#the-painters-apprentice

[drdiah]

is there a favorite halloween/full moon events you guys have gone thru? any fun monster forms?

[OOC] A few fun Scream Fortress designs!

…Rod doesn’t like Halloween.

[angelo-chuck-wagon]

Paintings by court painter A. Chuck Wagon

All paintings commissioned by my ladylord and patron and her betrothed, Sir William.

@lady-lord-cornbury @william-the-ladyfinger

Student and partner of @anthonis-van-dyck

[hazardtoons]

my tf2 ocs

[sonataforsybelle]

I started playing One thousand year old vampire, a solo journaling rpg to scratch the writing itch when it's too quiet over there and boiiiii the OC is cooking !

[grandpierreva]

Lucinder Pheonox is the leader of the Grand Plamarius Salon. He has been abundantly supportive of artists, young and old, and of all mediums. A master painter and sculptor, he is also a keen advocate for improving Plamarius as a whole, but the Salon oftentimes lacks the political power to rival the mega corporations that rule Plamarius. He takes a liking to Alex and willingly offers them his masterful advice.

Art by Mathew Valle

[tinynavajoreads]

1 and 23 for the book worm asks?

Thank you for the questions!

1. Name the best book you've read so far this year

Yumi and the Nightmare Painter by Brandon Sanderson, hands down. This is the only book I've cried at reaching the end of, because I loved the characters and the world and I didn't want to leave it without knowing how the two main characters made it out! I needed to know there would be a happy ending and I needed to know how their lives would...restart essentially. It was so good!

23. Favourite heist story book.

I don't read a lot of heist books, but the one that came to my mind immediately is a book called The Collector's Apprentice by B.A. Shapiro. A girl's father is swindled out of his art collection and she sets out to get it back. It was one I enjoyed and I remember.

Ask me more book worm questions!

[belzebong]

Talked to a career advisor yesterday and a lot of it was bullshit but also they gave me some good ideas on what my next steps could be, might try to get into an apprenticeship

[scribeofmorpheus]

Why Dragon Age Veilguard isn't a "Cathedral"

Concept art by Matt Rhodes

"To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals."

What is inherent with Veilguard that keeps bothering me is the fact that the world's choices truly didn't matter--and it doesn't simply bother me from a player perspective, it's not simply a grievance borne of frustration to what I (as a longtime fan) have lost. It's about the very culture of the arts under capitalism's new media habituation cycle [x][x].

Yes, I spent hours of my life playing and replaying each instalment of Dragon Age. Yes, I painstakingly curated a 'canon' world state by replaying what came before in preparation for Veilguard. Yes, I am even more unsatisfied with the end product--time hasn't helped, it's just widened the divide. But, and I can't stress this enough, these very personal gripes aren't what hit home the most. It's the inherent disregard of legacy. A legacy that the previous writers and game developers were building towards.

In the DAV artbook, "cathedral" is the word used to describe the process of making a game. Matt Rhodes' exact words are: "One artist can make a painting, but it takes a team to build a cathedral." Cathedrals took centuries to build. The architect who drafted the first blueprints would likely never see his work realised, he had to rely on those who came after him, like-minded and passionate, to see it through--for the culture, for the future, for legacy. Painters took on several apprentices for this reason too--giant frescoes were not completed by one man's hand, even if it is one man's name that immortalises them. Similarly, if you weave a narrative around choice, what good does it do to take it away at the final act if not to fall to caricature?

To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals.

Late-stage capitalism and profit-margin-obsessed game producers forcing developers to churn out meager content, to make a known brand into something it's not, to chase a fad or a popular trend... o, how reductive and cliche you've been forced to become Bioware. We have lost the cultural thought patterns relative to Cathedrals. We know only of barn-raised churches--done in a day but unlikely to last the turn of the seasons.

And don't even get me started on the music of Veilguard either. From Origins to World of Warcraft to Everquest to Baldur's Gate to Dungeon Siege, you can hear the intricate interconnected weave of sounds inspired by the Dungeons and Dragons-esque fantasy genre. You hear it in the repeated use of certain instruments, in the harmonic weeping notes of a bard-like singer or the foreboding echoes of drums as if of war. In tavern songs. But then, rather than hire someone who loves these worlds and this genre, who is a hungry artist looking to make a name, a legacy if you will, for themselves with a spectacular score, you hire any already sated composer, one well-into the encroaching years of career fatigue, whose notes repeat in countless projects, who feels less concise and more uninterested with each new project. One who has long since cemented his legacy. Someone in it for a paycheck and nothing else! And, to top it off, you let him compose something so minimalist? I am offended actually.

Cathedrals! We should have witnessed the final tile being placed on the Dragon Age cathedral. Instead, some architects walked up, tore down the interior and installed IKEA furniture and called it authentic before having to call the previous architects to come and fix the "load-bearing issues", forcing them to rush and add a coat of varnish and a few 'aged' details for authenticity.

[rorsry]

i love creating art

[bird-in-the-space]

The Mysterious Painter being Alchemist Prime's Apprentice

If you had been reborn in the time of the primes, and Alchemist Prime took you in as his apprentice.

(Author's note: This was something that has been on my mind, and I took some inspiration from Citlali's story quest)

Warnings: none much, some mentions of the caste system, and some doubting your art skills.

-----------------------------------------------------

- Imagine being reborn at the time when the thirteen primes still existed on Cybertron. The society still lived in a mild kind of caste system, but this time it would not be so serious with the existence of the primes. You were still forced to learn proper survival skills so you wouldn’t end up angering the wrong person, but this time you painted more openly. 

- Your art skills were admired all across Cybertron, even though your art, name, and interest in organic lifeforms were considered odd.

- You respected all the primes and their dominions. You found them and their unique existence fascinating as they were Primus’s first creations. However, even they seemed too busy to notice the hardships of the less fortunate. You understood that their positions and duties were not something they could not ignore, so you never saw them in a negative light for it. 

- Your life was good. But then, one day, you found a container holding a strange liquid. You tried to return it, but since its origins were unknown, you were told to keep it or throw it away. 

- You did not know what to do with it until you got home and accidentally spilled a drop into one of your freshly painted artworks while inspecting it. It did something mysterious as it made your paint shine and materialize the painting into the actual thing. It was magical and strange at the same time. 

- You figured out it was some kind of chemical compound like an alchemy potion. It most likely belonged to Alchemist Prime as he was known for his mystical experiments with elements and materials. How it got misplaced, you did not know. 

- Your conscience said to return it as it was probably valuable, but seeing your painting come to life made you want to see what else you could do with it. Maybe you could borrow just a little to sate your curiosity. 

- For the next few days, you mixed the liquid with different paint colors and saw what happened. You did not expect much but your experimenting resulted in many curious outcomes. You even mixed some colors together and painted on different surfaces to see what would happen. 

- Alchemist Prime eventually left his home to look for the container as the liquid inside was an important alchemy compound. He wasn’t certain how it got misplaced or fell during the transport, but luckily, he had ways to locate it. He could have asked some of his people to bring him more, but unfortunately, the compound was not something that was easily found. 

- While looking for it, he would ramble on his thoughts. His brethren had been asking if he would take an apprentice soon like they had. He had considered it but so far no cybertronian had shown similar fascination for alchemy like he did, or that they just did not feel right to him. It was honestly a hassle. 

- He once even doubted he would ever find the right apprentice, and then he started having visions. He envisioned colors, many different and marvelous colors. He was not certain at first what those visions meant, but then he figured out that whoever was to become his apprentice had connections to colors. 

- He would then be surprised by finding traces of the liquid in small flowers growing on the street walls. He was puzzled as organic flora did not usually grow below Cybertron's surface and these flowers looked unusual. The colors were vibrant and the petals looked like they were made from some kind of liquid. Alchemist touched the flower petals and found paint smearing his finger. This made him curious. It was now clear someone had found his compound and used it in a very peculiar way. 

- He would then follow the traces to you, finding you using it as a mixture of paint to make more flowers on the ground. He would then see the paintings come to life. He looked around and found the secluded alley filled with different varieties of these flowers. It was lovely and Alchemist was filled with excited intrigue. Not many ordinary cybertronians knew how to manipulate the elements of his field and he had never seen any of them used this way. 

- He then looked at you, sensing something different about your spark, but seeing you made him realize you were the apprentice the visions spoke about. Colors were connected to art so it was you. 

- Alchemist would excitedly show himself, startling you as you knew who he was and then realize you had gotten so lost in the art experiments that you had completely forgotten to return the container. 

- You apologized for taking it, but he brushed it casually and asked how you managed to use his compound to bring your art to life. You then relaxed and explained how you mixed the liquid with different paint colors, finding different results.

-  Alchemist was surprisingly easygoing, and he listened to everything you said with keen interest. 

- He then complimented your art, and then, out of the blue, he asked if you wanted to become his apprentice. 

- He claimed you had a natural curiosity and talent for alchemy, so it would be a wasted opportunity for him to not give an invitation. He could sense that your spark was different compared to other cybertronians, and he would like to see your skills in the art flourish even further. 

- It was a golden opportunity, and you had always found his mystical arts fascinating so you accepted. And that is how you became Alchemist Prime’s apprentice. 

- He was a patient and a good teacher. You listened to his lectures well and felt comfortable learning at your own pace. He encouraged your interest in researching and finding ways to enhance your paint, giving them qualities and abilities to do things ordinary paint can’t – such as materializing things into existence, controlling elements, and making a color that would stay vibrant for eons. 

- He was like that one cheerful uncle and when you showed him the new paint mixtures and their unique capabilities he would marvel at them with joy and pride. 

- As his apprentice, you had the chance to meet the other primes, which was an exciting experience and you befriended bots who were mentored by them. Alchemist encouraged this as it was always good to be surrounded by friends. 

- With Alchemist, there was never a boring day. Though he sometimes had little accidents with his experiments and something blew up, you would always laugh about it. Trial and error were natural parts of creating something. 

- You did not forget your passion, continuing painting and making many art pieces. You would remain humble and decline invitations from high-class bots when they found out a renowned artist such as yourself had become a prime’s apprentice. You did not want your art to be appreciated by a single group. It was something you wanted all to enjoy and find inspiration. 

- You would utilize your newfound abilities to help many bots who had it rough. Your kindness would touch the sparks of many and the art of painting would inspire new artists which delighted you. 

- There was one painting opportunity you accepted. Alchemist asked if you would like to paint the thirteen primes in a historical moment on a great wall. Due to the respect you held for him and his brethren, you accepted even though you felt slight pressure. Painting such respectable figures was something that had little room for errors, so you needed to pull this off perfectly. 

- You worked hard for many cycles, painting every detail and refining the colors. Some doubted you could make a wall painting great enough to capture the power and magnificence of the primes, but you were not deterred. However, the painting did lack the life that captured those features, so you decided to try something new to achieve that. 

