challenges.

Not only does it present an environmentally sustainable option, but it has become the most cost-effective form of energy globally, thanks in part to incentives like the Inflation Reduction Act of 2022.

Tribal nations can receive tax subsidies of up to 30% for solar and wind farms, along with grants for electrification, climate resiliency, and energy generation.

And Indigenized Energy is not focused solely on installing solar farms — it also emphasizes community empowerment through education and skill development.

In collaboration with organizations like Red Cloud Renewable, efforts are underway to train Indigenous tribal members for jobs in the renewable energy sector.

The program provides free training to individuals, with a focus on solar installation skills.

Graduates, ranging from late teens to late 50s, receive pre-apprenticeship certification, and the organization is planning to launch additional programs to support graduates with career services such as resume building and interview coaching...

The adoption of solar power by Native communities signifies progress toward sustainable development, cultural preservation, and economic self-determination, contributing to a more equitable and environmentally conscious future.

These initiatives are part of a broader movement toward "energy sovereignty," wherein tribes strive to have control over their own power sources.

This movement represents not only an economic opportunity and a source of jobs for these communities but also a means of reclaiming control over their land and resources, signifying a departure from historical exploitation and an embrace of sustainable practices deeply rooted in Indigenous cultures."

-via Good Good Good, December 10, 2023

#indigenous #native americans #first nations #indigenous rights #tribal sovereignty #solar energy #solar power #solar panels #renewable energy #green energy #sioux #sioux nation #sustainability #climate hope #electrification #united states #hope #good news

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 month ago

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Squeaky Clean 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you're not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU -- plus!reader)

Note: yeah...

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

This isn’t where you pictured yourself. Even as a cynic, it’s not a job you would aspire too. You’re realistic. Practical. You do what needs to be done. And you suppose, at the end of the day, that’s all this is. Cleaning is rarely enjoyable but it needs to be done.

You have your kit. The agency gave that to you for a $30 fee. Wonderful, you get to pay for supplies. Business is business. Just another way of the world. The bucket is weighed down by the cleaners, the sponges, clothes, etc. The vacuum is a rental and weighs down your trunk with the broom and mop from your own apartment. You’re not buying a whole new set just for this. They’ll do the job.

You can settle for that. For what will do. For the bare minimum. Life has been a lot of that. You’re not the only one living that way so why feel sorry for yourself. Get through it, get over it.

The map on your phone leads you to the address. It’s a big place. One of those high-end townhouses. Not new but renovated. Protected by some city ordinance for ‘historical preservation’. Under that, they sell for nothing less than two million. Yep, you expect that. Logic and practicality are easy bedmates.

You park and feed the meter. Again, paying to make money. The world runs on money. Put in a little and hope for a few cents to get you by.

You get out and grab your bucket. You'll come back for the rest when you need them. Zuli, the woman who went over the expectations with you assured you that most clients are away during a service call. They don’t like mingling with the help. If they are around, you likely won’t see them. Or they won’t acknowledge you.

You can suck up your pride. It’s that city mindset. When you’re on the subway, you keep your head down, you don’t make eye contact. If you hadn’t taken this damned job, you wouldn’t be slogging through New York traffic in the company pinto. A job is a job, money is money, everything is simple if you just parse down your expectations.

You climb the front steps and as you go to ring the doorbell, a lens built in to protect the overpriced property, the door opens. You retract your hand in surprise. Bad timing?

The man that greets you is tall and blond. He wears a button up; brown plaid, and khakis. He looks like a cut-out husband from a 1950s advertisement for laundry soap. ‘Give your a fresh scent’ or whatever.

Strangely, he also tweaks your memory. Do you know him from somewhere? That’s not possible. You don’t know anyone you’re not forced to know.

“Mister...” You lift your phone and check the app. “...Rogers.”

Oh, right. Steve Rogers. You thought it was a coincidence. It can’t be a very uncommon name. You really didn’t anticipate the Captain America opening the door, even in Brooklyn.

“You must be...” he says your name with a smile. “You can just call me Steve.”

He holds out his hand. You look at it and stiffly set down the kit. You shake it, out of courtesy. Just your luck. You get one that wants to chat.

“I’ll give you the tour,” he squeezes your hand firmly before he lets go. “You can get the lay of the land.”

Another false promise. You should be used to those by now. Those written directions Zuli mentioned are out the window. You get the full curated walk through.

“Thanks,” you nod and bend your knees.

He’s quicker than you. Stronger too. Obviously. But the way he easily scoops up the bucket, it’s like he’s picking up no more than a pillow. The act adds to the hint of mortification in prickling behind your ears. Here you are, in sweats and a bandana, in a nice neighbourhood, and now you’re faced with the primped and pristine golden boy.

He backs up and gestures you inside, the bottle of bleach wiggling in the bucket. You enter and stop on the matter. You slip out of your shoes as he shuts the door. He turns, coming close, close enough that his warm radiates through the back of your hoodie.

“You can hang up your sweater,” he reaches to tap a peg on the coat rack mounted on the wall.

“Sure,” you unzip the hoodie and hang it.

The house is nice. Organized. You wonder why he needs a maid but then again, you suppose even if he can do it himself, he might not want to. Or have the time. How much leisure does he have when he isn’t saving the world.

It’s a pretty standard layout. You’ve seen homes with a similar floor plan by the fixtures are loose and corroded and the floorboards splintered. Nice places, just aged. Owned by those who can’t afford hired help.

You notice a few original pieces, restored, but emblazoned with the patent that demarcates them as turn of the twentieth century. Almost as old as the man leading you around. You go through the first floor, the second floor, and come back down.

“So, I’ll be around here and there. I don’t really have a solid schedule but I’ll try to have you come in around the same time, make it easy on you,” he explains. He has a hand on his hip as he gestures with the other; like he’s ordering around his soldiers, rather, his avengers.

“Right,” you nod again.

Taking orders isn’t that hard. They remind you of someone else but they’re not difficult. It’s harder when you don’t know what others want. When disappointing them is easy.

“Any questions?” He asks.

“No,” you shake your head. You stand awkwardly, waiting. You clear your throat. “I can take that.”

You reach for the kit and he flinches as he looks down. He chuckles, “oh, oh yeah. Heavy. Let me know where to put it. I’ll save you the pulled muscle.”

“Really, I can handle it,” you grab the handle, next to his hand. He resists for a moment then lets you take it. He could keep it from you if he wanted. That thought is something else. This man is powerful in more ways than one. “Thanks.”

“No problem, and whatever you need, water or whatever, let me know,” he offers as he slides one heel back. “I’m up in my office today so you can do that last.”

“Makes sense,” you accept and turn away.

Kitchen first, that’s the most tedious.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #maid au #drabble #series #squeaky clean #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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edenesth · 7 months ago

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TWTHH Spinoff: Try Again [2]

Pairing: assistant!Jongho x new maid!reader

AU: historical au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary: Among the many staff members at General Park's estate, Jongho stood out for his dedication, leaving no room for personal indulgence. Convinced that love and marriage would detract from his commitment to serving the general, he had resigned himself to a life of solitude. But his conviction was challenged with the arrival of an annoyingly perfect Miss Kwon, a new maid whose kindness and efficiency began to make him rethink his life choices.

Part 1 | Main Story | Spinoff Masterlist

"Ugh, he's such an idiot," Seonghwa mumbled, rubbing a frustrated hand against his temple as he entered the House of Lotus that night. His wife smirked from her position on the bed. "Yeah, reminds me of you. Men become utter fools when they develop feelings for someone."

He pouted, shedding the outer layer of his hanbok before carefully joining her on the bed, mindful of her round belly. "Am not," he argued, but she raised a challenging brow. "Are too." He huffed but pulled her close regardless. "Am not."

She glared up at him. "Are too, General Park. You're being one right now." He couldn't resist the grin creeping onto his face at how adorable she was, despite being about to become a mother. "Yes, my love. You're always right. I'm just messing with you, you know that." She stuck her tongue out at him playfully. "That's more like it," she said, melting into her husband's warm embrace.

"Let him be, Hwa. I know you're frustrated, but he's at a stage where nothing you say will get through. He'll learn on his own eventually." He nodded in defeat, sighing when she pressed her lips against his jaw.

"Now, let us sleep."

"Yes, ma'am."

On the other side of the estate, you lay awake in bed, the events of the afternoon replaying in your mind like a broken record. You tried to reevaluate your priorities here, but one memory stood out starkly.

"Don't think, Miss Kwon. Just do your job and leave me alone. And it's Assistant Choi to you."

Those words pierced your heart more deeply than he would ever know. After all those moments and progress, were you a fool to believe you were finally on good terms? Was it naive to assume you were now… friends? A small, hopeful part of you even dared to wish for something more.

But now, you understand.

You had grown up a people pleaser all your life. And if leaving Jongho alone was what he truly wanted, you would grant him your absence. The last thing you ever wanted was to be a bother or annoyance to anyone. You had tried your best, but even a saint has their limits, and you had reached yours.

Feeling a profound sense of betrayal, you replayed his harsh words over and over in your mind. Each repetition cut deeper, shattering the fragile hope you had nurtured. You had seen glimpses of a softer side in the assistant, moments where his stern exterior seemed to crack. Those moments had given you hope—hope that there was more to your relationship than a mere formality. But now, it was clear that those glimpses were just that—brief and fleeting.

