#Historic Yellow Springs

[the-midnight-blooms]

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴛᴜᴅɪᴏ

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 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."

•••

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

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. :))

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

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

[hearthandheathenry]

All About Imbolc

Imbolc, also known as Imbolg, celebrated on February 1st, marks the halfway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox in early Ireland and Scotland, and also signified the beginning of the first signs of spring after all the harsh winter days. Originally a pagan holdiay in pre-Christian times, there is little in writing about the historic traditions and customs, although many historians believe it revolved around the Celtic Goddess Brigid, lambing season, and cleansing due to observed ancient poetry.

Brigid is a Goddess and daughter of the father-God of Ireland, Dagda. She is associated with quite a few things depending on the sources, but universally associated with wisdom and poetry. Other associations of hers are blacksmithing, protection, domesticated animals, childbirth, fire, and healing. She was also known as a protector of the home and the family.

Once Christianity arose, it is believed that the Goddess was syncretized with the Irish Saint Brigid by Christian monks due to the many overlapping associations. This caused Imbolc to quickly turn into St. Brigids Day and the next day into Candlemas with the rising Christian popularity, enmeshing the holiday associations together.

Today, many people have mixed the traditions and melded many associations from both religious and cultural history to celebrate their own unique way. Common ways to celebrate are making a Brigid's Cross, welcoming Brigid into the home, having a feast in her honor, cleaning the home and oneself, visiting a holy well, and in some parts of the world they still hold festivals and processions carrying a representation of Brigid. Many pagans nowadays are using associations of hers and their connection with nature to create their own ways to celebrate, however, and you can absolutely celebrate however you feel called to do so.

Imbolc Associations:

Colors - white, gold or yellow, green, and blue

Food - milk, butter, cheese, seeds and grains, breads, herbs, blackberries, oat porridge, wild onion and garlic, honey

Animals - sheep and lambs, swans, cows, burrowing and hibernating animals

Items - candles, corn dolls, Brigid's cross, fires, snowdrops and white flowers, crocuses and daffodils, flower crowns

Crystals - amethyst, garnet, ruby, quartz, bloodstone

Other - lactation, birth, feasting, farm preparation, cleansing and cleaning, the sun, poetry and creative endevours, smithing, water

Ways To Celebrate Imbolc:

make a Brigid's cross

light candles

have a feast

bake bread

plan your spring garden

leave an offering for Brigid

make a corn doll

craft a flower crown

clean your home

take a cleansing bath

make something out of metal

have a bonfire

look for the first signs of spring

make your own butter or cheese

do divination work and seek wisdom

write a poem

[ww2yaoi]

[here's a little taste of a multi-chapter clegan post-war fic I've been working on. note: I've taken creative liberties with the timeline and John and Gale's post-war lives. it's very much intentional]

Winter 1948

Marjorie Cleven dies on a Tuesday in December, two weeks before Christmas Eve.

John gets the call a few days later. Gale’s voice is steady on the other end of the line, but John knows his heart is broken. It’s the first time they’ve spoken since Marge got sick. After the wedding, there had been some letters exchanged, few and far between, but John has always been a crummy pen pal. There were reunions, but those were annual at most, and John rarely stuck around past a couple of drinks and a war story or two. When they got back stateside in ‘45, he thought the distance would be good for Gale, thought it would help put their past far behind them.

Now, in hindsight, it seems futile. John feels it all rushing back, like VE Day was just yesterday and Gale’s boots are still underneath his bed.

It’s warm in southern Florida. The sun beams down on the tarmac, hot enough to fry an egg on the airfield, sunny-side-up. John watches from the control tower as planes taxi below him. His trainees will be on furlough soon, but he won’t be going home for Christmas this year. Any excuse to maintain the two thousand miles between him and Gale.

It doesn’t last. John should’ve known he could never keep away for long.

Spring 1949

The back of the cab smells like menthol cigarettes and cheap cologne. John drums his fingers against his thigh, feeling suddenly restricted by his uniform now that he’s been let loose in the civilian world. Laramie, Wyoming passes by his window, a cluster of shops and banks and schools on a stretch of agricultural land bisected by historical railways and boxed in by mountains on all sides. The air is thinner here than in Manitowoc, and there are no waterfronts to be found. The terra firma is dusty and brown, the sun a sepia pinprick hanging low in the sky.