- You created a new type of paint. It was something you had been working on before the start of your great project, but this time you decided to finish it and bring new life to the painting of the primes. It took many cycles to perfect it, as it required spiritual involvement, but you finally succeeded and it was time to use it. 

- You felt a little doubt and hesitation to use it because if something went wrong then the whole project would be ruined. But with Alchemist’s reassurance, you used it and finished the painting. 

- Everyone then watched as you used your abilities to activate the paint, making the great painting glow with marvelous colors. The bots and primes were enraptured by the beauty and life your mixture brought to the painting. You were glad that the paint worked and that the artwork had the life and magnificence it deserved. 

- Alchemist smacked your shoulder with a proud laugh, saying you had outdone yourself. 

- You received many compliments and the painting of the primes became one of your greatest works. 

- When you finished your training and Alchemist had nothing left to teach you, he gifted you a special paintbrush, especially made for you. It granted you the ability to manipulate your paint and colors at will, allowing you to utilize all your abilities with a single dip of the brush. It was a mystical gift— like you had your own magic wand. You made sure to promise you would use it wisely and only for good. 

- Alchemist had no doubts in your words. He knew the gentle nature of your spark, thus he did not feel hesitant to gift you such an item. 

- As time passed, you would come to be known as the legendary painter. Many bots would still wonder about the secrets of your paints and not come even close to discovering the elements and techniques you used. Your marvelous paintings would still exist even after hundreds of years--- even after the thirteen primes ceased from existence. What became of you was everyone’s guess. Some say you disappeared when the war arrived or that you left Cybertron to seek more inspiration or undiscovered colors. No one really knows. 

[hp-hcs]

• smut • the apprenticeship — apprentice! theodore nott x male! master painter! reader

not historically accurate, except for literally one word which everyone will assume is a typo lmao (the inaccuracy pains me too, dw)

as per always, slytherin boyos in my smut pieces are ALWAYS aged up, no exceptions

warnings: MDNI, noncon by virtue of a relationship with unequal power (i.e. master and apprentice), reader is amab, reader is bottom-coded fr, reader is referred to as "master" but like not in a kinky way thats literally just his occupational title, oral (m receiving), handjob, theo's a little simp, AU ig

very little plot despite this being just a fraction of a much larger AU i've been working on for months now

~1k, not proofread

MDNI

Theodore’s fingers nimbly folded in the last corner of the canvas he was stretching. Newly an apprentice, taken on by a young master painter at the behest of Lord Tiberius Nott, whose passing had left freshly eighteen-year-old Theodore Nott an orphan. Perpetually an asshole, even in death, Lord Nott had specifically arranged for Theodore’s apprenticeship to begin precisely at the time of his passing to prevent his son from immediately inheriting his title, status, and wealth. Dick.

“Theodore!”

You’d been pacing around your studio in circles for the last two hours, dead silent and lost in thought. Now, however, you were fluttering about like a directionless moth, making a mess as you dug through your piles of vellum sketches.

Theodore had never seen you so… erratic. You were usually very calm and collected—albeit, still fucking insane, of course. You were a master painter in Victorian England. You had to be at least a little nuts.

“Yes, Master…?” he queried in an unsure tone, trying to decipher your current erratic state.

“Take off your shirt.”

Theodore stared at you for a moment, wide-eyed and taken aback. His stomach fluttered, but he did as you bid, his tunic dropping to the floor. He awkwardly tried to cover himself with one arm.

You scrambled forward, pushing his arm out of the way so you could get a better look. “Yes…yes.”

He let out a squeak as you pulled his arm away, not quite knowing where all this was going. “M-Master…?”

Your fingers traveled over his abdomen.

Theodore shivered slightly as your fingers glided across his skin. “Master?” he breathed, still confused.

“Take off your breeches.”

Theodore bit his lip, his hands dropping to fumble with the ties of his breeches. He averted his gaze to the floor, cheeks warm with embarrassment. Any good apprentice knows better than to ask questions.

You dropped to your knees, caressing his thighs and looking up at him in awe.

“M-Master…” Theodore whispered, his cheeks flushed as he held your gaze. Part of him wanted to pull away, but the much larger part of him couldn’t for the life of him find the will to do so.

Your eyes returned to what was right in front of you when it twitched in interest. His cock.

He bit his lip again, watching you intently. The fluttering of his stomach ceased, replaced with a sort of pleasant heat.

You leaned forward and kissed its head, delighted by the way his hips automatically jutted forward at the soft touch of your lips.

“Master…” Theodore whispered breathily, fingers weaving themselves into your hair. You grinned at the touch, promptly taking him into your mouth.

He let out a squeak, his whole body spasming. “M-Master, we— we mustn’t…” 

But even as he protested, his voice grew breathy with pleasure. He quickly shut up once you started dragging your tongue along the bottom vein, forcing him to let out a shaky moan in response. His fingers brushed through your hair, holding it back out of your eyes. “God— Master…”

Just to tease him, you hollow your cheeks, looking up at him with big doe-eyes. His fingers tightened in your hair, tugging gently. 

“Master… Master, please…”

You moaned around him, eyelashes fluttering as the action sent delicious vibrations through his cock.

“Master— I’m.. I—” Theodore’s whole body trembled. He was forced to press a hand to his mouth in order to muffle his needy noises from being overheard by anyone on the street below outside the open second-floor window of the studio. With a final flick of your tongue, you finish him off.

The shudder that wracked his body is intense, forcing him to lean back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing soft and ragged. 

“Master…” he breathed. “Please… let me return the favor…”

You swallowed and pulled off. “Mm?”

His eyes blinked open slowly, clammy hands coming down to cup your face gently. “Allow me to please you, Master. Please. It would— It would please me to do so… It would be a great honor…”

You nodded frantically, stumbling to your feet and loosely clasping your hands around Theodore’s wrists where he held your face, rubbing your thumb against the soft skin on the inside of his wrist.

Theodore pressed a kiss to your forehead sweetly, reveling in the smell of your unintentional cologne, a potent fragrance of oil paint and pig that clung to you like a second skin. 

Backing you into the wall, he easily pinned you there with his hips, using his slightly taller height to his advantage. His lips found your neck, prompting him to hungrily mark the skin with a damson-colored hickey. His greedy hands dropped to your breeches, undoing the ties. You let out a soft whimper and grabbed his shoulders, charcoal-stained fingernails digging into the bare skin.

He pressed his body against yours, his hand sliding into your paint-splattered breeches. He slowly began to move his hand along your cock, his mouth busy covering your neck in a vibrant palette of plum and magenta.

You moan pathetically, eyes fluttering shut.

Theodore couldn’t help but smile against your skin, nipping at your neck softly. “You’re so pretty… So handsome; you’re just so beautiful, Master… I can’t take my eyes off of you when you’re painting. I’m so proud to be in your studio. I’d do anything to please you. I—” He faltered, his face reddening at his admission.

“Theodore— Theodore— keep talking—” you begged, hips jerking forward into his warm fist.

“You have the most wonderful smile I’ve ever seen… It’s so warm and full of life. And your eyes, Master, they’re so lovely…when you’re happy, they crinkle—” He was rambling at this point, more focused on giving you the best handjob of your life. “You paint better than any master I’ve seen in the town square. I—I adore you…”

At that final confession, you surged forward to kiss him, trying to convey a billion things without speaking a single word. He kissed you back, smiling against your lips. With just one clever twist of his fist, he sent you over the edge, coming in your pants like a cheap telegram boy.

“You’re so lovely, Master…” Theodore breathed, brushing his chapped lips against your forehead affectionately while you came down from your high.