You had spent your life striving to make others happy, always going the extra mile to please those around you, to earn their approval and affection. It was in your nature to help, to support, to be there for others. But now, faced with his cold rejection, you were once again reminded that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it will never be enough. The weight of his words pressed down on you, and the sting of rejection was almost unbearable.

It was just like with my parents…

Determined to respect his wishes, you resolved to distance yourself from him. It wasn't easy. Every interaction, every shared moment, had left an indelible mark on your heart. But you had to protect yourself, to preserve whatever dignity you had left. You would focus on your duties, keeping your head down and your heart guarded.

As you moved through your days, you couldn't help but feel a profound sadness. You missed the camaraderie you thought you had built, the unspoken connection you felt. Yet, you reminded yourself that you deserved to be around people who appreciated you and valued your presence. If Jongho wanted distance, you would give it to him, even if it broke your heart in the process.

The assistant had initially been grateful that you had listened and left him alone. He remembered tensing up the first time he saw you after he had told you off so rudely the other day. He breathed a sigh of relief when you only nodded politely in acknowledgement before walking the other way. But as days passed, it became hard not to notice how you were beginning to avoid him like he had first done to you. Whenever he tried to speak to you regarding work, you would dismiss him and redirect him to someone else.

Today was another one of those days.

He straightened up, noticing you heading his way. He cleared his throat, trying to act as nonchalant as possible as he stepped in front of you, intentionally blocking your path.

"Miss Kwon, I'd hate to trouble you, but I'm going to need you to—"

You sighed, bowing. "Apologies, Assistant Choi, but I have more than enough on my plate as it is. If this does not concern maternity or relate to the mistress in any way, please seek assistance from someone else." Without waiting for his response, you walked away.

He blinked in surprise as he watched you go. The indifference in your voice and the quick dismissal stung more than he cared to admit. It was a stark contrast to the warmth and eagerness you had once shown him. His initial relief turned into an uncomfortable realisation that your absence, your avoidance, was affecting him more than he had anticipated.

Whatever, it's better this way.

Jongho tried to convince himself, but it was no use. This treatment affected him more than he liked to admit, yet his stubbornness prevented him from addressing it. Out of spite, he became even meaner to you, thinking that maintaining a cold front would help him regain control.

One day, as he passed by the House of Lotus, he saw you tidying up Lady Park's pavilion, now cluttered with various items. When you felt his gaze, you turned and found him staring. Flustered, he huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'd be careful not to break anything if I were you. Every single item here is worth more than you ever will be." He cursed himself internally after uttering those words, wondering why he had to be so cruel. His fists clenched in regret when you let out a shaky breath and nodded obediently.

"I am aware, Assistant Choi. Please do not worry; I will treat them with the utmost care."

Why didn't you fight back? he wondered. The way you did when he had questioned you and your skills before? He hated that you were giving him minimal reactions, as if speaking to him would kill you. The realisation hit him hard—he was the hypocrite, condemning your distance when he had been the one to push you away.

Jongho's frustration mounted as he realised that your avoidance was cutting deeper than he had anticipated. Despite his best efforts to distance himself from you, each time you turned away, it stirred a pang of regret within him. At the thought, he found himself arranging the books in the general's study with more force than usual.

"Woah, any harder and you'll have to replace them all with new ones. I'm not sure your salary can cover that expense, Jongho. What's gotten your panties in a knot?" Seonghwa's sudden appearance beside him startled the assistant into a cough and a bow.

In truth, the younger man struggled to pinpoint the source of his frustration—whether it was directed at himself, you, or both. He knew he had no right to be angry with you; after all, you had only done exactly what he asked. It was a constant war between his mind and heart, and he was sick of it.

"Nothing, sir. Just a bit... overwhelmed with work," he lied, avoiding the general's knowing gaze.

Seonghwa sighed, crossing his arms. "You know, you're a terrible liar. This wouldn't have anything to do with Miss Kwon, would it?"

Jongho's silence spoke volumes. He continued to arrange the books, each movement more agitated than the last. "It's just... she's avoiding me," he finally admitted, his voice laced with frustration.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Seonghwa asked, raising an eyebrow.

The younger man clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "I thought it was. But now... I don't know."

"Maybe you should figure out what you really want before you destroy everything around you," General Park advised, his tone gentle but firm. "Including your own peace of mind."

He nodded slowly, the weight of his employer's words sinking in. He realised he needed to stop this war within himself. The constant push and pull were tearing him apart, and he couldn't bear it any longer.

That night, the general returned to his wife's side with a triumphant grin. "Things between those two will be fine now. Just you wait, my love." Lady Park shook her head. "Are you sure? I wouldn't be so optimistic if I were you."

And once again, her intuition proved correct.

Despite Jongho's desire to mend the rift between you, his pride and reluctance eventually held him back. Much to Seonghwa's disappointment, nothing changed. The silent war between Assistant Choi and the new maid persisted, casting a palpable tension over the household, noticed by nearly everyone.

Eunsook sighed heavily as she noticed the usually alert assistant zoning out for what felt like the thousandth time during their weekly inventory check. "What's bothering you, Jongho-yah? You know you can talk to me, right?" the elderly woman asked gently.

The general's aide finally snapped out of his trance, his eyes drifting away from the window where you had been standing moments ago, discussing herbs for the mistress' tonic with another maid.

"I…" He hesitated, tempted to confide in her. Eunsook had been like a mother to him throughout his employment here. But he shook his head, recognising how unprofessional discussing personal matters during work hours would be. More importantly, his pride stood in the way. Admitting his feelings would make them real and expose his vulnerability. He was Choi Jongho, after all. The last thing he needed was to be seen as a lovesick fool.

With a firm shake of his head, he forced a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Eunsook. Maybe just a bit tired, nothing a good night's sleep can't fix. I'll rest earlier tonight, don't worry."

She shook her head in disbelief as she watched the stubborn young man return to work, his usual mask of nonchalance firmly back in place. She could see the turmoil beneath his facade, but he was determined to keep it hidden, even from himself.

These kids are hopeless, I swear...

"Good job, everyone. Go and get some rest for the night." The assistant nodded approvingly at the completed tasks for the day and dismissed the group of estate staff assigned under him.

He watched as the servants dispersed, heading towards their respective quarters. Giving the tidy inventory one last look, he dusted off his hands in satisfaction and began walking towards his own room, ready to retire for the night. All he could think about was the comfort of his mattress. He couldn’t wait to lie down and forget about everything, especially you. Thoughts of you had been making him restless, and he truly loathed it. He chastised himself for being caught by Eunsook earlier. This was bad, and he couldn't keep letting you affect him this way.

As if the world were adamant about ruining his plans, your familiar petite frame appeared in his vision. You were hunched over a basin, scrubbing one of the mistress' hanboks clean. What in the world were you doing out here in the cold of the night? Everyone else was either heading to bed or already asleep. And here you were, performing a chore that could very well make you sick in this weather.

He took a hesitant step towards you, wanting to lecture you, but then stepped back, remembering how awkward things were between you now. Yet, he didn't have the heart to walk away. With a huff, he pushed himself to approach you.

"Miss Kwon, shouldn't this be a task done during the day? Just because you're out here late doesn't mean you're hardworking. If anything, it shows you can't finish your tasks on time during work hours." He mentally cursed himself for always letting such harsh words slip, as if showing that he cared was such a horrendous thing.

You halted your actions momentarily at the sound of his voice before continuing. "Good evening, Assistant Choi," you said, turning slightly to eye him from the corner of your eye, not granting him the pleasure of your full attention. "I understand what you mean, but I hope you also understand that a heavily pregnant woman like the mistress might not always have full control of her bladder like the rest of us and that unplanned mishaps can happen. Do you suppose I should leave the lady in her wet garments? Is it wrong that I am getting things done on my own time? Please do not let me stop you from getting your rest. I am fully capable of managing my own time. Thank you very much. Now, if you'll excuse me," you answered firmly, not paying him any more mind.

Jongho stood there, feeling a mix of frustration and regret. He hated the way he spoke to you, but he couldn't seem to help it. Watching you continue your task, he realised that your dedication and resilience only made him admire you more, even if he was too stubborn to admit it. "Fine."

If he thought that would be the last time he found you out late, he was sorely mistaken. Over the next few days, he noticed a troubling pattern: you were working harder than ever, often staying up late to complete various chores long after the mistress had gone to bed. As if that wasn't concerning enough, you were already up and working by the time he started his day, which was unusually early. He began to wonder if you were getting any rest at all.

Despite his stubbornness, the assistant couldn't help but worry about your well-being. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way you sometimes swayed on your feet from exhaustion and the quiet determination in your every movement. It bothered him more than he would like to admit, but he refused to acknowledge that he cared. The thought of you overworking yourself began to weigh heavily on his mind.

One evening, he stood by the window of the general's study, watching as you meticulously swept the courtyard. The sun had long set, and the estate was bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to go out there and tell you to stop. But his pride kept him rooted in place.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Why does she have to be so damn stubborn?" he muttered to himself.

Just then, the head maid entered the room with a tray of tea. She set it down on the desk and looked at him with a knowing expression. "Still worrying about her?"

Jongho stiffened, then tried to play it off with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm not worrying, Eunsook. It's just… She's working too hard. It's not good for her."

The elderly woman raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying his act. "You know, Jongho-yah, it's okay to care about someone. Even if it's hard to admit."

He scoffed, turning away from the window. "I'm not admitting anything. She's just… being reckless."