The cab weaves through neighbourhoods of modest-looking houses. John had handed the driver the address on a slip of yellowy paper, which Gale had relayed over the phone. John doesn’t know how close they are to his destination, but he can feel his anxiety rising like bile in his throat. He makes nervous conversation, the driver mentioning the geology museum, the fact that the town was named after a French fur trapper who disappeared somewhere in the mountains. It doesn’t do much to calm John’s nerves.

“What brings you to Laramie?” the driver asks, glancing up at the rear-view mirror to get a glimpse of John.

He’s young, probably around Gale’s age. Young enough to have served at least, but he doesn’t comment on John’s uniform. He just peers at him curiously, eyes darting back and forth from the road.

“Visiting an old friend,” John says and tries not to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze. “He goes to school here.”

A moment later, the cab slows to a halt outside of a quaint-looking bungalow. John regards it from his window: white siding, yellow door, slate roof. Rose bushes line the walk-up, not yet blooming, and the grass has recently been mowed.

“Thanks,” John says, fishing a few bills from his pocket and handing them to the driver. “Keep the change.”

The driver smiles at him, close-mouthed, and pops the trunk. John slowly gets out of the car, like he’s trying to delay the inevitable, then fetches his suitcase from the back. He rests it on the sidewalk for a moment while the cab speeds away, looking at the house once more. A gaggle of kids darts down the street on bicycles. A few doors down, a lawnmower springs to life. It’s picturesque, like a postcard Gale might’ve sent him a few years back. John immediately feels out of place, still used to Nissen huts and crowded mess halls and military time. If he wants to turn back, now’s his chance, but he picks up his suitcase from the ground and forces his feet forward, climbing up the porch steps.

He thumbs the doorbell and it chimes. A dog barks gruffly inside the house. John removes his cap from his head and smoothes out his hair. He feels ridiculous, like a socially awkward teenager picking up his sweetheart for prom. His heart is in his throat as the door opens gradually, almost startling as a golden retriever pokes its head through the opening. It squeezes outside and dashes into the yard, yelping happily.

“Archie, get back here!”

John recognizes that voice. The door opens all the way, and suddenly, Gale is standing in front of him. Everything John had thought to say on his way over dies on his tongue. Gale looks practically the same, if not a bit filled out in his middle than he was during the war. His cheeks are smooth and shaven, flaxen hair styled off his forehead in a coif. John could never get used to seeing Gale in civilian clothes, but that’s how he appears in front of him now, crisp, white button-down hanging off his shoulders, navy slacks belted around his waist and brown cap-toe shoes on his feet.

They look at each other for a moment, unspeaking, then a smile splits Gale’s face in two. “Hello stranger,” he says.

“Gale.” John can’t help but return his grin. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

He holds out his hand for Gale to shake it, but Gale takes one look at his outstretched palm and instead, pulls John into a hug. It surprises John, so much so that almost all the air shoots out of his lungs at the contact. Gale’s fingers meld into the muscle of John’s back. It takes John a moment, but he eventually returns the gesture, squeezing Gale gently. They part and Gale turns his attention towards the dog, Archie, who’s taken it upon himself to start digging around in the garden.

Gale whistles. “Come here, boy,” he shouts, clapping his hands, and Archie bounds over.

He pauses to sniff John’s shoes. John crouches down and pats the dog, rubbing his ears, and is instantly reminded of Meatball.

“He’s usually not so ill-behaved,” Gale says. “He gets excited around visitors.”

“I don’t mind,” John replies, smiling down at the dog.

Archie pants, long, pink tongue hanging from his mouth, then he retreats back inside the house. Gale reaches down and picks up John’s suitcase from the porch. John straightens. They look at each other again, a bit too long without words to be comfortable, but John knows they’re both adjusting to being in close proximity again after so long.

“Lead the way,” he says, motioning towards the open front door.

Gale seems to snap out of it. “Of course, come on in.”

John steps inside the foyer and closes the door behind him. The interior is small, but well-decorated and tidy. The ocean blue walls are hung with artwork, the hardwood floors carpeted with rugs. John sets his cap down on a table peppered with framed photographs but doesn’t stop to look at any of them. He follows Gale past the dining room, down a hallway, and through the kitchen to another hallway at the back of the house. Gale opens one of the four doors that line the hall and carries the suitcase inside. John peeks his head into the guest bedroom. A double bed sits against the far wall, night tables on either side of it that host brass lamps with cream shades. On the other end of the room is a cherry wood wardrobe and an armchair to its left, upholstered in a muted green. Above it lies a square window, lace curtains pulled together to drown out the harsh afternoon light. The bedroom is sparse and unlived in, like most guest bedrooms are, but John appreciates it just the same.