“Y/n,” you gasped as soon as you’d caught your breath. “Call me Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he amended, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. “Y/n.”

~~~

this author is fueled solely by comments. if you like this work, and want to encourage me to keep writing, drop a nice word or two in the comments!!

[satoshy12]

To forget the past is hard. Even if you try to ignore it.

Clockwork is Kronos.

Clockwork is visited by his ex-wife Rhea and she discuss their children and Kronos' disregard for them. Clockwork reveals that he thinks of them, with only a picture of Hestia and a large family portrait of Danny and Dani, while Rhea questions his intentions. They argue again.

++

Kronos, or Clockwork as he was now known, stood at his desk and adjusted his staff, knowing that someone would be visiting him in his home. The ticking of clocks filled the air of his lair in the Ghost Zone, he found it comforting as always. He turned slightly at the sound of a portal opening and sighed as the familiar figure stepped through. He had seen her coming and knew it. 

It was Titaness Rhea, his ex-wife, once Queen of the Titans, standing with an air of regal composure that eons of separation had not eroded. Her presence seemed to fill the room, her aura a subtle blend of authority and warmth. 

Clockwork stifled a groan. While he appreciated her rare visits, they always came with strings attached. What part of him that had changed and didn't need to see her all the time, or at all, didn't she understand?

"Clockwork," Rhea began, using his adopted name with strained politeness. She was still not used to calling him that, but she respected that he wanted to be called that. She crossed her arms and gave him a measured look. "It's been a while."

He turned to face her fully, his ghost tail now flying as he looked at her, hands clasped behind his back. "Indeed. I hope this is a fleeting visit, Rhea. I do have a schedule to keep."

Rhea's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "When is that not your excuse? Still, I wanted to see you. To talk." 

"About what?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He hoped she would understand that he didn't want to talk about their children and their descendants. The less he thought about them, the better. 

"Our children," Rhea said, her tone pointed. "You've ignored them. Again."

Clockwork raised a brow, feigning confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I've kept her in my mind. I even have a picture of one of them right here."

He gestured to his desk, where a very small but neatly framed photograph of Hestia rested; she wasn't looking at the camera as she worked at her hearth. He took the picture from one of his portals. Rhea followed his hand, her expression unimpressed. She can't believe he only had one picture of Hestia.

Rhea glanced at her ex-husband and wondered why she ever thought he cared. Even if he wasn't crazy anymore. 

Then she pointed behind him, to the huge family portrait that dominated the wall behind his desk. 

It was impossible to miss: a large painting, almost three metres high, showing Clockwork sitting on a chair in the centre, flanked by Danny Fenton and Ellie Fenton. The two half-ghosts stood confidently beside him, their expressions radiant with joy, and Clockwork also had a smile on his face. It had been so hard to get them both to behave the way the painter had painted the picture, so many hours. They couldn't sit still. But he liked the way it was going. 

"You were saying?" Rhea asked dryly.

Clockwork looked back at the portrait, then shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, as if talking about the weather. "Danny and Ellie are my apprentices. I look after them, guide them, teach them. So to speak. Not my children."

Rhea's brow furrowed, her patience waning. "And when exactly were you going to tell me about them? Or were you going to continue pretending I didn't exist for them? Or let me meet them."

Clockwork sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Rhea, we know how things turned out with the other five. I can handle this duo on my own. And Danny is a great hero, as is Ellie at the moment. Really great students."

The mention of their children - Hades, Hera, Poseidon, Zeus, Demeter and Hestia - hung heavily in the air. The bitter history of betrayal, war and broken family ties was not something any of them wanted to revisit. Or that Kronos wanted to talk about, let alone with his wife.

Still, Rhea glared at him, her anger simmering beneath the surface.

"You don't just start like that," she snapped. "Blaming me for how they got out! While praising the ones you took care of, how great heroes they are!"

Clockwork's tone became defensive. "I gave them stability, training and helped them find a purpose. Isn't that enough? Or would you rather I eat them? Or be given to me to eat."

Rhea's eyes flashed. "Don't you dare put that on me. You were the one who..."

"Yes, yes, I know," Clockwork interrupted, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. "The great betrayal I gave you, the swallowing of children, the rebellion of Zeus, how you hid the boy. We're past that, Rhea. I have moved on from the past. Perhaps you should too.

The argument spiralled from there, as it always did. Words turned to accusations, accusations turned to frustration. Rhea's voice grew louder, while Clockwork's remained icy, but no less cutting. The air in the cave grew heavy with tension, time itself seemed to slow under the weight of their unresolved grievances.

Finally, Rhea threw up her hands. "You are unbearable, Kronos!"

Clockwork stiffened at the use of his old name. "And you are implacable, Rhea."

Rhea took one last look at her husband and the painting behind him. Before she left.

"Silence at last. I really should not bet with my own powers whether she will visit or not."

[velvetdolor]

𝔞𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢♡

𝔧𝔬𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠 𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔶 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.

𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔷, 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝓀𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰:

updated june 9th, 2025. [ i literally started writing on this platform three months ago, i’m panicking LMAO still can’t believe i’m writing publicly.] [aka using fanfiction as writing practice lol a girl can only dream about someday getting published (*´Д｀*) ] I have no clue how i’ve written so much in such a small amount of time. (previously known as sirenscradle)

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 (𝐬𝐟𝐰!) 𝐢 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬—𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬! 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞!

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 ‘☆’ 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤/𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲!

fatal attraction (m): angst, smut, two-part series. (18+!) (1.5 month hiatus/final chapter release time.)

artapprentice!seonghwa x muse!reader x famouspainter!yeosang

p t.i, pt.ii (final)

⋆.˚✮synopsis: park seonghwa is a newly appointed art apprentice studying under kang yeosang, a prolific painter who’s infamous for his intensely controversial and erotic oil paintings. when he meets y/n, yeosang’s one and only muse and object of obsession—seonghwa is seduced into a decade long affair of yearning for another man’s muse he cannot touch.

for the thrill of the hunt (m): smut, comedy, angst, fantasy/supernatural, fluff (18+) ‘☆’ (1.5 month hiatus until the next chapter releases)

ancientvampire!reader x ancientvampire!seonghwa x prey!wooyoung/ pokerplayer!wooyoung

chapter i. chapter ii.

synopsis: being an ancient vampire sucks, sometimes—both literally and figuratively.

when seonghwa refuses to feed and forces himself into a deep slumber after declaring that he’s unwilling to face the painful boredom of everyday life, you’re forced to devise a delicious plan that’s heinous enough to awaken your very mopey husband. this is why jung wooyoung— a world star poker player with not only a great mug to pair with his skills, but the world’s rarest blood type, golden blood— gets a big red x on his photo that you shoddily pin onto the wall of your dining room when your frustrated efforts at getting your husband to stop moping grow frantic. your villainous husband— not one to opt out of a well crafted game, rises to join you on this particular excursion.

the mission?

play an all stakes game of cat and mouse with jung wooyoung’s life

for the thrill of the hunt.

♰𖣐♰ devil’s catch (m): religious horror, suggestive, supernatural-fantasy, SMUT, series. (18+) ‘☆’

pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic!racially and bodily diverse reader (some ot8 x reader but heavily focused on hongjoong. however, everyone will still be intertwined.)

synopsis: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in a ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered the greatest exorcist of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet.

gods of the old and forgotten world.: a special series centered around different world mythologies. The masterlist will be regularly updated as I write intuitively.

behold the eyes of old gods as they watch you, dear reader.

: ͙͘͡★ a faint signal: Cosmic nostalgia, fantasy, fluff, cosmic deities, 1980's Hong Kong, episodical (part of my special series, gods of the old and forgotten world.) (SFW!)

.͙͘͡★Pairings: Cosmic spirit/ Star child! San x Weary soul! childhood friend reader ͙͙͘͡★WC: 3.4k

͙͘͡★Synopsis: It’s the year 1982–Hong Kong’s once awe-inspiring neon lights are now a dull visage of what it once was for you in your youth. Drained and dreamless, you find yourself bawling in a telephone booth after every unanswered call, until an old imaginary friend visits you. You’re then thrusted into a strange and cosmic reality where the dreams of your youth weren’t so imaginary at all

𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔲𝔟’𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔷 ⛧⃝ : one-shot, hard smut, dark romance-fantasy, unreliable narrator, obsession, psychological, stockholm syndrome, love triangle, pwp, BDSM 18+

⃝ Pairing: yandere hunter! seonghwa x captive angel! reader x guard! san

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ summary: you come to terms with your distorted desire for your captor—damning yourself to never return to heaven in favor of living in his ominous and vulgar captivity. the entanglement only complicates further when he instructs his personal guard to watch over you while he's on a mission.

first look at cherub’s waltz, preview.

𝔢𝔫��𝔶𝔭𝔢𝔫, 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝓀𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰....

𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔇𝔞𝔥𝔩𝔦𝔞 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱: victorian era london/edo period japan, mystery, thriller, slow burn, suggestive, oneshot. (SFW!)

Pairing: detective! niki x bath house attendant! reader

Summary: In the year 1848, the youngest son of the immensely affluent Nishimura Clan is disowned when he leaves to investigate the disappearance of his eldest sister five years later. He arrives at the Port of London to track his only lead—a series of letters sent to his sister infrequently from a bathhouse on 1508 Dahlia Street. No name is signed off on the letters and only a stamp of a Dahlia flower signals the ending of each message—the mystery eventually linking you both as you search for your beloved friend and his long-lost sister.

𝙅𝘼𝙂𝙂𝙀𝘿: 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧-𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙥-𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧, 𝙨𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙮, 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘫𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘯𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘯

—𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴—𝘫𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘯—𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦. 𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬/𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

i give my first love to you: short letter entry, hurt, right person wrong timing, drabble. part i. of the drabble series. (completed!) ‘☆’ (SFW!)

pairings: first love! wooyoung x first love! reader

synopsis: A mini drabble series beginning with an unsent love letter. I crafted two endings for the first drabble and to provide some vague insight for the character relationships— but one of the endings is based in an alternate universe. You, dearest reader, are free to choose who to love and what universe is entirely yours—and what love almost was.

pt.ii extended drabble, san’s ending. [green light] new boyfriend! san x reader x first love! wooyoung (SFW!)

͙͘͡★ synopsis: wooyoung may have given him his first love, but san’s never going to give her back to him.

pt.iii extended drabble, one shot—wooyoung’s ending [the last time] first love ex! wooyoung x first love ex!reader (SFW!)

͙͘͡★ synopsis: this was the last time wooyoung was halfway to loving you.

scotty doesn’t know: drabble series. ‘☆’

🎸⋆⭒˚ genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships. this chapter starts with woo’s pov and shifts to readers pov.

🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa

🎸⋆⭒˚ synopsis: seonghwa doesn’t know wooyoung screws you in the van whenever he fucks up and wooyoung doesn’t mind cleaning up after his messes so long as you end the night with him. inspired by the song “scotty doesn’t know” by lustra.

pt ii. be quiet and drive

🎤✩♬ ₊˚. genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships, angst. this chapter starts with hwa’s pov and shifts to readers pov.

🎤✩♬ ₊˚. pairings: vocalist! seonghwa x guitarist! reader

🎤✩♬ ₊˚. synopsis: seonghwa wants bigger things but he can’t bring himself to let you go just yet. (based on the song be quiet and drive by the deftones.)