Eunsook shook her head with a soft chuckle. "You can keep telling yourself that, but everyone can see it. Just don't wait too long to do something about it."

As she left the room, Jongho's gaze drifted back to you. He knew she was right, but his pride and fear of vulnerability kept him silent. Yet, with each passing day, the thought of you overworking yourself increasingly bothered him, threatening to break through the walls he had built around his heart.

About to retire for the night, the assistant once again spotted you still busy at work. Tonight, you were by the furnace outside the House of Lotus, burning coals in an attempt to keep the mistress warm during the relentless cold weather. What an idiot, he thought to himself as he carefully approached you, not wanting to alert you to his presence. Here you were, busy keeping the lady warm while putting yourself in the cold. You were going to fall sick at this rate. He was amazed that you weren't already ill with the constant work and little rest you'd been getting lately.

He let out a small sigh of relief when he was close enough to see your head propped up on your fist, your elbow resting on your knee, your eyes closed. "You stubborn girl," he whispered to himself, feeling his heart ache as he observed the callouses on your free hand and the bags under your eyes. Your lips were dry and chapped, nearly turning blue from sitting out in the cold for god knows how long. He had to fight the urge to pull you close and carry you back to your quarters.

Instead, he sighed and crouched down beside you, lifting a hesitant hand to your face and gently moving a stray strand of hair. Noticing the slight shiver that ran through you, he quickly pulled off the outer layer of his hanbok and draped it around your shaking form. He froze when you seemed to wake up from the sudden warmth enveloping you.

"Hm— what? J-Jongho?" you muttered groggily before realising who was in front of you. Clearing your throat, you shot up from your seat and bowed. "Assistant Choi, wh-what were you…" you trailed off, noticing his outer layer on your shoulders.

Ignoring his disappointment when you corrected yourself and addressed him by his title instead of his name, he avoided your gaze, standing up as well. "Don't overthink it. I may be strict, but I'm not heartless. After all, who would care for the mistress if you fell sick? If you were responsible, you'd take good care of yourself too." He spoke in his usual icy tone, the mask of nonchalance returning as he turned to leave.

"Wait, your—" you started, looking down at the piece of clothing around your frame, but he cut you off.

"Keep it," he said firmly.

As he walked back to his room, he whispered to the wind, hoping it would somehow reach you, "You need it more than I do."

You stared after his retreating figure in confusion. He was so infuriating. If he wanted to be mean, why couldn't he be mean until the end? Why was he always making things more complicated than they should be? He constantly said one thing and did another. Why was he playing with your feelings like this?

You had been trying so hard to push all thoughts of him out of your mind, focusing on nothing but work, keeping yourself busy, and putting him at a distance just as he had wanted. You wanted to show him that you could be just as good at your job as he was—just as hardworking, dedicated, and capable—to prove him wrong about whatever prejudices he might have against you.

And just when you thought you could finally learn to hate him, he would go and do things like this, undoing all your efforts. You sighed, clutching the fabric around you, pulling it close as tears of frustration welled in your eyes. His scent was somehow… comforting.

"Stop doing this to me, Choi Jongho," you whispered to the night, feeling your resolve crumble once again.

The next day, the assistant resumed his work as usual, though his heart raced at the thought of running into you. Would you still be wearing the piece of clothing he had given you? Or had you already cleaned it and left it on his doorstep? The latter seemed more likely. He couldn't understand his internal dilemma: on the one hand, it felt oddly satisfying to imagine you walking around with his robe draped over you, as if you were his. On the other hand, he wanted to smack himself sober for having these mind-boggling thoughts. He was stuck between wanting to see you in it and knowing the impropriety of it all.

In his constant efforts to both avoid and keep an eye out for you, half the day had gone by, and he began to realise that you had been nowhere in sight the entire time. He told himself not to overthink it, but his mind raced with possibilities of where you could be, trying to regulate the escalating unease he felt.

While he could have simply asked around, he refused to inquire about your whereabouts, prioritising his pride over his concern. Yet, secretly, he was going insane with worry.

As he moved through his tasks, his frustration grew. Every room he entered, every corridor he walked down, he found himself hoping to catch a glimpse of you. The absence of your presence gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.

By the time the sun began to set, his anxiety had reached its peak. The thought of something happening to you while he stubbornly refused to show concern made him feel a pang of guilt. He clenched his fists, battling the urge to ask someone where you were.

Instead of carrying out his tasks, Jongho ended up spending nearly the entire day searching the estate for you. Every corner, every room, every possible hiding place—he checked them all, growing more distressed with each passing moment.

Where could she have possibly gone?

After what felt like an eternity, he finally found you alone in the Cold Palace. Your figure was hunched, and his heart clenched when he realised you were crying on one of the steps leading up to the vacant chambers. His heart picked up its speed again when he spotted his robe neatly folded beside you. So, you kept it. It was apparent you had come here for privacy, given that this place had been as good as abandoned ever since the mistress moved out.

A part of him told himself he was intruding on a personal moment and that he should leave you be now that he knew you were safe. But the bigger part of him couldn't take it anymore. He wanted— no, needed to know you were okay.

Annoyed yet concerned, Jongho moved to sit down beside you, his presence startling you slightly. "What's making you cry?" he asked, his tone a mix of irritation and genuine concern.

"Assistant Choi?" Blinking rapidly, you shook your head. "I-I'm fine..."

His stern gaze silenced you. "Just be honest with me… please."

You wiped your tears, taking a deep breath before responding. "Fine, if you insist. I'm just… I'm tired of constantly feeling as though I will never be enough for anyone and everyone. You think you're the only one who fought hard to get where you are?" you began, your voice trembling with emotion. "I've struggled, too. I've given everything to prove myself, to show that I'm just as capable, just as dedicated. You have no right to judge me or mistreat me."

The assistant's heart sank with each word. He had hoped, in some twisted way, that your tears were because of him, a testament to his impact on your life. But hearing your frustration, your own story of perseverance, shattered that notion.

When you finished, you stood up, ready to leave. But against his better judgement, he gently pulled you back, his mind racing for the right words. All his usual defences, his pride and stubbornness, seemed meaningless at this moment.

"I... I'm sorry," he muttered softly, his voice barely audible.

You looked at him, surprised by his uncharacteristic vulnerability. For a moment, the air between you was heavy with unspoken emotions. Jongho, struggling to find more words, simply held your gaze, hoping his apology was enough to convey his regret.

At those unexpected words, your tears flowed again as you allowed him to gently guide you back into the seat beside him. The chill of the air was gradually replaced by warmth as he once again draped his robe over your shoulders. He didn't say another word, but his actions spoke volumes, conveying his sincerity. This unexpected kindness only made you cry harder.

He moved closer until your shoulders touched, his presence a silent reassurance that you weren't alone. The two of you spent the rest of the evening sitting next to each other in silence. Though he could have left after offering his apology, he realised he didn't want to. There was an unspoken bond forming between you, a quiet understanding that both of you needed.

As the stars began to dot the sky, the silence between you became more comfortable, almost intimate. He felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time. He glanced at you, noticing the way your breathing had evened out, your tears finally subsiding.

"I'm sorry," he repeated softly, feeling the need to say it again.

You nodded, leaning slightly into his warmth, feeling a strange sense of relief. "Thank you," you whispered, grateful for his sincerity.

The two of you remained there, side by side, the Cold Palace no longer feeling so cold with the shared warmth of understanding and newfound camaraderie. The quiet intimacy of the moment made your hearts flutter, the connection between you deepening with each passing second.

The next day, Jongho eagerly looked forward to seeing you again. However, as he made his rounds, his anticipation turned to confusion and panic when he couldn't find you anywhere again, not even the Cold Palace. None of the servants had any answers for him, claiming not to know where you had gone.

Desperate for answers, he sought out the general, the head maid, and the mistress. Each of them gave him the same response: "She left, Jongho. She's gone home."

She... left? But why?

Panic gripped him. Hadn't everything been resolved after the previous night? He couldn't understand what was happening. He clearly recalled escorting you back to your quarters after a pleasant stop by the kitchen, where you treated yourselves to some leftover dishes from dinner. There had been laughter, shared stories, and a genuine connection. You had shyly handed his robe back to him at the end of the night, but he had insisted you keep it. Things were going well, weren't they? So, what went wrong?

His mind raced with questions. For once, he wasn't worried about the consequences Seonghwa mentioned he would face if you quit. All he could think about was why you had left and where you had gone. Was last night a goodbye? Why exactly were you crying? There had to be more to it, right?

He needed answers.

Holy crap, he needed you.

As he stood in the empty courtyard, grappling with his mounting frustration and confusion, the general approached, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Jongho...? You okay, buddy?"

The question snapped the assistant from his spiralling thoughts. He turned to face his employer, his face a mask of desperation and determination. The weight of the revelation that you had left, combined with the realisation of how deeply he had come to care for you, pushed him to the brink.

With a sudden surge of emotion, Jongho blurted out, "I need to know where she lives. I need her address—now!"

General Park's eyes widened in surprise. The head maid and the mistress exchanged concerned glances, their expressions reflecting the unexpected turn of events. His outburst revealed a side of him they had rarely seen—a side filled with raw vulnerability and an intensity that spoke of deep feelings.

"You... you were right, I can't be without her," he continued, his voice trembling with a mix of frustration and resolve. "I didn't realise how much she meant to me until she was gone. I thought I could handle it, but I can't. I need to bring her back."