“Hopefully this suits you alright,” Gale says, setting the suitcase down beside the bed.

John nods. “Suits me just fine,” he says. “Better than what I have back at base. That’s for sure.”

Gale looks at him. An emotion John can’t exactly pinpoint passes over Gale’s face, something like recognition, bordering on wistfulness.

They return to the kitchen, and Gale beckons John to sit down at a round table in the corner. Archie laps water from a bowl as Gale putters around the kitchen, opening cabinets. He appears tense, but not in his usual stiff, reserved way. His energy is almost jittery, nervous, and he taps a rhythm on the countertop. It’s not like him, at least not like the Gale John knew during the war. He pretends not to notice.

“So, how was your flight?” Gale asks eventually.

“Good,” John says and adjusts his uniform, crossing his legs. “Felt strange not being the one flying the plane.”

“I’ll bet,” Gale replies with a suggestion of a smile. “Do you want something to eat? Some coffee?” He reaches into the cabinet and produces a tin of Foldgers.

“Just coffee, thanks,” John says.

He looks around the kitchen as Gale spoons coffee grounds into the machine. His eyes trace the checkered red wallpaper, the white-tiled backsplash, the laminate countertops, the icebox in the corner. He’s never seen Gale in such a domestic setting, not even during the wedding. Maybe that’s why he stayed away for so long, even when he was invited time and time again. Perhaps he didn’t want to experience Gale so far removed from the world they both inhabited for so many years, a world where the only people they could rely on were their men and each other. Now, there’s no avoiding it. It’s all laid out for John to see.

The coffee maker beeps and steams. Gale rests his elbows against the kitchen counter and looks over in John’s general direction, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. John doesn’t know what to say to him. He doesn’t know how to fall back into the easy camaraderie they had at the beginning, before the stalag, before the march, before the end of the war. Seeing Gale has ushered back a slew of emotions John has been distancing himself from since they parted ways four years ago. He feels like an intruder in Gale’s home, looking for Marge in the corners of the room but not finding her. Guilt stirs in his stomach, and he asks himself again what the hell he’s doing here. This isn’t his place. This isn’t his life.

“How’s training?” Gale asks. “Are the boys following their orders, Lieutenant Colonel?”

John smirks at that, partly to hide his discomfort. It feels wrong that he should outrank Gale after everything they’ve been through, flight school, then serving together, then imprisonment.

“It’s busy,” John replies and drums his fingers against the table. “They’re good kids. Fucking caterpillars though. So damn young.”

Gale smiles softly. “Were we ever that young?”

“Maybe you were,” John quips. “I feel like my bones have been creaking since before our war even started.”

Gale laughs, and the sound hits John like a fist to his sternum. He realizes suddenly that he’s missed Gale’s laugh so goddamn much. It rings in his ears, out-of-reach and yet familiar, like a favourite song of his he hasn’t heard in years has come on the radio out of the blue. For a brief moment, John regrets denying himself this for so long, even if it was the only way he could get on with his life.

“How’s school?” John asks in turn. “Master’s coming along?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Gale says, nodding. “I like my classes. Lots of grading, lots of writing, some teaching. I’ve got a meeting on Tuesday with my advisor about my thesis.”

“Well, well, look at that,” John says, the corner of his lips twisting into a grin. “Professor Cleven.”

Gale dips his chin towards his chest, almost shy. “Not just yet, John.”

“You’re getting there,” John says. “Y’know Marge wrote to me about your thesis a year or so back, not that I understood a word. Astrophysics, not exactly my wheelhouse.”

Gale’s face falters imperceptibly at the mention of his late wife’s name, and John immediately feels apologetic for bringing her up without much warning.

“It’s not done yet,” Gale says flatly, his gaze falling from John’s face to look at his interlocked fingers resting on top of the counter. “You can read what I have though if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I might,” John says and grimaces at his own inadeptness while Gale’s eyes are elsewhere.

The coffee maker beeps and Gale goes to it, removing two mugs from the cabinet and setting them down beside it. He takes the sugar out of the cupboard and the cream from the icebox.

John bites the inside of his cheek, knowing what he needs to say but unsure if he has it in him to say it. “Buck?”

Gale’s head snaps up at the sound of the nickname. He regards John with a puzzled look, like he’s no longer used to being called anything other than Gale to his face. The name is a relic from a different time, John supposes, something that belonged to them only, and when John was no longer around to use it, there was no one else around to take up the task.