pt.iii ˚✮ cherry boy—boy toy! ˚✮

🎸⋆⭒˚ genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships, angst, light fluff. (part iii. of the scotty doesn’t know drabble series)

🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa

🎸⋆⭒˚ synopsis: after a stunt you pulled onstage, wooyoung needs you tonight—even if all hell breaks loose in the process.

the world we knew: smut, angst, age gap, drabble. completed!

pairing: aged up! yeosang x naive! reader

ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི— synopsis: you find yourself falling into the same man’s bed, five years after you had the bravery to leave him.

𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳: 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘯𝘦𝘰-𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘺𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘶, 18+!

pairing: rebel member! mingi x stripper ex! reader

—synopsis: 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙, 𝙎𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙞'𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚: 𝙂𝙤 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙧, 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙢𝙗, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭—𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨.

melt: 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪-𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰??? 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘰𝘯-𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 (18+!)

pairing: next door neighbor! seonghwa x reader

—synopsis: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢—𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳. 𝘼𝙆𝘼 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

ｆｏｘｇｌｏｖｅ: suspense, angst, drabble/oneshot, fluff, tragedy.

pairing: deceased husband! seonghwa x reader

—synopsis: after the sudden passing of your husband due to a fatal car accident, your memory of him is slowly deteriorating at the wake of your grief. however, as more hair raising coincidences progressively get strange, you realize you’re not only haunted by your husbands memory.

[𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝] 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜: 𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙴𝚉 𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜: 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑/𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢. 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜.

Siren’s fic recs

On supporting bloggers

siren’s ateez fic recs: first edition

To be released:

sonder: oneshot, strangers in passing, memoir, fluff, alluded soulmates, angst, story is based in the early 1960’s, bittersweet.

jeong yunho x reader

summary: when you meet a stranger on a midnight train to berlin, you don’t expect to find comfort in learning about your strangely intertwined tragedies.

siren’s cinema, now playing:

a series of oneshot’s so i could crossover my love of film and fanfiction. including the craft, chungking express, the mummy, and more!

series masterlist: pt i, pt ii

About me:

hi, my name’s siren— i’m 24 years old and write primarily about ATEEZ, but i’ll branch out from time to time. i write fanfiction in hopes that it’ll make me brave enough to write and submit an actual manuscript someday after lots of practice. i’ll probably share some random blips and writings (journal entries, poetry, confessions) ambient sounds i record, and non-fanfiction based content on here as well. i think my existence is a fair balance between a chaotic, depraved, and primordial evil— and silent melancholia. some random facts about me, down below. (MDNI, this is an 18+ page.)

•i write A LOT. on the rougher weeks for my insomnia, i tend to write more to get the time going. it’s my comfort hobby.

•my favorite genres to write are suspense, horror, or supernatural-fantasy. oh! and especially tragedies.

•i like beautiful things.

•i’m a “somewhat” polyglot— a rather lame one. i have commitment issues, and i can’t seem to care enough about anything to finish it sometimes—but i’m at an intermediate level in several languages. (korean, japanese, mongolian, spanish, etc.)

•i’m filipino, spanish, and native (central) american.

•i write a list of inanimate objects and concepts i relate to on a daily basis. i also enjoy recording ambient sounds of places i frequent.

•my current read is a fiction novel called “the ten loves of mr. nishino” by hiromi kawakami. i’ve been doing lots of reading, as of late. i can get through three (albeit, 12 point large font) books in a day.

•i go by any pronouns— literally here to exist.

•i like fancy canned fish and cold tomatoes—but i hate marinara and cooked tomatoes. unsure why, really.

•my go-to cigarette brand is capris and i stick to the indigo 120’s. i hate non-menthols because they taste like kissing an ugly man, and menthols remind me of the time i kissed a girl and she spat her gum in my mouth. i liked that. therefore, i only smoke menthols. haha

•i flirt as one would breathe air. (i am my fathers daughter)

•i write fanfiction as writing practice, and since i love ateez—character building comes easily, because it feels like i already have a template. eventually, i’d like to write my own stories, once i get comfortable developing my own characters from scratch.

•erotica’s cool and i like the human body— from the perspective of an artist.

MBTI: ENTP

enneagram: 8w7

As these are many of my own ideas, a multitude of what I post may become personal manuscripts after I work on my own original characters. (Non-fanfiction based storylines.) Due to this, I’m providing a disclaimer just in case. 💗 all the love.

All rights reserved. These stories, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced or copied for posting on any other platform in any form without permission. These are works of fiction.

© velvetdolor 2025. All rights reserved.

[the-midnight-blooms]

FROM THE ARTIST’S STUDIO | cs

pairing: painter!choi san x painter!reader AU: historical au, joseon dynasty word count: 10.5k

masterlist

I reach out to my lover, he’s trapped within a painting. The muse of a Renaissance artist- he’s so divine he may have even started the movement.

Her feet pattered down the cold floorboards, pushing through the salmun doors-the fabric of her purple hanbok bunched up in her palms. The midnight bloomed in the depth of the spring, where the cherry blossom trees roared with the wind. A captivating beam from the candle paved the way to the front doors, her heart lurching in her chest as she felt an enchanted soul beckoning her name; her vessel bowed in his essence as if the rapping of the door knocker was to the beat of her name, echoing every syllable. With her hand outstretched for the doors, she hauled it open finding a man whose eyes were squinting as the the coarse rain battered against his supple skin; his teeth chattering with the cold. With a brown leather bag sloped over the shoulder of his light yellow hanbok; hands gripped steely over the handle of his heavy cases. He was tall, with broad shoulders, she quickly discerned but his face almost seemed obscured by the dark clouds and the night slowly filtering into the star studded sky.

"Please, Miss, I'm here to see Mr Yim. I'm a new apprentice at the local government office." His voice was almost mellowed by the crash of thunder against the sky, which had them both flinching at its mercilessness. A surge of relief rested upon him as a slender arm in purple outstretched towards him; the warmth easing the shattering goosebumps bestowed upon his delicate skin. With a contented sigh, the figure in front raised the candle to his face; the soft glow illuminated his crescent eyes which bored into another's burgeoning with curiosity.

"Your name, Sir?" Her honey like voice, slid into his ears; lashes gently fluttering as he breathed in the sight before him the beaming light from the candle forging a halo around this angel. Her tight jaw and deadpan expression was immediately dissolved between the influx of enigma that flooded into her eyes.

"Choi San." Nodding diligently, she gesticulated for him to follow her to her father's study. The hallways of the Yim estate were particularly large, a few candelabras were perched on top of the drawers plastered across the panelled walls-the smoke infiltrating into the empty space. They graced the floor with minimal sound, as if there were ghosts traipsing the corridors rather than real people.

Stood outside the large door, she dipped her head in politeness as he gently caressed the lumber; soft knocks restituting off the walls. With the candle perched within a hand of his own, yet another door opened; the esteemed artist tumbled through the doorway into another life.

Just over two decades ago, on a winter night, where the trees were bare of crisp leaves and the ground was brazen with purest of snow; a couple sat by the fire in their bedroom: a new-born cherub encapsulated within her mother's arms. Mr Yim, the father of the child, was a member of a group of scholars who advocated the need for the government to foster commerce, industry, and technology. He was a part of one of the four schools of thought in Joseon that shifted from speculative theory to attending to more taxing socio-political issues. Therefore, despite being renown for his hard work, and steadfast nature, he was also known for being quite reserved- to put it nicely. There were no 'good mornings' or 'good afternoons' from Mr Yim. Nor were there dirty looks and unwelcoming mannerisms bestowed upon his acquaintances. He liked to keep to himself, Mrs Yim being the only woman in the world capable of seeing that man smile.

"Would you like to hold her, dear?" His wife called, the gentle babbling of his child sending a jolt of fear rushing through him. Eagerly, he dismissed the opportunity, to which Mrs Yim had sighed staring down at her beautiful daughter. "She is your daughter, too. You're going to have to hold her at one point."

"I'll hold her when she is a little older than what she is now."

"Before you know it, she will become a woman and you will reminisce all the opportunities you had to cuddle her when you could." Truthfully, Mr Yim was afraid of fatherhood; he never really understood the notion of it but if having a child would make his darling, Mrs Yim, happy then Mr Yim would give her all the children in the world. How could he raise a child when he was left to raise himself? What could he even teach except say to his daughter after every stumble, every mistake, every stutter, every cry for help but: 'find your way'?

Thus, his aloof nature extended to his daughter, who having been pinned by her mother's side until her unfortunate death, became wholly estranged from her father. He was no longer her mother's husband, but rather just a kind stranger who fed her, clothed her, kept her under his roof and gave her almost anything she wanted.

Miss Yim was rather bizarre.

Or at least, that's what the townspeople thought through her poignant introvertedness; maintaining scant friendships, rejecting all marriage prospects almost immediately preferring the confines of her large quarters-which in themselves were situated in the segregated division of the family home. Her rooms were not bright, but panelled with a dark wood that foremost created a dull atmosphere, there was minimal light other than what streamed in through the open doors and windows that overlooked the vast lawn. A porch ran around the whole building, where Miss Yim frequented, all year round, as she drew.

Oh! The most compelling thing about Miss Yim was that in contrast to her academic father, she had particularly excelled in the arts, often taking on commissions from local noblemen requesting venerated portraits of their wives. As well as the opportunity to put her skills to practise, she saw it as a way of putting a few extra pennies in her pocket. In alignment with her reserved nature, Miss Yim found that she preferred to draw using defined, darker mediums such as charcoal, ink and graphite pencils. There was something so true about the loneliness that could be felt from the intricate brushstrokes as the ink spilled across the page. As if the figurines were her, simply founded to be a mere prop in a large frame.

Smoothing down the hairs on her head, she snapped away her gaze from the mirror to the window overlooking the side of the garden, the silhouette of the hanok roofs, carving elegantly into the sky. The trees rocked and the grass rippled with the pending ferocity of the wind. Indeed, the storm would not subside within the next few days. The door to her bedroom slid open, the older maid stumbled in settling the tray upon her bench.

"Will I not be eating with my father today?" Ina looked up from where she was kneeled on the floor, settling the bowls onto the bench.

"Mr Yim is currently accompanied with Mr Choi. Your father requested that you eat by yourself for the duration of his stay, you know how it is." Nodding, she took her seat opposite Ina patiently awaiting for the maid to stop assembling her dishes in a neat line in front of her. Whilst women typically dined by themselves, her father had allowed her to eat with him almost daily; except when there were guests. Despite his neglect towards his daughter, he still valued her feminine dignity and did not trust the vulturous eyes of men that rested their predatory gaze upon her.

"Who is this, Mr Choi, and how is it that I wasn't aware of his arrival until he was knocking on our door?" She questioned, Ina's careful gaze flickered to her before staring out into the open space in contemplation.

"A new apprentice. He’s appointed here, on request of his father." Leaning forward, Ina's voice dropped an octave. "Apparently his father says he's been 'engaging in sin' so he's been estranged from his parents until he gets his act together." Raising a questioning brow, she looked down at her bowl.

"Is he a homosexual?" Immediately, she was wacked on the back of her head by the older maid who didn't miss a single second in scolding her. Her hand sped to the back, rubbing the jolt of pain that seared through her, a temporary look of irritation glazed over her eyes.