Took you long enough, you prideful idiot.

Seonghwa's hand remained on his shoulder, a silent gesture of support. The assistant's declaration of his feelings, so raw and exposed, left him feeling both embarrassed and liberated. He knew now that his emotions were undeniable, and he was willing to face whatever consequences lay ahead to be with you again.

Eunsook stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. "Jongho, are you sure about this? It's a long journey, and things might not be as simple as you think. Miss Kwon, she was uh... she seemed very troubled."

Jongho nodded, his eyes determined. "Then that's all the more reason for me to be there for her. I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I can't let her think that I don't care. I need to see her, to explain… to fix whatever I messed up."

The lady, witnessing his resolve, stepped in with a sympathetic smile. "Very well. We'll get you the address. But remember, you must be honest with her. Be clear about your feelings. No more saying things you don't mean."

He nodded firmly and took a deep breath, the weight of his decision settling in. He felt a rush of relief and fear, knowing that he was about to embark on a journey to find you and make things right. He had come to understand that his feelings for you were more than just fleeting emotions—they were real, and they mattered deeply.

As the information was given to him, the assistant clutched the piece of paper tightly, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and anxiety. He turned to Seonghwa, Eunsook, and the mistress, offering them a sincere thank you.

"I'll make sure she knows how much she means to me," Jongho said with resolve. "Thank you for your understanding."

With that, he set off, ready to face the world and do whatever it took to bring you back. The journey ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: he was no longer just an assistant doing his job—he was a man determined to fight for the love he had finally come to recognise.

Your heart felt heavy as you stepped out of the carriage, staring up at the estate you once called home, though it had never truly felt like one. No matter how many people filled its halls, it always remained a cold place, devoid of the warmth you craved. And yet, here you were again, returning after years away. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before entering the Kwon household for the first time in forever.

As you walked through the entrance, the servants bowed in recognition of your presence. "Welcome back, young miss," they murmured. You nodded emotionlessly, your eyes fixed on the altar straight ahead, which held the painting of a person whose affection you had fought hard to earn but never received.

Your brothers turned as your presence was announced. The second eldest furrowed his brows, a sneer forming on his lips. "Well, well, look who finally decides to show up? And here I was thinking Miss Ungrateful would never step foot in this house again. I'm afraid it's a little late to return, little sister. Mother's already dea—"

The eldest grabbed his arm, stopping him from finishing the sentence. "That's enough. Don't start anything. Show some respect. Mother would not want this."

You stood there, feeling a mix of sorrow and resentment. The coldness of the house and the harshness of your brother's words only served to remind you of why you had left in the first place. Yet, as you looked at the painting of the late Lady Kwon, you couldn't help but feel a pang of grief. Despite everything, a part of you had always hoped for reconciliation, for a family that would accept and love you.

Swallowing your emotions, you stepped forward, trying to find your voice. "I came to pay my respects," you said softly, your tone measured and controlled. "Whatever differences we had, she was still my mother."

The second eldest scoffed but remained silent, his gaze shifting away from you. You took another step closer to the altar, feeling the weight of the past and the unresolved emotions pressing down on you. It was difficult to be here, but you knew you had to face it, if not for your own sake, then for the memory of the woman whose portrait now watched over you.

As you stood there, the silence was heavy, filled with unspoken words and buried feelings. Your heart ached, but you remained resolute, determined to find closure in this place that had once been so unforgiving.

You settled on your knees before the altar, the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. After lighting your own incense stick, you carefully placed it in the holder before your mother's resting place. Lowering your head, you clasped your hands together, the scent of the burning incense mingling with the bittersweet memories that flooded your mind.

The past few days had been a tumultuous sea of emotions. Upon receiving word of your mother's passing, you had been overwhelmed, retreating to the solitude of the Cold Palace to grapple with your feelings. The cold and empty chambers mirrored your own inner turmoil as you wrestled with the decision of whether or not to return to the place that had caused you so much pain.

As you knelt there, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, thoughts of a certain general's assistant suddenly entered your mind. The memory of his comforting presence the night before, his robe draped around your shoulders, and the sincerity in his voice as he apologised, filled your heart with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the coldness of your surroundings.

I wish you were here, Choi Jongho...

His steady presence, his silent strength—it would have been a balm to your aching soul. You longed for his reassuring touch, his quiet support. The thought of him brought a small measure of comfort amidst the sorrow.

Blinking back tears, you whispered a silent prayer, seeking peace and closure. You hoped that, somehow, your mother could hear you and understand the complex emotions you harboured. Despite the years of distance and the unresolved pain, you wished for forgiveness and reconciliation, even if it was now too late.

You took a deep breath, lifting your head to gaze at the portrait before you. "Mother," you whispered, your voice trembling, "I hope you find peace. I hope you know that despite everything, I loved you. And I hope… I hope you can forgive me."

The room was silent, the air thick with the scent of incense and the weight of unspoken words. You remained kneeling, feeling the presence of your elder brothers behind you, the tension still palpable. But in that moment, you felt a small sense of release, as if a part of the burden you had carried for so long had been lifted.

As you rose to your feet and turned, your breath hitched at the sight of your father standing there, your younger brothers by his side. His presence was imposing, yet there was something different in his eyes—a softness you hadn't seen before.

"You're really here… I didn't believe them when they told me you came," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You gulped and bowed deeply. "Yes, I've come, Father."

To your surprise, he broke into a smile, a genuine expression of warmth that took you aback. "Come, my dear, let us have some tea and catch up."

Your heart warmed at the semblance of pleasure on his face. Was he glad you returned? Could he have… regretted not treating you better after you left? The questions swirled in your mind, but the hint of hope blossomed in your chest.

The eldest gave you an encouraging nod. You took a deep breath and followed your father to the living hall, your footsteps echoing softly in the spacious corridors of the house where you spent your childhood.

The living hall was just as you remembered—lavishly decorated yet exuding a cold elegance. But today, the atmosphere felt different, almost welcoming. The elderly man gestured for you to sit, and soon a servant brought in a tray with a steaming teapot and delicate porcelain cups.

As the tea was poured, your father looked at you with a mixture of pride and regret. "I've been thinking, and I believe it's time for you to move back home," he said, his voice steady but with an undertone that made your blood run cold. "You don't have to work so hard anymore. I heard you're out there working as some servant to General Park. You're a lady from House Kwon; you can do so much better. I have a list of marriage candidates that could guarantee you a lavish life, my daughter."

In that moment, the warmth you had felt earlier was sucked out of your being. You should have known better than to believe he genuinely wanted you back for the sake of family. You saw through his motives right away. He only saw a use for you now—to marry and establish another powerful connection for his family. That was all you were ever good for in his eyes.

Your heart sank, and the chill of disappointment wrapped around you. "I see," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The tea, which moments ago had brought comfort, now tasted like ash in your mouth. "So that's why you want me back."

He frowned, clearly not expecting your reaction. "You misunderstand, my daughter. I only want what's best for you."

You stood, feeling a surge of defiance. "No, you want what's best for you and this house. But I am not a tool for your ambitions."

"That's right because she is so much more than that." You gasped, whipping around to find Jongho standing there, a confident grin on his face. "And Lord Kwon, this young lady is far more than just a mere servant for General Park. In case your informant wasn't thorough enough, she is a renowned obstetrician recommended by noblewomen all around Joseon. She is now a valued and cherished member of the Park household. So, it would be great if you could show her the respect she deserves."

Your father narrowed his eyes at the uninvited guest, standing up. "And who the hell are you? Her little secret admirer?"

Before you could turn to defend the assistant, Jongho stepped forward, his voice steady and unyielding. "If you must know, I'm Choi Jongho, General Park's most trusted aide and only assistant. And yes, I am also Miss Kwon's secret admirer, but I don't need your permission to court her. I've come to ask for hers, not yours."

Your jaw dropped as you stared at him with wide eyes, your heart pounding in your chest. Was this a confession?

With a final, stern glare, he took a step forward, placing his arm protectively around you, just as he had when you went to the market. "Now, if we're done here, Lord Kwon, I will be escorting the lady back to where she truly belongs, far away from here."

You let him lead you away, the shock slowly giving way to a warm, comforting certainty. For the first time in a long while, you felt valued, seen, and cared for. As you walked away from the place that never truly felt like home, you glanced up at Jongho, grateful for his unexpected presence and the boldness of his words.

"So, you're my secret admirer, huh?" you teased, biting your lip as you watched the assistant's face flush with a deep, embarrassed red. He blinked rapidly, trying to regain his composure, and straightened in his seat across from you in the carriage.

"Yes, well… I suppose I am," the usually composed assistant stammered, his hands fidgeting nervously. "And I need to apologise for all the times I was mean to you."

You tilted your head, intrigued. "Oh? And why were you so mean to me, Assistant Choi?"

Jongho sighed deeply, his gaze falling to his lap. "I didn't mean any of it. I was bitter because I thought it was unfair that you seemed to have it easy while I had to work so hard. But now… now I see how hard you work and how much you deserve every bit of recognition you get. And your family, if you can even call them that— I... I was wrong about everything, and I'm truly sorry."

His eyes met yours, brimming with genuine regret and admiration. "Most importantly, I've come to realise how much I admire you and how much I enjoy being around you. It's been hard, and I have no one to blame but myself for pretending I didn't want to hold you close, feeling foolish for pushing you away when all I wanted was to be by your side."