"You insolent girl! How could you say such thing, you know how disgraced that is!"

"You said ‘engaging in sin'. I can't think of anything more sinful other than fraternising with men or women." Ina's dirty look penetrated through her bones, provoking a sense of humiliation that would rattle through her in the depth of the night. Scowling at her mistress, she rolled her eyes before getting up from the floorboard.

“Hurry up and eat your food. You need to go to Mrs Kang’s today." Following Ina's orders she gulfed down her food, drowning out the maid's muttering about her being crude and dishonourable.

The light chatter from the front room fell deaf at her ears as she sauntered to the entrance, which the two kitchen maids scuttled in through. Bowing at their mistress, they made a fowl attempt at suppressing a fit of giggles as they subtly snuck a glance into the room. Following their gazes, she warily traipsed in, catching her father converse with their new guest.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Mr Choi, this is my daughter." He teared his gaze away from his mentor to draw his eyes across the room and find the infamous Miss Yim perched by the doorway, gripping onto her onto the full skirts of her dark blue hanbok.

It was hard to deny that Mr Choi was amiable. He was tall, well-built with a toned torso that was still perceptible through his uncreased peach coloured hanbok, dimples adorned his perfectly structured cheeks. He nodded with such elegant eagerness, at her father's command harbouring the position of an obedient son, almost leaving her wondering what was so 'sinful' about that man in the first place? What could he have possibly done so wrong that he had practically been disowned by his family?

"Miss Yim, it's nice to formally meet you." She gave him a polite nod, choosing to stay silent than say something and be met with her father's harsh stare.

"Mr Kang told me you've been over at his home, a few times." Her father spoke breaking the awkward meeting. A breath became lodged in her throat as she anticipated some sort of wrath, after all Mr Yim was supposed to be oblivious to her going out and painting other women for a light commission. She didn't exactly know how he would react to that. "He appreciates your help with Mrs Kang's pregnancy." Mrs Kang is pregnant? That would explain the engorging belly, the mood swings and the other number of odd behaviours that she was listing off in the past few weeks she had been challenged with drawing the difficult woman. At times, Miss Yim thought she ought to have more empathy, it wasn't that she lacked it, it was that she tended to not gift her empathetic abilities to the prejudiced. It was women like Ina, and the cooks that worked in the kitchen that deserved her compassion. Women who strived to be breadwinners, even if it was due to poor socio-economic circumstances. Because women like Mrs Kang were hypocrites to be preaching the old values, pre-Confucianism, when they neglected their own sex.

"Yes, she's been enjoying my company. I intend to go again to deliver herbs she’s asked from Ina’s garden.” She recalled glancing down the extensively large page, as Mrs Kang moaned and groaned when the servants were too late to serve her namul and kimchi.

"Red raspberry leaf, dandelions, echinacea." Grimacing, she looked over her sheet to give the woman a look. "You can just get this from the market, why do you need this from Ina's garden?" Mrs Kang simply pouted rubbing her belly. Now that she thought about it, how did it not occur to her that she was pregnant? Perhaps it was because they begged to slim down her figure in the painting.

"Fresh herbs are good for babies." Were the herbs from the market not fresh enough for her? “I need them picked before they’re here.”

"Perhaps I should add lemon balm to burn that fat." A discourse of exasperated gasps rippled over the room, Mrs Kang waddled out of the room wailing for her husband. It was ruthless and unkind, keeping the unsympathetic Miss Yim awake at night before she travelled back to the Kang estate to see a very unhappy couple.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kang. You’re beautiful just the way you are, even more with the little belly.” The pregnant woman’s tight grip around her neck, as they hugged, almost choked her to death.

Mr Yim's eyes outcasted through the doorway, there was a light patter of rain yet the howl of the wind had subsided significantly. He let out a small hum before returning back to the young pair staring, ardently, back at him.

"I say Mr Choi, should be your chaperone. It's a little unsafe to be going out by yourself." Before she could open her mouth and argue, her father held out a hand to silence her thoughts. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she nodded once more, before dashing from the room to have a flustered Mr Choi following her.

Hitching up her skirts, she trudged through the field, the sun had filtered into the sky radiating its essence onto the young souls as they surpassed the reams of houses. Had it not been for the joyous discord of infantile laughter, it would have been quiet; San mustering the courage to initiate a conversation. He cleared his throat, she merely blinked at his futile attempt at grabbing her attention.

"Miss Yim, you must slow down I can't keep up with your pace." He declared, striding faster towards her, the tall grass brushing against his knees.

"I think you can cope, Sir. Your legs are longer than mine." Walking through the grass wasn't difficult but when her hanbok was floor length, lifting up the heavy fabric proved tiresome and not to mention her shoes were sinking into the muddy fields, squelching miserably under her heavy steps. Eventually, San matched her pace as they made their way up the steps to the Kang estate.

A shrill voice eructed into the airs, the domestic staff worked at a proficient speed as they amended the damages inflicted from the storm. As a group of servants raised the logs from the path, San ran to their aid significantly lightening their work load. His charity had left her silent contemplating her initial thoughts on his persona. There must be something impure under all that. Surely? There had to be some reason why his father practically disowned him.

Kang Yeosang stood by his front doors, watching as his staff worked the lawn and through the large home. He sought the enigmatic painter launch up the steps, with an unreadable look painted on her face.

“Good Morning, Miss Yim.”

“Morning, Yeosang.” She greeted, he laughed a little at her dull tone.

“I take it, there’s nothing particularly good about this morning.” He jeered, she huffed at his characteristically exuberant manner.

“Not when my father’s spy is here to be my chaperone.” She turned around on the steps, the pair looking down at San moving the heavy logs from the path, dirtying his robes at that. “He’s the new apprentice at the local office, Choi San, I think he said his name was.”

"Oh, the country boy." Country boy? "He's from Yangdong, have you not heard? His family is amongst the richest, they're both scholars and farmers, now." Across the country, Joseon farming techniques had taken a turn within the last few decades, especially with the establishment of irrigation and rice transplantation methods- bringing Joseon to a state of flourishment. It was safe to say, which farmer wasn't rich now? The admirable farm boy was pushed away by the servants, making his way up the steps. Leaving him with Yeosang, she made her way in the direction of the couples' shared quarters, Mrs Kang draped over her bed, her wrist dramatically resting on her forehead.

"Hello, Mrs Kang." The woman jolted up from her seat, an obnoxious groan emitted from her as she propped her back up against the wall. "I brought you your herbs."

"Thank you, my love. You left your paints, they're just on my dressing table." The herbs were exchanged from her paints, digging into the pockets of her hanbok. The older woman began to natter, the discordant tonality rattling in her ears. Mrs Kang loved to talk. Even if it was about absolutely nothing, that woman talked for the whole of Joseon.

I'm leaving this place with a headache.

She often wondered how it was that Yeosang put up with his insufferable wife. Was it love, or a promise that he had made to Mrs Kang's parents that he would never leave her? The thought made her sigh in pity- to be permanently bound to someone in matrimony seemed like too much effort at times. Perhaps the effort itself is what subdued her mother to misery, the poor Mrs Yim eagerly handing her soul to the Angel of Death. Or maybe Miss Yim had possessed a stone-cold heart frozen over by the neglect of life's intimate essence; overpowered by a sense of maturity held over by her mother's early death. She took it upon herself to make it clear that by the time she was thirty, if there was no proposal that had come around she was going to wholly abandon the idea of marriage and work herself to death.

"That man is so pretty." She spoke, dreamily, Miss Yim's eyes lazily fled in the direction of Mrs Kang's. Her head poked through the doorway where both Yeosang and San were travelling down, engaging in intelligent discourse. "Not Yeo, the other one." The pregnant woman clarified.

"He's ok, I suppose. Not bewitching enough to tempt me."

"That has to be the biggest lie I have ever heard."

"What is Miss Yim lying about now?" Yeosang provoked as both men entered the room. Both women shared a look before the painter slumped onto the dressing table chair. "I suppose you're awaiting your payment."

"Well, my services aren't free." She declared, pompously. Yeosang rolled his eyes before he moved to the opposite end of the room, San had almost drawn his body out of the bedroom, a little embarrassed as the pregnant Mrs Kang ogled her eyes at him. Stretching her limbs, she got up taking the velvet bag. "Thank you, Mr Kang. I'll visit when the baby arrives."

His perfection had her repleted with such distaste for him. Simply put, Miss Yim hated Choi San because he was loved by all. Her father loved him, Ina adored him, the maids were constantly drooling over him it shot her with a sense of annoyance. He quickly became a household name, spoken of when he was at the office with her father and even when he was at home. Everywhere she went it was just him, him and him. The worst thing was, was that he was even trying to be nice to her prevailing through her grim looks and hard words.

“San this, San that. Honestly, he’s not even as esteemed as everyone claims, Ina. He’s just a man, like every other man. And all men are the same. So what if he's good looking, does that suddenly make him god’s greatest gift?” Burying her face into the pillow, an exasperated huff escaped her lips. Ina fell onto her bed, reaching her arms out to stroke her mistress’ back. With a contented sigh, she felt her eyes drooping a little as the maid's soft caresses were gently lulling her to sleep. Her touch felt like that of her mother's, soothing the aches of her heart whilst simultaneously provoking the nostalgia of a mother's love. To have her mother again, to have that woman encircle her into her arms. Rock her back and forth. She longed for her mother's scent again, often chasing the whiff of her familiar saccharine redolence as one chased butterflies in an open field.

“Yet you think of him often. He occupies your thoughts as much as he occupies ours.”

“Hardly, I-,” She stammered in a desperate attempt to recollect her thoughts into a single ambience. “I envy him. How is that he steps into this home for a second and I see my father smile?” Ina’s face dropped, a breath caught in her throat as her mistress spoke aloud the forbidden words she denied her staff to even breathe. The older maid had been rendered silent for too long, giving Miss Yim all of the answers she needed to press forward with her wistful assumptions.

"Perhaps if you grew to understand him, you would know why your father has inhabited such emotions for him. Think of him like a son-in-law. He will love him but not as much as he loves you." The maid reasoned.

"Then that makes him my husband." She grumbled, pulling the duvet over her shoulders.

"Now is that so bad?” Ina teased, before pulling her weight off the bed. With no strength to argue, her eyes fluttered to a close; her soul being dissolved by the night.

The following morning, it was too cold to be even sitting on her porch and with eyes tired of the same dreary scene, she ventured out of her quarters, delving into parts of the home she had missed. By the kitchens, the late Mrs Yim had reserved herself a small room decorated with the tools of all her hobbies in order to enact time alone for herself, away from motherhood and social responsibility. The room was consistently cleaned but usually left empty having it being full of painful memories of the beloved mistress of the household. For the first time in a long time, Miss Yim had felt the drive to find the room again and read her mother's poetry she had spent hours pouring over in the rooms.

Yet it had been almost shot stone-cold dead when the door opened to find San sat by the window hands raised towards the canvas. The anger within her refused to simmer or boil, it was rather the smooth swaying of the soft waves lapping the crust of sand. Her hands feebly reached for the poetry book on the table.

"I didn't know you were a painter, Mr Choi." She proclaimed, her breath hitched in her throat as her eyes sought the intricate details on the canvas. Her eyes glossed over the colours, the succinct shapes, drawing on the brushstrokes herself with the sharp movements of her eyes. It moved her. When was the last time she had been left this breathless?

"You never asked, Miss Yim." Immediately she felt intimidated by his artwork, her own revered drawings felt meek in comparison to his. A mere apprentice in an important official’s presence. To even be this close to him was considered a blessing. "You can sit next to me. I don't bite." Tentatively, she drew closer seating herself on the floorboards next to him; the brush of their fabrics sending a tidal wave of timidness over her. Where was the bold, steadfast Mrs Yim? Long gone, lost to the large expanse of the sea. Drowning under the ocean of his perfection. She didn't even want call for help, allowing herself to be enveloped by his allure. You draw so beautifully, she wanted to say. It's perfect, like something-someone even.