You felt a warmth spread through you at his heartfelt words. "And that was why, when I found out you were gone, I had to get you back. I can't lose you without having you know how I feel. I promise that this time, you'll never have another reason to return to the Kwon estate. You'll always have a home here with us… with me."

You blinked, slightly confused. "As sweet as that is… you do know I was planning to return to the general's estate the next day, right?"

He went speechless, his eyes widening in surprise. "Y-you were…?"

You nodded. "Yeah, I was just going to attend the funeral. Besides, who would care for the mistress if I was gone? I promised I'd help her through it, and I intend to. Didn't Eunsook or the general tell you that?"

Jongho shook his head, a mix of relief and frustration washing over him. He silently cursed Seonghwa, his wife, and Eunsook for making him look like a fool.

You sighed, a light laugh escaping your lips. "And here I was, worried that the lady's water might have broken because of how suddenly you appeared to take me back."

He softened, a sheepish grin slowly replacing his earlier tension. "Well, I guess that makes me look a bit like an idiot. But I'm glad I could finally be honest with you and with myself. I promise I'll be good to you and make up for all my past mistakes… if you'll let me."

You reached out hesitantly for his hand, then nervously retreated, feeling unsure. But he was quick to hold onto your hand firmly, cradling it against his chest, letting you feel his heart racing for you. Heart fluttering in your chest, you smiled warmly. "Jongho, I never wanted anything more than for you to be honest with me. I forgive you. Let's... let us try again."

His eyes lit up with relief and joy, his grip on your hand tightening with earnestness. "Thank you," he whispered, leaning in slightly. "I won't let you down."

As the carriage continued its journey, the two of you settled into a comfortable silence, a new bond beginning to weave itself between you. For the first time, you felt a deep sense of peace, knowing that the future held promise and that you had someone who truly cared by your side.

Arriving back at the general's estate, Seonghwa greeted you both with a teasing smile and a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Ah, Miss Kwon, you're back a day early!"

Jongho shot the older man a flat, unamused look but couldn't hide the blush and adoration in his eyes as he watched you. You suppressed a laugh, noting the general's knowing grin.

"Yes, sir," you replied with a grateful smile at Jongho. "Assistant Choi was kind enough to bring me back early. Now I should probably get to work—I'm sure the mistress could use my assistance."

Giving his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze, you turned to head towards the House of Lotus. The assistant stood there, rooted to the spot, his gaze following you with a lovesick grin, already missing you.

I can't believe she's really mine...

Observing the scene with amusement, Seonghwa clapped him on the shoulder. "I told you I'd help you find a wife. Perfect, isn't she? Just wait until I tell Miss Kwon all about your speech on how you'd be a terrible husband."

The younger man cleared his throat, irritation on his face. "Sir, need I remind you that you were once just as hopeless as I am?"

Seonghwa fell silent, his smile fading as he remembered his own awkward past.

"Look at you now, all grown up," the general teased. "Now get back to work if you're so free to stand around. It's not a honeymoon until you ask for her hand in marriage, and I expect that to happen soon!"

Jongho's face turned a deep shade of red. He stammered, "Y-yes, sir. I need to, um… get something done."

In a flurry of flustered haste, he dashed off, muttering about urgent tasks. Seonghwa chuckled, watching his dedicated assistant with a sense of satisfaction. It was heartening to see that even the stubborn Jongho had finally found love. General Park couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment, knowing that all his friends had found their own happiness. His thoughts then drifted to a certain fourth prince, wondering how he was faring these days.

Aaand we're finally done with baby bear's love story! Hope it was decent! Are y'all ready for Prince Yeo's spinoff? One last story to go before wrapping up this universe! I am, of course, open to doing more TWTHH bonus content but we'll see hehe~

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

Tag list (1/11):

@itstheghostofmypast @huachengsbestie01 @minghaoslatina @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr |

@cheolliehugs @the-kpop-simp @writingwieny @stayatinykatsy @skzline |

@green-agent @stayinhellevator @vampzity @tinyteezer @evidive |

@vantediary @superbbananananana @kimyeolchan @chocolate-scoups @decadentstrangernacho |

@vic0921 @marievllr-abg @sunnyhokyu @seungmin-in-thebuilding @heyitsmetonid |

@sansaurora9904 @darkestacademiamindsx12-blog @myblovedjyh @professormingisglasses @newworldwritings |

@chicken-fifi @thunderous-wolf @shythinggiver @madnpan @yandere-stories |

@anxiousskylar @frobin4ever @starssongs98 @dollce-exe @jan-l |

@lovelyred2 @haven-cove @watermelon2319 @dreamingofyeo @akimkim |

@scuzmunkie @satsuri3su @mismatchfluffysocks @borntoshineateez @st4rhwa |

@ddaeing @tropicalsstuff @bts-army380 @skteezcursed @beauty143 |

@naps-over-degree @brown88 @sis-101 @lemon-sage17 @skittyneos |

@chickenscoups

#edenesth #the way to this heart #try again #twthh spinoff #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #choi jongho #ateez jongho #historical au #joseon era #jongho x reader #jongho x you #ateez fic

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months ago

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Oh, I love this townhouse in a converted 1820 factory in Baltimore, MD. It has 2bds, 2ba, $659K + $24mo. HOA.

I love the foyer.

Entrance to the unit.

What a lovely room. I love the fireplace and stairs.

This is lovely. I think that the architect did a good job of preserving some of the original wall while incorporating a fireplace.

Love the doors, too. I don't know what this unit is staged as, but I would think that the first room is a sitting room and this one would be a formal dining room.

The kitchen is very large and very cool. I love the retro look.

I've never seen curved cabinet doors. This is cool.

The windows let in so much light.

But they have nice gray shades. Perfect for evening, too.

Doors open to a private patio from the kitchen.

Isn't this beautiful?

The windows really make this end unit fill with natural light.

Beautiful wall and fireplace. This room is in the middle of 2 other rooms.

There's this family room on one side.

And, this sitting room on the other. It looks like the sofa and end table are built into the railing that hangs over the floor.

Bath #1 is a shower room with colorful tile on the floor and shower.

Bedroom #1 has a lovely feature- the exposed brick wall for the fireplace is white and for contrast, the side walls are natural.

Love the railings. The entire 3rd level is the primary suite.

This is gorgeous. You can see the original factory wall and chimney behind the closets.

Wow, look at that floating cabinet. This is the amazing primary bath. Love the lines of bricks cutting thru.

The tile is very industrial looking, and ties in beautifully with the factory theme.

For a townhouse, this yard is huge and it's very private. In the back there's a gate.

Walk out to an original cobblestone road.

And, it leads to the historic Wheel Park.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/142-W-York-St-Baltimore-MD-21230/36535928_zpid/?

#converted factory #factory conversion #townhouses #historic townhouses #industrial style townhouses #houses #house tours #home tour

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heliads · 2 years ago

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You and Me (A Whole Lot of History)

Based on this request: "y/n is a historian with access to old schematics so kaz hires her for a job. he keeps inventing reasons to find her afterwards until he’s forced to admit his feelings"

masterlist

You only get to study about half a chapter of your textbook before you’re interrupted by a criminal. It’s not like you mind having to put down the heavy tome you’ve been leafing through; estate law of centuries past is not your idea of some fun light reading, but you’ve been helping to piece together some fragments of an old mansion from pre-Unsea Kerch, and you’d really like to be able to decide if the master of the house your tattered documents keep referring to is the eldest son or the second eldest.

It all depends on very specific details that refuse to make themselves known to you. So no, having an excuse to stop all this isn’t terrible, you’re just a little distracted by the fact that you’re in a private study room in the historical library of Ketterdam, and you know for certain that you locked the door that has just been opened.

You know who’s just broken into your study space. Not personally, that is, but just as well as any resident of the Barrel knows the one they call Dirtyhands– through bated breath, in stolen whispers of expensive heists and bodies left behind, no traitors tolerated and none allowed to live. The fact that Kaz Brekker has taken it upon himself to enter your study room of all the empty ones still available in the library is not promising, to say the least, although you have absolutely no idea what you’ve done to appear on his radar.

You are, in fact, quite possibly the last person Kaz would even be aware of. You’re a historian, specializing in a few select centuries and powerful families in the Kerch area. This means that you spend most of your time in old and crumbling buildings, not out in shady dealings or shootouts or any of the other places Brekker tends to frequent.

This doesn’t seem to stop Kaz from closing the door behind him and taking a seat opposite your desk. He folds his hands in front of him, idly contemplating the textbook you’re still supposed to be perusing, but remains frustratingly silent.

It falls to you, then, to pick up a conversation, which is unfair considering the fact that he’s the one who’s barged in on your space. “That door was locked for a reason, you know,” you point out.

Kaz arches a dour brow. “Yes. I opened it.”

He’s not making this easy for you. “Why?” You ask.

Instead of answering you, Brekker jerks his chin towards the book in front of you. “What’s that about?”

There is no earthly reason one of the most notorious gang leaders in the Barrel should be asking about the homework you’re doing for your job. Still, he has, so you must answer, no matter how confused you are about it. “Inheritance disputes of the fourteenth century Kerch nobles. Why, are you interested in checking it out after me?”

Kaz scoffs. “No. I just want your information, not that book.”

You feel yourself leaning back slightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Trust me, whatever information you’re after won’t be found from me.”

Kaz shakes his head once. “No, actually, I think it will be.”

He reaches for something under his coat, and you’re hit with the brief terror that he’ll get a gun or something and you’ll die here and now, but then his gloved hand comes back out into the light carefully holding a rolled up piece of paper, which he smooths out onto the desk before you. You tuck your textbook away so you can get a better look at the thing, more curious now than afraid.

It turns out to be a copy of house blueprints. As you study it, you realize that you recognize the place. You were there recently for a project for your employer, checking up on the preservation of a few rooms. “Is this the old van Haarst mansion?”

Brekker’s eyes flash, reminding you of the slick of oil on water. “You know about it?”

“Yeah,” you say, peering further at the blueprints. “I’ve worked there before.”

Kaz nods, looking pleased. “I’d like to buy your services. I need information on this building and your silence on the matter. Are you interested?”

Your brow furrows. “What information do you need?”

To answer you, Brekker tosses a stack of kruge onto the table. You can see the numbers on the edges, and know even without counting that this payment will be far more than what you’d earn even for a year at your job. This is the deal, then. He’ll only tell you more if you accept his money, and if you accept his money, you agree to whatever he wants.

Honestly, not the worst bargain. Ghezen knows you’ve had worse supervisors on other jobs. At least you can trust Brekker to be honest so long as you are too.

You put the stack of bills into your bag, and turn back to the blueprints with renewed interest. “Are you trying to get in or get out?”

“Both,” Kaz tells you. “I’m assuming you’ve heard rumors of Marysa’s Diamond?”

You choke out a laugh. “Have I ever.”

Marysa’s Diamond is like the Saints in flesh for historians. The van Haarst family was exceedingly rich, and one of their matriarchs, Marysa van Haarst, was said to be in possession of an incredible gemstone, the diamond named after her. It disappeared when the family abandoned Kerch for Ravka following the death of three of Marysa’s sons, and no one has seen it since.

You blow out a low breath. “You think it’s in the old house somewhere? Historians have been all over the place, we would have found it if it was there.”

“It wasn’t always,” Kaz tells you. “It’s been moved there. I have good information that the van Haarst house will act as a safe house for the stone while it’s being moved from hand to hand. They’ll keep it there overnight. I will be entering the estate with a team and taking it.”

He goes silent, as if waiting for any objections. You don’t really care about the morals of the affair, though. You have your money and you get to be the foremost expert on a historical favorite of yours. Robberies happen every day, not something to get teary eyed over.

When you don’t speak up, Kaz continues on. “They’ll be keeping the stone in a place no one can find. There will be a window of exactly one bell in which the old owner leaves the house and is replaced by the new owner, carefully staggered so the stadwatch aren’t alerted by too many people in the estate after hours. That means it would have to be a damn good hiding spot. If you were hiding a gemstone in this house, where would you put it?”

You consider the blueprints before you again. There are a thousand and one places you could hide something in there– tucked inside the grand piano, in a safe, under one of a hundred carpets– and there’s no way Brekker’s men could find it in time.

However, that means the person meant to be picking up the diamond wouldn’t be able to find it as well. They would have to find somewhere in the estate hidden to everyone else but the recipient of the gemstone.

The answer occurs to you in a flash. “Oh,” you say, “Secret room.”

Brekker blinks at you. “What?”

You point at the map. “It’s totally going in the secret room. I mean, they don’t want it to be found by anyone else, right? That’s, like, the whole point of a secret room.”

Were it not for the fact that he’s, well, Dirtyhands, you’d swear his voice turns sarcastic. “That was my understanding of a secret room, yes. Where is it?”

Were it not for the fact that he is in fact Dirtyhands, you would roll your eyes. “There’s an entrance off of the secondary hallway leading off of the dining room. Unlock the door using a little latch under the bottom of the ugly painting of the old duchess of Belendt.”

He stares at you. “How do you know that? It’s not on any map.”

You lift a shoulder. “I wanted to know why they’d keep such a foul portrait around. The elites of that time period were huge on perfectionism, every one of their paintings had to be absolutely glorious or it would get removed from their sight. That’s why there are so many old paintings in the surrounding villages, actually, the nobles would just leave these expensive oil paintings outside the castle because they couldn’t take the sight of them anymore. There was no reason they’d let such a dreadful portrait stay unless it was hiding something.”

You had been focused on the map in your hands during the majority of this little speech, fondly recalling little anecdotes from your history classes, but you remember yourself soon enough. You look up and Kaz is staring at you, almost fascinated.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Sorry, I’m rambling. Got distracted.”

He shakes his head brusquely, although there’s a hint of pink on the tops of his cheekbones that wasn’t there before. “No, no. It’s important information. So we should be aware of any suspicious paintings?”

“Yeah,” you muse, “just look for the bad ones. Pretend you’re an art critic or something.”

The edges of Kaz’s dour glare turn themselves up into something of a humored smirk. “Will do. Thank you for the advice, L/N.”

You nod. “Have fun with the heist. Hey, if you see any older books on the history of the family, would you mind grabbing one or two for me? I’ve been trying to do some research for ages, but the library keeps stalling on getting resources to me, no matter how many requests I send.”

Kaz’s brows draw close together. “That would be unbelievably risky. We can’t take more things than we need or we could be caught.”

You grin. “I know, I’m kidding. Just a joke.”

Kaz’s expression lightens microscopically. “Yes, a joke.”

He leaves soon enough, pushing his chair away from the desk and rolling up the blueprints with a crisp snap of the paper. He warns you to keep your mouth shut about the plans, but you’re not sure that he does it with the fire you expected of a notorious gang leader. Instead, the words are soft, like he’s cautioning a friend.

You don’t hear from him again, not for a while. You’re not sure when this mysterious diamond deal is going down, and you doubt the unlucky men Kaz will grift can go to the stadwatch about this. In fact, you have no idea if it’s happened at all until about a week later. You had gone about your day like normal, not suspecting a thing until the moment you unlocked your door.

And there, centered perfectly on your desk when you get back home despite the fact that you never gave keys to your apartment to anyone, are three books. Aged, cracked covers, gilded writing. You hesitantly pick up one and read the title under your breath: A History of the Bendtsen Family, 1200-1500. Another: The van Almelos of the Belendt Region: Two Centuries of Political and Economic Legacy.

Kaz. He actually got the books. Never mind that you were joking, never mind that he knew that, Kaz Brekker went out of his way to risk a heist just so he could help you out with a research project. Saints. And they say chivalry is dead.

You don’t expect to get the chance to thank him for it until he randomly crosses your path not two weeks later. He’s alone again, miraculously turning up outside your company door just as you leave to walk home. Kaz informs you that he’ll need your services again, exchanging some kruge for more words. This time, he wants details on an office building down the street, one that used to be a city hall. You’re able to take him in yourself thanks to access granted to all historians for historic places, and turn a blind eye when he grabs a few documents regarding interport commerce.

He walked you to your door that night, lingering over the threshold like a teenager not wanting to leave a first date. He shows up again after a month, using an excuse that’s less polished and more finicky. The next time, he doesn’t have an excuse at all. It’s just him, standing in front of you. No money, no plan. He just wanted to see you.

Kaz calls it ‘checking up on an investment,’ but you get the feeling that it’s not something he usually does. He walks with you by the water, he buys you drinks at a bar not even in his own pocket. It’s unusually sweet, so you can’t bite back your questions anymore and confront him about it when he hovers in front of your door for the dozenth time.

“What is this about, Kaz?”

He blinks at you in surprise. “What?”

You gesture between the two of you. “All of this. This isn’t for a job anymore. Why?”

Kaz looks away. It’s rare for him to not have a perfect poker face. Perhaps it’s yet another sign that this means something more, something that you can’t help but wish for. “I wanted to make sure you were safe. I’ve called on you for several jobs that can risk the players involved in the game.”

You shake your head. “You’ve gone out of your way to make sure no one knows about me. It’s just us, Kaz. You did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” he admits at last, “I did. I wanted something for myself. Something that wasn’t as bad as the rest.”

He risks a glance over at you, and his shoulders square slightly when he realizes you aren’t trying to fight him on this, or worse, leave. “You’re good, Y/N. Good things don’t last long around here. I want to make sure you do. I want you to stay forever.”

With me, he means. He wants to keep you in his life. His eyes flicker to your hands, and although you know he won’t take them, not yet, he wants to. That’s why you finally put together the pieces. Kaz Brekker is not good at verbalizing his feelings. Perhaps he never will be. This is the best shot he can give you, and he could not even say the word ‘love’ if it ripped his heart out with bleeding fingertips.

You've had so much over the years, and it has never been enough. Not once, not ever. A thousand coffers could empty themselves, a hundred men die and be reborn. It has never once stopped you. This, by contrast, is nothing. A canal rat's promise, most likely broken before the night is through. You know it, Kaz knows it. This is nothing.

Yet it is the most true thing you have ever had, the one solid stone in a wall about to come crumbling down. It is small, barely there at all, but still worth it. Maybe that is why you stay, for the hope. For him. It is enough.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @deadreaderssociety, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @eclliipsed, @mayfieldss, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker imagines #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker oneshot #grishaverse #grishaverse imagines #grishaverse x reader #grishaverse oneshot #shadow and bone #shadow and bone imagines #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone oneshot #kaz #kaz imagines #kaz x reader #kaz oneshot

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nanowrimo · 2 years ago

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How to Use Meal Scenes to Develop Characters, Relationships, and Your World

Worldbuilding can sound complicated, but why not make it a little more simple by focusing on food? It may be the domestic touch you need! NaNo Participant Lacey Pfalz talks about using meal scenes to develop your world and your characters.