"You should have been a royal painter." The remark was swallowed into a melancholic void within his heart. Sparing a glance, he dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the crevice of the cerulean blue paint before raising to illustrate the canvas.

"Don't say that to my father." She sought the gloom glossed over his brown eyes. Was he, too, held down by social responsibility and expectations? She didn't think it was possible for a man's dreams to be mauled over by society; for she saw it with her father who had the whole world at his feet-picking dreams as if he was picking daisies from a meadow. Dropping her book onto the floor, she rested her head on her knee, solicitude fulfilled the serene atmosphere. Her eyes fell over the fancy metallic pots situated around the easel, which she knew to be various colours of paint pigments. Resting her head on her knee, she tenderly rocked her body from side to side as she watched his hands elegantly work through the canvases.

"Did you ever consider pottery? That's supposed to be quite popular now." Her question breaking through the quiet airs, the delicacy of her voice startling San. It was devoid of boredom, or disinterest like he had always perceived. No lace of judgement like he was silently praying to be diminished from her soul.

"It'll grow out of popularity soon." He stated, resting the paintbrush down to exercise the tense muscles in his hands. "I heard this was the late Mrs Yim's room, I hope you don't mind me being here." It, too, came as a shock to her when she shook her head-with no care in the world that he had colonised the room that she was once sure was hers.

It was sunny for once, which was odd for this time of year-she thought throwing open the door to the porch finding San surrounded by a large number of logs and an axe.

"What's he doing outside?" She pondered, Ina folding up the washed bedsheets before tucking them away into the drawers.

"They stopped properly chopping up the logs so we can use them for the fire, so Mr Choi offered to help." Wandering out through the doors, a smooth current of air tousled her hair, a book held tightly against her chest.

God, he really was toned. Rolling up the sleeves of his hanbok all the way to his bulging biceps, the maids all stopped in their path to rest their elbows on the low garden wall overseeing the vast expanse of grass. Effortlessly he picked up the axe, raising it over his head to slice down the log of wood. She rolled her eyes at her maids, as they watched him with dreamy faces. They nattered in hushed tones, giggling amongst themselves unbeknownst that their mistress was stood behind them. Leaning down to where they were sat on the garden wall, she poked her head in between the sea of charmed maidens.

“What are we looking at?” They squeaked, jumping up from their seats upon sight of their mistress- flapping their hands as some rushed back into the kitchen and others tended to garden duties. “Well? I would like to know too.”

“You wouldn’t understand Miss Yim.” Yes, yes she was the narcissistic Miss Yim who harboured no feelings for men and couldn’t deduce their charming airs. She was the Miss Yim who rejected countless marriage proposals, not based on looks but merely because she found that no man possessed the kind quality in a man that she was seeking. No patience, no loyalty. They were not even ruled by a sense of ambition. So how could she be hypnotised by the sacred beauty of a man, specifically, Choi San.

“Yes, I don’t understand why you’re not doing the job that we’re paying for you to do. All of you, out of the garden, it’s already been tended to!” She shouted, in an instant all of the maids dispersed back into the home. Huffing, she slumped onto the garden wall, glazing her ink pen over the defined lines on the page. Occasionally, she’d peer her eyes over the pages at San, tending to the curve of his body, and the horrific cinching of his waist. When he looked to his side, she hastily returned back to her sketchbook, feeling a blush decorate her cheeks as his steady gaze burned into her skin.

“Very accurate, Miss Yim.” Jumping up from her seat, she screeched the pot of ink spilling onto his face and neck. Whoops.

“Oh goodness, I am so sorry. Ah.” She let out a pained sound, battling with her internal conflict as she grabbed his hand rushing them into the direction of the porch that led to her quarters. Powerfully, she slid the door open darting inside and towards the washroom. Hauling him down to his knees in front of the washing basin, with a soaked rag in hand, she scraped away the ink splashed across his face. “Take this off.” She ordered, signalling to his hanbok.

“W-what?” He stammered, his face heating red.

“Well you’ve got ink and dirt all over it. I can get a new one for you.”

“I can’t just return back to my quarters and change?”

“Well no because then my father will see you and he’ll know I stole his ink again.” An annoyed huff escaped from his lips as she handed him the rag to clean himself. “Here, I’ll go get you a spare set of clothes.” Jumping up from where she was kneeled, her foot slipped over a puddle of water his arms snapped out towards her waist. Gripping his shoulders for stability, a faint blush trickled over her face, their noses barely an inches distance.

"Be careful." Quickly unravelling her hands from his shoulders, Miss Yim ran out of the room towards his quarters. Slipping past the double doors, she rummaged through the drawers for his clothes-picking up a light green set.

"Mr Choi?" A maid's voice called out from behind the closed door. Discerning their shadow moving closer, she made a beeline through the open doors leading into the garden. Scuttling into her washroom, she practically launched the hanbok at him before hiding in her room.

A breath of relief had finally escaped from her when he left from her room, both of their faces burning red in the midst of this shameful meeting. Yet San seemed persistent to know her, feeling that there was still something beneath the stone-cold façade she had constructed; something emotional and raw that he had felt he had to know. And Miss Yim was too becoming more curious, by the day, as to what Choi San’s secret was and why his father perpetually hated him.

Ina had forced them to go on a walk together, she groaned, silently, as they left the home behind making their way down to the meadow. At first an odd tranquillity permeated the air, eventually she grew tired of the jarring dissonance of absolutely nothing.

“A penny for your thoughts?” She inquired.

“I’ll keep the penny. I almost feel you’d judge me for having thoughts.” San bemused, she rolled her eyes, a faint of a smile on her lips. Just the tiniest, but it was practically gone within the same second.

“I don’t judge you, Mr Choi. I do, however, envy you. You’ve taken the place I wanted in my father’s heart.” She confessed, he looked towards her sympathetically, with knowingness that she was indeed right and the Mr Yim, famous for being just as aloof as his daughter, had somehow softened a little upon his arrival. Perhaps it was a son that he had always wanted, not a daughter but the scholar was reserved; San being too terrified to pry.

“Your place is best occupied elsewhere. Somebody else has it, I’m sure. He keeps it safe with love that is too potent that even dreamers can’t feign.” Of course was reading her mother's poetry, she didn't think many could understand the abstract nature of her words; of course it was him out of all who admired her poetry as it was his own.

"I am not pretty enough for that." Miss Yim argued, looking down at her feet. After all, the marriage proposals were not because of her vague good looks, but mainly because Mr Yim claimed an abundance of wealth.

"I disagree with you on that." Her face heated with his affirmation.

"Well, I am no Jang Ok-Jeong."

"There are many beautiful women in Joseon, not all of them have ever been recorded."

"She caught the eye of the King, a man who has a kingdom at his feet, he is supposed to be too superior to even look at his subjects. And he looks at her? Is that not a beautiful woman?" They were both fuelled by this argument, the debate igniting a set of powerful emotions that roared within them. This, was what they both deeply felt conversations were supposed to be. Potent discourse about society, literature and art. Not idle chatter on the weather, marriage and the social laws that subdued them.

"A man is supposed to be ruled by his head, not emotions. I say if any man bestowed more than a single glance, on a woman, and his breath was taken away, then she is more gorgeous than Venus herself."

"Not that wretched painting. It's so...vulgar." San snickered, squeezing his eyes as he let out a melodious laughter. "It says so much about the male gaze." She spat out as they trudged through the fields back in the direction of her home.

“I wonder if you like any art, at all? Other than your own?” He questioned.

“Owon is good. Apart from the vulgarity of Renaissance paintings-,”

“Which I must say is the majority of the whole movement, pray, continue.” He teased, his pestering smirk seemed to stitch wings on her heart, for it fluttered at his amiability, his devoutness to mankind and all of its endearing qualities and his perseverance. Despite her uncompromising attitudes and distasteful demeanour, he seemed compliant with listening to her, talking to her, truly trying to understand her and not just turning a blind eye. Choi San truly wanted to know her, for her; and not follow some false allegation that she was devoid of a heart or soul. He commended she had both and they were wrought with an existentialist quality that he wanted nothing but to huddle in the corner of a library and read away his life until it dissolved under the cover of her persona.

"What about you?" She questioned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her own ear. At once, San was drawn into the world of virtuosity describing each of his favourite pieces as if it could be encapsulated into a single globe. The sweet dissonance of his voice lugging her into a dreamscape as they gently glissaded through the empty hallways of the Yim estate. They sought their eyes over the panelled wall, following the intricate lines of carved wood. They could almost be called mad people loose from the dreaded ward. For their eyes did not see the same way a normal persons did. He saw the shimmer in the air, the light poring through the crevices, the faint blemishes on a skin unseen with a naked eye-too vague to be called a taint, a mark, a scar. And she would see what he saw, whether it was not there she could reach to the depths of her sanity and pour out the image before her eyes to satisfy him.

It became a wonder to her how they spent several nights, the light patter of her feet as she rushed to his quarters with fulfilling arguments over art pieces, sharing techniques, rifling through each other's sketchbooks. His style was a stark contrast to her own: luminous watercolours, velvety acrylic paints, oily crayons. His muses were full of life and wonder, the strokes brimming with fruition. It was if a single segment of his painting held more hope than what could exist in her whole being.

There was something about him, too. She could see it now, his compassion, his adoration. As the weeks spun by, she became less repulsed by his sincerity and opened up to it more, almost finding herself craving his attention. His affection was much welcomed; she often wondered what it would be like to be so loved by him.

In her mother's old drawing room, she found him again, his large hands drifting over the pages again. Peering over his shoulder, she softly blew into his ear; the warmth tickling him.

"What are you drawing?" Her eyes scanned over the cartridge sheet, its intimacy striking her. It looked like her. Every sketch line, every shade, every little detail, every little blemish on her face.

"You." He answered, he didn't dare tear his eyes away from her for her hair was falling down her face in perfect waves that lured him into uncharted depths.

"You drew me so pretty."

"I only drew what I saw." Her heart wavered in piety, his devotion provoking an arrangement of madness. He was going to drive her insane and she was content with it.

"I wonder, what was it that you were excommunicated for?" Her silence broke through the passionate airs, culminating the objectivity that fulfilled among them as his sins held heavy on his tongue.

"I am not a scholar, a farmer or a devout son. I am an artist, a man who sees the world despite all of its maliciousness. I see the world so raw, it almost disgusts me but I am not terrified by its honesty. I find it so beautiful, it belongs on a page: drawn." Her body swayed towards him, hypnotised by his delicate words drawn his intoxicating tenacity, filling her with such immitigable rage that within that severe moment all she wanted was him. "I was 'excommunicated' because I am not the man my father wants me to be. I return as soon as I am devoid of all the emotions he renders vile." Tentatively, her fingers curled through his hair his eyes fluttering shut under her gentle touch.

"What about you Miss Yim? Why are you so solitary?" He murmured, their quiet voices serenaded the room.

"I am not solitary by choice. It's been enforced upon me and I know nothing and no one else but myself." Her whispers, though full of hurt and pain, were seldom dulcet. He thrived himself upon her words alone, it was enough to send him into delirium but her whole unmatched beauty with her words? He was sure to be sent to the wretched institute.

With an envelope gripped in her hands, she made her way over to his quarters slipping into the warmth, his smile greeting her as she slumped onto the chair in front of him.

"Mrs Choi? Your mother?" She inquired, handing over the envelope. San snickered at her nosiness, rolling her eyes as he took the sheet from her grasp, ripping open the seal to reel his eyes down the page.