There’s one thing that remains a universal human truth: we love food! While our perspectives on food might differ, people all across the globe gather together during mealtimes — and thus, mealtimes are made memorable.

Meal scenes can also help your story in a few key ways, especially if it’s fantasy, science fiction or historical fiction.

Meal Scenes for Worldbuilding

If we’re using food for worldbuilding purposes, does that mean we can say we’re worldcooking?

Just kidding! Worldbuilding, especially in historical fiction, science fiction, and fantasy, is an integral part of what you must do as a writer (In truth, it’s also important for writers from other genres, but we’re specializing in these three today).

Meal scenes can be an important part of the worldbuilding process. Food is intrinsically tied to a culture or a country, or even a small region. That’s why it’s important, when building your own world, to take time to figure out the bare minimum of what your characters will be eating.

Let’s do an example. Your world is fantasy, your kingdom set beside a wide river. Perhaps your capital city, where much of the action is located, is surrounded by wetland.

If this is the case, what types of food would likely grow there? Seafood, fished from the large river, might be your characters’ staple proteins, while rice might grow better than another grain because of your kingdom’s wetlands. Fruit, perhaps even coconuts, might be the sweet stuff your main character loves to devour.

Remember that your world directly affects what types of food your characters will be having: is there coffee in space? What about in Byzantine Turkey or your new riverside kingdom?

Shannon Chakraborty does a phenomenal job with this in her fantasy series The Daevabad Trilogy, which is set in the eighteenth century across the Middle East. Her first book, The City of Brass, is especially good at showcasing the often-fragrant dishes of the various cultures across this region of the world (some copies of the book even have a short list of recipes from the book that foodies can try whipping up for themselves).

While her book is set within the fantastical world of the Djinn, her food is based upon recipes that have been preserved for centuries.

There’s one small reminder with all of this: it’s important not to get too caught up in describing each dish so much that you end up taking the focus away from the characters in a meal scene. Meal scenes can be breaks from fast action, but they should also continue the plot.

Meal Scenes for Developing Characters & Relationships

Character development can be hard, especially if you have a handful of characters that you love! But in order to make your readers love them too, you have to show them interacting with the world around them.

That guy we love to hate? Maybe he’s a loner who has grown up eating by himself. Having him forced to sit and eat with a group of people who have known each other for years might be an awkward moment for him, but it helps readers to learn more about his own worldview — and it might just help get him out of his shell, or at least off the love-to-hate list.

Besides helping you develop a single character, writing meal scenes with some of your characters can also help readers learn more about the relationship between your characters.

Let’s say you have your main character, MC. MC leans over and steals a French fry from her best friend. There’s no issue, right? That’s because they like each other, and the best friend has likely eaten with MC before, and knows she enjoys stealing food from other people’s plates.

But when MC tries it again, this time with the guy sitting next to her, he whacks her hand to stop her from stealing. This sparks an argument that seems, at least to everyone else watching it, pointless, but readers will know from the rest of the story that they’re the enemies-to-lovers trope. This argument is just one of many before they finally acknowledge their feelings towards one another.

See how that worked? A meal scene wasn’t useless; it pulled the story along by giving readers another taste of the enemies-to-lovers trope that so many enjoy reading.

If you need a more visible example of how this can play out, try watching a movie like Pride & Prejudice, (the book is amazing, but I’m suggesting the movie as a visual aid). The movie does a great job showcasing just how different the members of the Bennet family are individually, how they act around each other, and how they act around company.

There’s often little action in meal scenes, so they’re not meant to be overused. The plot should also still be there — take the cringey proposal scene between Mr. Collins and Elizabeth in Pride & Prejudice, for example, which follows directly after a meal when the rest of her family abandons her. In this case, the plot (and Mr. Collins’ advances) ruin her meal.

Perhaps your meal scene is the much-needed respite in between battling fierce aliens for planet Earth, or the first time your main character’s enemy-to-lover has entered her home. Either way, meal scenes are an important way to immerse your readers in what kind of world they’re imagining as well as showcasing how your characters act and — more importantly — how they act around each other.

Lacey Pfalz is a travel journalist by day, hopeful author by night. She belongs to the class of graduates she dubs the Class of COVID-19, having graduated with a double major in history and writing at Wisconsin Lutheran College in 2020. Her writing passions include fantasy, science fiction and historical fiction (with a little bit of romance, of course!). As someone with a physical disability, it’s her dream to write a fantasy series featuring a main character like her. Header Image by Jack Sparrow

#nanowrimo #writing #writing tips #worldbuilding #characters #character relationships #by nano guest #lacey pfalz

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sovietpostcards · 1 year ago

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Russian State Library

The biggest library in Russia and one of the biggest in the world. It was designed in late 1920s, soon after the birth of the new Soviet state, and fully finished in the 1950s. In includes 4 buildings and one 19-floor book repository. There are several reading halls, a cafe, and a whole bunch of book-filled nooks and crannies.

I'm writing this post sitting in the library's biggest reading hall - Reading Hall No. 3. It was opened in 1957 and still retains most of the original furniture and design (only there are now individual power sockets in every desk). Most of the tables are occupied by people with books and laptops. It's very quiet.

The book depository is a huge building that rises high above everything else in this historical area. It had 10 floors originally, each 5m high, but later it was divided into 19 smaller floors. We visited one of the floors. I was impressed to see that the windows are made out of Falconnier glass blocks (made specially for the library in Gus Khrustalny).

There are two automated delivery systems in the library: one delivers readers' orders into the depository (pneumatic tubes) and the other delivers books back to the reader (monorail). We had a chance to see both of them in action, very impressive! They also kept a bit of the old book delivery system that worked from 1953 until 2015. I saw it on pictures before, and it was great to see the granny in real life. :) There are a lot of "grannies" in the library, from the green lamps to rotary phones to wall clocks. The pneumatic tube system has been in place since 1975. People whose job is to preserve books are very likely to preserve everything else.

I loved this anecdote. In one of the reading halls, there's a big painting of Lenin (pictured below). Apparently it was put in place in mid-1950s to cover the bas-relief that was there originally. On the bas-relief there are Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Vladimir Lenin and Joseph Stalin. After Stalin's death in 1953 and debunking the cult of personality, images of him were quickly removed from everywhere. The library, being true preservers of history, kept theirs but covered it up. It just shows what kind of people librarians are. :)

Although the library is working on running a full digital catalogue of all their 48 million items, if you want access to older editions you'll probably need to use the old paper card catalogue. The room gave me major nostalgy - I remember using this kind of catalogue in my local library when I was a kid. The sound of pulling out a narrow box, then the little built-in table, going through the cards one by one, writing down what you need on library cards. It was a whole process! Of course, the local library's catalogue was WAY smaller.

A few more shots of interiors. Although the building itself was designed in 1920s (during the era of avantgarde and art deco), the interiors were mostly done in 1950s when the main design style was neo classicism.

I enjoyed this tour immensely, so much so that I had to go back and get a library card so I can see more of it, sit in every reading hall and drink a cup of tea in the marble hall cafeteria. Also, the idea of 48 million books at the tip of my fingers makes me giddy. Thank you to my followers for the monetary support and making this real for me: K. T., H. W., T. B., m., @depetium, @transarkadydzyubin, S. R.

#it's a great place to work #i wrote this post finally #libraries #russia

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marzipanandminutiae · 3 months ago

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Do you have any advice on making a living working in historic preservation? I feel like every opportunity in the field (ex. Local historical societies) is volunteer work, which I do, but I also need money!

:) :) :) :)

I am so sorry but you've hit upon the main employment problem with this field: it is wildly underpaid. Especially if you want to do something with museum content/collections/preservation rather than admin.

The issue is, this system (at least in the US, where I live) started out in the late 19th century being run by people who had a lot of free time and a LOT of money already. Married upper-class women, rich men- often gay, interestingly enough -with academic turns of mind, etc. They didn't need the money, so they built a structure designed to function that way. And for many years a lot of this work continued to be done by volunteers.

Except then people came along with the audacity to want to make a career out of it. Without enough generational wealth to not need payment! Oh no!

So now there are not enough full-time jobs in the field for people who want them, unfortunately. They're out there! But you might have a hell of a time getting into one.

I'd say to look for bigger orgs over small ones, or small orgs in big cities. We love a tiny house museum in the middle of nowhere, but they often have the smallest budgets in a world of small budgets. Also, consider starting out part-time and trying to work your way up (just make sure the org has full-time employees first). Making connections is paramount- I've only had part-time museum jobs so far, but I never got a single one just by applying online. You can, but it helps a lot to have someone say "hey, the Fancyman-Spinsteracademic-Wepromisewe'rereckoningwithslaverynow House is hiring; want me to put in a good word for you?"

Alternately, learn some hands-on preservation skill like carpentry or horology (working with mechanical clocks- PLEASE learn horology if you go this route; all the horologists are 80 and they keep dying) could be a way to get specific talents that historical site museums can't function without and will therefore pay for when the budget allows. In cities with lots of historical architecture that they actually care about preserving- so not NYC, apparently -there are often independent companies that specialize in different aspects thereof. Historical window repair, historical plastering, historical brickwork maintenance, etc. Trying to get hired by one of those is a way to go into preservation without working in museums. Private auction houses or antiques dealers can also be an option, if you're more into the Collections Objects side of things.