"Actually, it's my wife." He announced, sparing her a single glance as he continued to read the words sprawled across the page. A sharp pang penetrated through the barriers in her heart, she felt her feet slipping under the ground, the walls pulverising as they caved in on her. For some reason, the room felt much more smaller than it was. Her heart was beating faster than any poetic declaration he had bestowed upon her, any time he had made her feel as if she was truly a worthy soul of being loved. Her heart palpitated faster than when he made her feel she would not die from a cataclysmic loneliness.

"I didn't know you were married." She breathed out, gripping the sage green silk in hand; feeling almost disgusted with herself for fixating her whole being on a man who never belonged to her in the beginning.

"We'll be officially married when I return back home." With a teasing smile on his lips, he grabbed a clean sheet from his desk and began elegantly carving the characters onto the page. "I'll be sure to send you an invite, if you'll come?"

“Of course, I’ll come. You know, for the food.” She quipped, his dimpled smile shattering the months of pining she had set for this revered soul. “I’ll take your leave, San.”

She fled from the room her bare feet blessing the sweet earth, the velvety wisps of the wind taunting her as tears welled up in her eyes. With a breath hitched in her throat, she fell onto her bed; bottom lip quivering as pearl tears escaped from her eyes dribbling down her cheeks before splattering onto the bedsheets. Her painful howl terrorised the desolate quarters as she had done on several dispassionate nights, the skies mimicked her torment, the light patter of rain hit against the window as if it understood all her wretched emotions. As if it understood her anger, hatred and hurt. As if it understood how disgusting it felt be left vulnerable by a man who could never be hers.

Was it some false delusion that she had been seduced by? That he, who was carved from a sculpturers most wild emotions, by all of his tenacity and his violent rage that he wished to create a being made of light: could truly be hers? By his yearning and pent up sentiment, by his dying wish that this world was not at peace until some divine figure from a concealed land would touch her world? Her hands shook as she sought to remove the tears streaming endlessly down her face. After all it had now made sense to all of the sympathetic souls that had heard her be plunged through such pain, to read her tale and understand the reason for her aloof nature.

Up the walls went back up. Brick by brick.

Curse you, Choi San, for breaking them down in the first place.

San had not seen Miss Yim for the remainder of the week or the subsequent. Granted, he had been flooded with an overwhelming amount of work but such was to be expected with the incredible staff shortage and Mr Yim’s high expectations. Regardless, he missed the snarky comments and unrelenting stares from across the room. He missed her moodiness, how ever infuriating it was at times; he missed the sense of quietude she presented at his feet and its ability to render his mind numb. Overall, he missed her. Yet, she seemed to be nowhere in sight and in fact missing even under the cover of the night.

“Ina, do you know where I can find Miss Yim?” He questioned, the agony rupturing the sutures of his weak heart apart.

"In her room, Mr Choi. She's, specifically, requested not to see anyone." Oh. His mood deflated after that concession, wracking his mind for all the things he had said in their last engagement; anything potentially hurtful or offensive but he didn’t recall anything particularly endangering. His quest to venture into her quarters, despite her ruthless commands which had the servants petrified over her uncharacteristic (but not abnormal) behaviour, had been cut short by Mr Yim’s desire to keep a tightened hold on the apprentice. He thought about bringing it up as he ate dinner with his mentor.

“How is Miss Yim? I heard she’s isolated herself in her quarters?” He raised, tentatively, as Mr Yim’s eyes scoured down the reports. Her father was a little too quick to dismiss her actions.

“Never mind her, that’s not something new. I was surprised she was even roaming around the house when you arrived…” Mr Yim trailed off as a thought infiltrated his mind, shutting the book close, his furrowed brows silenced the questions in San’s mind.

The moonlight spilt in through the window, the luminous shadows dancing with the light breeze. With dried tear tracks staining her puffy cheeks, she circulated her finger around the cotton sheets pulling up the heavy duvet over her shoulders, a trail of heat comforted her. The door to her room, silently, slid open; oblivious to the soft bustling of footsteps she stretched her limbs sitting up in her bed.

“Miss Yim?” Her head snapped up at the deep voice, its familiarity sending an agonising wave of heartache through her being. There he was, the perpetrator himself, settling in front of her with a teacup in his palms as if nothing had happened in the first place. “Are you ok? I know you don’t like echinacea, so I got you lemon and ginger tea.” Placing the tea cup on her night stand, he rested his palm against her forehead.

“What are you doing here, San?” Huffing, she fisted up the hair in her palms before sticking a dry paint brush through it to create a tight knot.

“You’re burning u- were you crying?” His finger lightly smoothed her damp skin, shaking her head she pushed his hand away from her face. God, she felt awful for his wife who had to endure his infidelity. “What’s wrong, jagiya, speak to me?” Biting down on her lower lip, Miss Yim threw her gaze out of her window, she sought the light shimmering as her vision blurred.

“Just leave, please.” There was no more hostility left in her tone, a coarse throat lacerated with the phlegm that built up from endless nights of sobbing herself to sleep. Tiredness gnawed at her, she just wanted to dissolve back into the covers. Pleading, begging she’d do whatever she could to force him to leave because if he didn’t then she would tear down the path to the Angel of Death and beg him to take her dwindling heart. On her knees she would go, for the mere sight of her lover crumbled the steadfast walls she had tried so hard to rebuild.

“Are you upset because I’m going home next week? If that’s the case-,”

“San, are you dense?” She interrupted. He was subjugated to silence, a look of hurt flashing over his face. “Leave means leave.” Adjusting her body so she could slide under the covers, she stridently hauled the fabric over her head, gripping her lips tight shut, so no more pitiful sobs escaped her and she was no more a servant to his cruel love.

The Yim estate was left with a melancholic air as the venerated bachelor made his preparations to leave the home. The maids were forlorn as they’d no longer have the privilege of seeing his striking face to bless their monotone days. Miss Yim had finally mustered the courage to take a stroll through the garden, avoiding San's quarters at that. Lingering by the flowers, she wrapped her arms around herself to manifest a sense of warmth that failed to prevail with the awful weather. She didn't notice her lover tear down the garden to her, his heart leaping within his own chest.

"Miss Yim?" Her body whipped around upon his words, her hands balled up into fists the anger displaced by fear. "Do you know how painful it has been for me to go days without seeing you? I am leaving for Yangdong, today, and god knows if I didn't even so much as see your face I would have gone feral."

"I- why?" She stuttered, at a desperate attempt to collect together her words and form a sentence. How and when did he culminate such passionate feelings for her?

"Why? Isn't it obvious? I am in love with you." He declared, she shook her head, profusely, at him.

"How can you say that?" Her voice raised an octave, parrying against the harsh winds that blew at them.

“If being in love with you is a deadly sin, then I am the greatest sinner there is. I will walk up to the gates of hell and open them myself. Hand over my arms and ask them to bound me to its greatest depths.” His chest heaved up and down, tears brimming at the front of her eyes. “I cannot live without you. I would not even do so much as breathe unless you asked me to. If you asked me to stop breathing, I would!”

“You’re a married man, San. Do you know how god awful that sounds?”

“I’m barely married but engaged. When I go back home, I will once again beg to not be wed off to her. I don’t love her, how can my father expect me to marry her? How can you expect me to marry her?”

“I don’t think you understand, San. I can’t love you.” His arms outstretched for her waist, hauling her towards him, the rain beating down on them both. With the gentle flick of his finger, her head tipped up to peer into his eyes.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t love me, or even feel as much as a small emotion for me. One word from you, would silence me forever.” She bit furiously down on her lip as his vehement fixation tore through the borders of her soul. When did she fall so vulnerable in his conquest for her being?

“I don’t love you the same way you love me. I am incapable of doing so.” His own brown eyes fulfilled with hot tears, pouring soundlessly down his cheeks. Her heart wavered with misery as he ripped away his grip, stumbling backwards upon her untruth.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Yim. For the first time in my life, someone saw me for who I really am and not who I am meant to be.” Once again, the thunder cracked against the sky as San turned his back on her striding back into the home. The maids ran out to shut the doors, summoning their mistress back in but she sunk to the floor erupting into a fit of sobs; a wave of shock rattling through them. Her heart burned with such pain, even as Ina cooed lifting her up from the floor to guide her back into the home. Melting into the older woman's arms, her ears drowned out the distant sound of her lover ambling far, far away from her to a land in which even its notion would never grace the depths of her mind.

Her father's office was warm, but not the comforting kind as the biting airs of Joseon persisted. It was more suffocating as they sat across from each other in his office, discussing the state of her future now that he had managed to complete some of burdening tasks at work. He had several proposals lined in front of her, some prospects from his workplace, some from Mr Kang and even Ina had managed to find one or two seemingly agreeable men within their social class. A sigh fulfilled her, it would be a lie to say that she didn't look for the smallest hint of San within them all.

"I'm sorry Father, I don't like any of these men." He closed his eyes in indignation, rubbing his face before collecting the sheets from in front of her and throwing them into the fire. The embers cackled in a slow, seething ferocity as he leaned back in his chair.

"I honestly don't know what to do with you anymore. You won't marry, you won't leave your quarters. You've stopped helping around the house. All you want to do is sit in your room all day and stare into space." He scolded, she shook her head before raising from her seat. "You are becoming a burden to me."

"Well if I am such a burden to you, then just get rid of me." She taunted. An animosity truanted through him at her discourtesy.

“What do you think I have been trying to do since your mother left us? It should have not been your mother that had died! It should have been you! I would trade my soul to have your mother in place of you.” He blurted, before quickly slapping the palm of his hand to his mouth, cursing him for the spoiled words that left it.

“I would trade my soul too, to have my mother where you stand. You are a poor excuse of a man and to call you my father is an insult to me.” She hissed through gritted teeth, the shock reverberating at Mr Yim’s core; the severity of her words pulsating through his blood.

“You shouldn’t have been a father if all I was going to be to you was a pretty doll in a picture. The truth was she didn’t die because she was ill, it was the heartbreak of carrying a whole marriage on her back. It was the fact that you didn’t care about her wants, but your own.”

"You are in no position to say that to me. I loved your mother like it was breathing, I loved her as if she was the greatest blessing, as if God had granted me mercy for all the times I had done him wrong." His chest suspired, brittle hands shaking as a heavy tension remained suspended in the air between them; Ina loitering outside afraid to walk into the war zone.

"But you didn't love me! It was my mother who loved me, and I wasn't allowed to have her! I wasn't my mother's daughter, or my father's. I was a daughter of a servant with my name merely attached to you." At the end of the day, she was the figure in those paintings. Trapped within a frame, four equidistant lines on a piece of cartridge paper, bound by brushstrokes, sketch lines, constricted and held down by the artist. Subservient and stuck to a position in which she could not move.

Mr Yim deserved the brutal honesty of those words, no matter how harsh it was, and with a pounding headache, she ran out of his office ignoring her father’s calls for her to return to his side. This was it, there was nothing and no one by her side now and she was now the destitute figure that she had feared she would become.

“What’s wrong my dear? What’s hurt you so much?” Ina’s soft voice dilapidated at her mistress’ gloom, one she had seen prolong within her late madam too. Squeezing her eyes shut, she summoned the courage to spill her heart to her maid. She told her of how much she adored him, how deeply she wanted him and the ways in which he had made her fall in love with him. And how he had hurt her too.

“So call me heartless and apathetic all you want but I couldn’t take another woman’s man from her.”