I don't mean to make it sound bleak. My eight-year career in museums has been entirely part-time collections/interpretation/admin jobs stitched together, and while I'm sick of the "underpaid and relying on my parents to pay for my insurance" aspect (yes, I freely admit it; I'm a lowkey continuation of the Can't Work In Museums If You Don't Have Family Financial Support tradition and very very lucky to be able to do what I do, and yet even I'M frustrated and tired and over it), it is deeply fulfilling work that I consider highly worthwhile and important. And there ARE avenues to make a decent living in it!

I just want to explain the phenomenon you're seeing and give you realistic expectations.

Best of luck!

#ask #anon #museums #museum work

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eroselless · 6 months ago

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────────────── sommer house // 1

series summary: After starting a new job at a prestigious museum in London, you form a close friendship with Helaena Targaryen. You're surprised when she invites you to stay at her family's estate for the summer holidays. [1.7k]

[aegon targaryen x reader, modern!HOTD AU ]

masterlist

warnings: talk and description of bugs. if there's any I missed, let me know!

note: hello friends! I’m sure some of you might be a little confused seeing this coming up again. after much contemplating and many many re-reads, I decided I would rewrite what I had of moth to a flame now that I had more inspiration and motivation. for this first chapter, it’s not much different from my first draft but I removed and added a few things that I thought made the story begin flowing a lot better. thank you for the support and happy reading <3

Dashing through the rain, your coat pulled tightly around you, you navigate the bustling streets of London. The sky opened up as you were leaving the train station, drenching you instantly. You’re breathless when you reach the entrance of the museum, soaked to the bone with hair sticking to your forehead. Pausing briefly under the awning, you try to catch your breath, shaking off as much rain as you could before hurrying inside, the patter of rainfall fading behind you.

The familiar warmth and silence of the museum envelop you, offering a stark contrast to the chaotic weather outside. The lights are dim and if you listen closely, you could swear you can hear soft music permeating the air.

You make your way to the back of the museum, passing through employee doors and to the entomology department, where you knew Helaena would be waiting. Rounding a corner, you see you. She stands at the entrance of your shared office, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She leans against the doorframe, her free hand fiddling with the key card that hangs around her neck. It’s 5 past 9, you're not that late and her casual demeanour only makes for a comforting sight.

“Rough morning?” she asks, a grin on her lips as she entends the cup of coffee towards you.

“Don’t even get me started,” you reply, taking the cup and making your way past her into the room. “The tube was a nightmare. Some sort of signal failure. I’m surprised I made it at all.”

Helaena laughs, “You wouldn’t have to deal with the tube if you drove,” she teases, raising her eyebrows. Following you to your desk, she stands in front as you set your things down. You roll your eyes at her, making a face, to which she responds with a half-smirk.

You met Helaena three months ago when you first started working at the museum. After a seemingly endless job search, you happened upon one that just happened to be in a country halfway across the world. Seeing as how you fit all of the requirements, you pushed fear aside, taking a leap. You packed up what you could and made your way to London. The idea of working in another country had always captivated you, but the reality of moving hadn’t fully sunk in until you stepped off the plane. Everything felt surreal—the accents, the bustling streets, the historical buildings whispering stories of the past.

Working in the entomology department with Helaena, you spent countless hours cataloging and preserving the museum’s vast insect collection. The late nights became routine, often the two of you working late into the night, at times at each other's homes. Her companionship made the hours more bearable. Helaena quickly became more than just a colleague; she became a friend, someone you could rely on and share with.

Clapping her hands, a wide smile now on her face, Helaena turns to you from a large cluster of boxes: "Well, you're here now, and just in time; we've got a ton to do today."

Settling into your desks, surrounded by cabinets filled with specimens and shelves lined with books and equipment, the morning passes quickly.

You take turns pulling out cases from the large boxes, a new shipment from South America, examining and cataloging each specimen. Each one is carefully inspected, labeled and documented. The vibrant colors and intricate patterns never cease to amaze you, each telling a different tale.

As the afternoon rolls around, you find yourself leading a group of young school children through an interactive exhibit, one you spent the last week preparing with Helaena, explaining the life cycles of different insects and answering their curious questions. Their eyes widen as you show them the cases of insects, pointing out each of their intricate and unique features. Together, you carefully examine drawers of pinned needles, getting lost in the details of their iridescent shells.

The children nod as you explain different insects, jotting down notes in their small notebooks to bring back to school. Their laughter and curiosity makes the rest of the day pass quickly, their enthusiasm making even the most mundane tasks feel rewarding.

The day winds down from there, the absence of the children making you realize how tired you’d gotten. You put the exhibits back into their boxes, making sure everything is in its place for the groups coming in tomorrow and the day after that. From the corner of your eye you can see Helaena making her way to you, rolling a cart identical to yours. There’s a thoughtful expression on her face.

"So, any plans for the summer holidays? They're not gonna need us at all during these renovations they're doing," she inquired, pursing her lips at you.

You shake your head as you continue placing boxes onto your cart. “I would but I can’t afford to go home right now. I’ll probably just stay in London and explore the city or something.”

Helaena’s face lights up. “Why don’t you come with me to my family’s country estate? We’re having a big party for my dad’s retirement. It’ll be a nice change of pace and you can officially meet my family. They’ll adore you.”

Your lips part as you stare at her wordlessly. “Are you sure?” you asked, searching her eyes,

Helaena waves you off, “Of course!” she exclaims, shaking her head. “"It'll be fun. Besides, it would be nice to have another girl there so I don’t have to deal with my brothers all on my own. Say you’ll come," she pleads.

The thought of spending the holidays with Helaena, surrounded by the English countryside and her family’s hospitality, race through your mind. It sent a shiver of nerves through you. You knew very little about her family, only hearing of her brothers in passing. You’d seen them in pictures she had littered around her apartment and on her facebook. You met her mother, if you can call speaking to her briefly over the phone, one night that you spent the night at Helaena’s. Her older sister and her father were a complete mystery to you, both of them a subject she didn’t ever really talk about.

She bats her eyes at you, gently wrapping her arms around yours. You let out a sigh, breaking out in a smile. “Alright, I’ll come.” you laugh, and she throws her arms around your shoulders.

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It's a few days later you find yourself tossing clothes at Helaena. The afternoon sunlight streams through the window behind her. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. It looks as if it were glowing. She sits on your bed, gingerly folding different shirts and pants into your bag. Rejected piles of clothes are strewn across your bed, shoes littering the floor and small packing cubes full of toiletries and makeup sit next to your gradually filling case.

“What about this?” you ask. Swaying slightly, you hold a dress up to your chest. It’s red and covered in polka dots with a large white bow cinching the middle. Her face stays in a slight grimace, shaking her head and laughing.

"We need to get you some new dresses; these look like they belong in a history museum," she says with a playful smile. You laugh, shoving her shoulder as you tuck the dress back into the wardrobe. She pulls a knitted sweater from the edge of your bed and tucks it tightly into your bag.

Once your outfits are sufficiently coordinated and your essentials pulled into packing cubes, Helaena helps you pack them into your suitcase, ensuring you have enough of everything you need for your stay. She speaks up when you struggle with the zipper.

“So, I know you’ve sort of met Mum and you’ll be meeting everyone else while we're there. My sister is even coming with her children. A fair warning, though having everyone there can be a bit … intense but they’re good people.”

You note her hesitation. “Intense how?”

Helana shrugs, trying to downplay her words. “It can get a little overwhelming, is all. But you’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

You nod an ok at her, climbing on and bouncing on your suitcase to press it shut with your knees. She joins you, twisting with you as you begin to pull on the zipper.

"The place’s been in my family for generations. There’s lots of history there, places you could get lost in. You’ll really love it.”

You struggle for a little bit, pulling the zip a little more to fully close the case before sitting on it, breathless.

"What was it like, growing up in a place like that?" you ask, looking up at her as she takes her spot back on the edge of your bed.

Helaena smiles, a distant look in her eyes. It's a smile that has a drop of sadness behind it. "It was magical. There are all these secret passages and hidden rooms. We used to play hide and seek for hours.”

She traces a pattern on your quilt as she continues speaking. “We each got puppies at some point and when we’d pretend we were princes and princesses, my brothers would pretend they were dragons.”

There's a bittersweet expression on her face as she recounts the memory. It's not an expression you're used to seeing on her face but it’s one she seems to fall back to every time she speaks of home. You can’t help but to be curious about it but you always stop before prying or saying anything. You smile, reaching out a hand and placing it on her knee. It pulls her out of her momentary daze and she flashes a smile at you. A mixture of nerves and anticipation fill you again. "I can’t wait," you say with a soft sigh.

Helaena looks at you, her eyes sparkling. "You're going to love it. It’s like stepping back in time. Just be prepared for a bit of drama; there’s always something happening when we're all together."

"Drama?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you know, family stuff. Arguments, misunderstandings, that sort of thing. But it’s all part of the charm," she says with a wink.

You laugh, feeling a bit more at ease. "Well, I’m ready for anything."

With the suitcase finally zipped, you both collapse onto the bed, giggling. Helaena turns to you, her expression softening. "I’m really glad you’re coming. It’s going to be a summer to remember."

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#aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii fic #aegon ii targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon

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