“My love.” Ina’s weak fingers travelled through her hair. “You are far from heartless and apathetic. A man who you love is your whole life, you gave your life away to another woman.” She looked over to Ina, falling into her motherly embrace, breathing in her scent. There it was. The same scent that her mother had, the scent she was dreaming to come back to her in the midst of the night, and her a fool to dismiss that it was in front of her the whole time.

“What should I do now?” Her weak inquiry, breaking her heart, sinking deeper into the void than she already was.

“Go back to him and tell him you love him. He is a gentleman who accepts despondency like a soldier. So you, his general, must go back and tell him to return home to you.”

“Ina-,”

“Do not deny yourself of what you deserve. Your mother did, I won’t see you walk the same path.”

“I will let time run its cycle. Time will tell if he is meant to be mine.” She declared, to which the maid rested her palm on her cheek.

Mrs Kang’s baby boy, Kang Minho, was indeed a beauty. His bedazzling little eyes stared up at her in wonder, babbling as she lightly drew the tip of her finger over his chubby cheeks. It was astonishing for Mrs Kang to see that it was merely a little baby that would eruct a smile out of the secluded Miss Yim. It had been about four months since San had left the estate, and a while it took for her to leave the confines of her quarters. Once again, she took requests after requests painting and painting until her hands became stiff and sore. And so even more marriage prospects came, and her eyes lingered slightly over a potential husband. Both Ina and her father were pleased when she stayed a little longer at the doorway of their home talking to one of the young apprentice’s at the office. He was tall, handsome and kind; perhaps it was flickers of San she saw within him that had her thinking that spending the rest of her life with this man: wouldn’t be particularly gruesome. Regardless, she made no firm decision but still, for her father this was significant progress.

“He likes you.” Mrs Kang chimed, grinning down at her baby. She hummed carefully, softly tickling his smooth cheeks.

“Maybe I like him too.” Her gaze lightly flickered to the elated mother. “Where is Yeosang? I didn’t see him on my way in?”

“Oh he’s in his office with San.” Her head snapped up from the baby at the sound of his name. Goodness, how long had it been since she had heard that single syllable name, forever it seemed it would merely reverberate inside her head. “Did you not know he was in town? He came to see Minho.” Shaking her head, she got up from the bed consoling herself.

“I- I think I’ll leave now. I’ll come visit another time.” She announced, before awkwardly patting Mrs Kang’s head; a poor endeavour at affection but for Mrs Kang this affection was whole-heartedly appreciated. Her footsteps sped down the hallways, she came to an abrupt halt at the exist of the Kang estate.

There he was, stood there with Yeosang conversing if they were age-old best friends her heart palpitated with anxiety, knowing that she’d have to walk past him again. The sight of him almost triggered her, she gripped onto her deep purple skirts, his own yellow hanbok beaming like the sun.

“Miss Yim! I didn’t know you had arrived, leaving so soon?” Mr Kang chirped from the door. She shook at her head at him.

“I’ve been here for over an hour and a half. I’ll visit another time, especially since Minho is the only tolerable person in this household.”

“Just say you love him.” A grumble erupted from her lips, she rolled her eyes- with a delicate playfulness- before squeezing past the pair of men. A pounding of footsteps travelled after her as she trudged back through the fields in the direction of her home.

“Miss Yim, allow me to accompany you.” San professed, breathlessly. With a diligent nod, she transgressed forwards ignoring his burning gaze into her skin. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine. What about you?” He responded he was great all the same, reporting that the weather in Yangdong was a little warmer than in her hometown.

“When is your wedding date? I’m still awaiting on an invite.” It was a joke, nonetheless, but one that didn't hesitate to puncture holes in her heart.

“We broke off the engagement, it was mutual really. She was in love with someone else.” With a breath lodged in her throat, her stare tore away from the fields piercing straight into his eyes. It was then she had realised how burdened he truly was. Where was the San that always smiled and joked, and was so full of love it seemed inhumane to have so much of it? They didn't need to say anything to each other in that moment, they stopped walking subsided to a silent, paralysed position. "I think I'll just take your leave." His voice quivered, sending a jolt of agony through her.

Hadn't she made him suffer enough? After all he was the same man who loved her as if she was the vessel that kept the blood running through his veins, his heart beating and his feet walking.

Go back to him and tell him you love him.

Tell him to return back home to you.

His body almost disappeared behind the vast expanse of buildings, when she raced down the fields, as fast as her legs could carry her, ignoring the vicious ache gnawing at her muscles and the agitated pounding of her heart against her chest. Tearing down the path towards him, in the chance that if she didn't run any faster she was going to lose her lover to the wind.

"San!" Her shout echoed in the breeze, but reached to his ears anyway, a tug at the weak strings that had barely held down his soul. He turned, so desperate that she would come to him like she had done in the dead of the night. Feeling his lover crawl into his arms, pledging that she would never leave from his side.

"Miss Yim, what's wrong?"

“I lied to you, when I said I didn’t love you. I really, really do, I almost feel disgusted by it. I never thought, that someone as ruthless and as cold as me would be privileged enough to fall in love but when you entered my life I felt like my mother.” She sucked in a deep breath, her lover making gentle steps toward her as the wind whipped their hair. “I felt like her when she said: ‘If he was the muse in a painting, to be an object, a fleck of paint, or even dust on it would be my greatest honour.’” Warm tears forged in his eyes, biting down his bottom lip to prevent them from escaping. She wanted to outstretch her arms towards him but it was too soon.

“So, Choi San, it’s an honour to be loved by you. I came back, because I had to tell you that. I hurt you so much. I was scared that being vulnerable to love would only hurt me but the only person who gave me such torment was myself.” Her confession disturbed her, yet it was the unspoken truth that only he was entitled to. A tense silence suffused the air as she pended his response, but all he could do was try to convince himself that it was not a dream and she really had said all of the words he had spent countless nights praying that she would declare.

“I love you, Miss Yim. I loved you yesterday, I love you today and I will love you for eternity. There is simply nothing that one can do to tear my heart away from yours, not even you.”

"Do you mean that?" It was a stupid question, but she could not help the words be spilled from her mouth. He nodded violently.

"I do. With my whole entity." Choking back on her sobs, her arms reached out for him throwing them around his neck. Nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck, her grip tightened as he ensnared his hands around her waist; breathing in her scent as if it was oxygen. "Come home with me my dear, come home and be mine."

•••

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DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

'Yim' meaning light

A/N: the long awaited painter!san fic (with a twist 😏) that i've been waiting too long to put out. I hope you liked this one. :))

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tags: @n0v4t33z @potatos-on-clouds @jjongwho

[gauntlyt]

ok this isn't directly knight related but it's certainly on target in vibes if you ask me. you've heard of knight/squire, but what about master/apprentice in a 17th century artist workshop? learning not only the way of a craft and a whole social class from you, but also effectively a part of you, a limb that answers to your name? or court painter/noble patron, the knight/lord dynamic of the art world? what if instead of defending you in battle or game, I carefully sculpted your image, your dreams, your legacy, your very essence? what if I was on retainer to create the impossible for you, learning your face better than you know it to honour you with acts of creation, sworn to uphold your name and bend to your whim? hello? is this thing on?

[frenchtantan]

(Maybe) unpopular opinion: I am not a fan of the ending of Clair Obscur: Expédition 33

BIG SPOILERS DOWN BELOW, OBVIOUSLY!

Okay, so before anything, I must warn you that any variation of the "it was not real" trope is something I deeply dislike. It always makes me cringe, because it usually means nothing mattered from the get go. In my opinion, the only ways to make it work is either to leave it ambiguous (Inception did this, and the Lego Movie to an extend) or to make it clear from the get go so you understand the stakes.

As I arrived at the end of act 2 of Clair Obscur, I thought they were about to show me a third option.

I was wrong.

67 years. 67 FUCKING years of expedition after expedition trying to stop their own from getting erased every years. 67 years of their motto being "Tomorrow comes". 67 years of strong, albeit wavering hope that somehow, someone will make it so that they survive. Then, during the entire game, interesting characters, whose stories, personnalities, motivations and trauma you learn from talking to them. You see traces of former expeditions, laying the trail for those to come, making your progression easier, understanding their other motto "when one falls, we continue". Hell, "We continue" is even what's written at the end of a fight instead of just "Continue".

The first act and a half has this atmosphere of desperate but hopeful "last ditch effort" to save humanity, to give it a future. Lune, Sciel, Gustave, Maelle (before she remembers) and even Monoco play a huge part in setting this ambiance. You want Lune to find answers, Gustave to make sure his apprentices grow old, Sciel to find hope, and Maelle to find out somewhere she belongs. You want Monoco to get the chance to reconnect with Noco once he is reincarnated. And even though you get the feeling that there is more to this, you want Verso to finally get to see an expedition through, after all these years of seeing every single one die. You will save these people, you will give them back the time they were robbed of. You fight the Nevrons, those monsters who are trying to kill humans and absorb their chroma, and every fight makes you stronger, more hopeful.

But then you reach the Paintress. Hints have been spread from the very beginning that this might not be her fault, that she is trapped also, but you defeat her nonetheless. And you can feel something is wrong. Celebrations follow, but there is this... hint of eerieness. This is confirmed as literally everyone is Gommaged on the spot and then... Alicia.

You learn who she is, you learn about her dead brother Verso, wait what do you mean "dead"? And her father is Renoir, but not the one you just fought, and he is fighting her mother Aline, to get her out of a... Canvas? Apparently it's Verso's Canvas, and she's been in there way too long. Clea, Alicia's sister, has been tipping the balance in Renoir's favor, which allowed him to slowly erase Aline's... oldest creations? Wait, the monolith, the number!

Everything makes sense now, this was a World-Canvas created by a family of Painters, humans with the power to create realities in their paintings, and then that world was shattered by their grief.

This is where my instinct went off a bit. It very much looked like the trope I dislike. But then I though, no, the people in this Canvas are still real, their lives matter. This is not just a painting. Maelle, who now fully remembers both her lives but embraces her new name, aims to stop the Canvas from being destroyed. The third act starts and the objective is clear: Defeat Renoir, bring everyone back. Great! It might be a pocket universe of sorts, but their lives matter, you should still save them!

And then the endings. Either you do save them by siding with Maelle, but she becomes corrupted, puppeteering an unwilling version of Verso so that she can live in her perfect world, or you side with Canvas-Verso and the canvas gets erased, along with everyone in it. Turns out the only thing holding it together was the last bit of the real Verso's soul, painting forever. The "good" ending is to set him free and let the world you spend nearly an entire game in just... fade away.

So yeah. An entire world you cared about destroyed because a family can't go to therapy to get over their grief, and the game saying at the last minute that it's the right decision because it's held together by a tired soul. And I just think it sucks. No word about how the will to survive of the people of Lumière is literally what allowed Renoir to prevail. Their lives either become Maelle's fantasy world, or they are sacrificed, and I think it just... sucks. In the end, the lives of those people you grew to love is nothing more than a plot device. They matter little in the grand scheme of things, which as it turns out is ONE family of French metahumans.

I can't help but feel like there was something else that could be done. I mean, EVERYONE in Lumière is used to grief. Literally Lucien at the beginning is cheerful despite the loss of what must be hundreds of people hours prior, because it happens every year anyway. Nearly everyone in that city could help the Dessendre overcome their grief, as thei had to themselves... And you're telling me the only way to get this family of essentially gods to move on is to destroy a world the one they grieve created so that they aren't tempted to get in it? C'mon... It just sucks that the same gief that shaped the lives of the people in the Canvas for so long needs them to be erased to be overcome.