After a moment, the expression on Gale’s face smoothes out. “What is it, Bucky?”

John swallows, then pushes the words out. “I’m sorry, y’know, that I, uh, I couldn’t make it. To the funeral.”

Gale looks at him for a moment, then his face softens. “It’s alright,” he says. “Marge didn’t much like being the centre of attention anyway.” He pours coffee into the two mugs, then adds sugar to one and cream to the other. “My mother-in-law appreciated the flowers you sent.”

“Oh, good,” John says. “Azaleas were Marge’s favourite, right? I remember them from her wedding bouquet.”

Gale’s eyes grow heavy with sadness. He nods. “Yeah, they were.”

As if on cue, John hears a grumbly cry coming from one of the bedrooms down the hall. It starts off quiet, like a baby stirring from sleep, then gradually gets louder until it becomes a full-blown wail. Archie’s ears perk up before he quickly sulks away.

“Sorry,” Gale says as he grips the coffee with sugar and hands it to John. “I just put her down for her afternoon nap, but she’s in that phase where she’s rebelling against sleep.”

John says nothing, frozen in his seat as Gale crosses the kitchen into the hallway and slips inside the bedroom. John had been so caught up in seeing Gale again that he’d almost forgotten. He stares into the inky well of his coffee, too stunned to drink from it.

Gale emerges a moment later with a bundle in his arms. Now calm, the little girl clings to him, her head tucked into the crook of Gale’s neck as she sucks her thumb into her mouth. She’s wearing cream-coloured footie pyjamas with pink roses on them, her curly blonde hair tangled from sleep. Gale draws circles against her back, rocking her slightly from side-to-side. John regards her carefully. She must be at least a year and a half now, much bigger than she was in the pictures Gale had sent him however long ago.

Gale approaches the table where John is sitting. “Lucy, this is your Uncle Bucky,” he says, pointing over at John. “Can you say hello?”

Lucy turns her head and looks straight at John, and John sees the Marge in her face right away, the slight upturn of her nose, the fullness of her cheeks, the pink purse of her lips, but her eyes are all Gale, blue and round and yawning. She quickly looks away, hiding her face back in her father’s neck.

“Sorry,” Gale says again and rubs her back. “She gets shy around strangers.”

John doesn’t expect it to, but the comment stings. The fact that any child of Gale’s could be a stranger to him is borderline unforgivable.

[To be continued...]

[thelandboundseawitch]

🐏Imbolc🐏

Imbolc, also known as Candlemas, or Brigid's Day, is a sabbat which celebrates the end of winter and the coming of spring. Groundhog's Day, a holiday celebrated in North America at this time, is very also celebrates the end of winter. The waking trees, softening and reviving Earth, and the return of the goddess. Imbolc starts on February 1st and lasts until sunset the next day.

Activities

Candle-making

Spring Cleaning

Create a Brigid Cross with straw

Plan your spring garden

Bake bread

Make potpourri

Make corn dollies

Make herbal tea

Take a hot bath

Making flower crowns or floral wreaths

Altar Decorations

White Candles

Brigid Cross

Corn Dollies

Flowers

Seeds and bulbs

Bread

Sheep and Lambs

Goddess Statues

Animals

Deer

Groundhog

Bear

Lamb

Ewe

Swan

Colors

White

Pale Green

Pale Pink

Pale Yellow

Lavender

Pale Brown

Crystals

Amethyst

Garnet

Onyx

Ruby

Turquoise

Bloodstone

Calcite

Moonstone

Deities

Bridgid

Gaia

Aphrodite

Venus

Hestia

Cupid

Eros

Flowers

Lavender

Chamomile

Daffodil

Crocus

Iris

Snowdrop

Food

Grains

Oats

Herbal Teas

Nuts

Bread

Potatoes

Seed

Honey

Milk

Cheese

White Meat

Raisins

Spice Cake

Incense and Oils

Frankincense

Jasmine

Myrrh

Rosemary

Basil

Wisteria

Vanilla

Lotus

Plants & Herbs

Angelica (Wild Celery)

Basil

Bay Laurel(Bay Leaf)

Rosemary

Cinnamon

Hay / Straw

Willow

Birch

Juniper

Spells and Rituals

Imbolc is the perfect time to cast spells, especially ones related to new beginnings, fertility, and the hearth. Spells regarding birth and rebirth are also seasonally appropriate due to many animals giving birth at this time of the year.

Final Notes

According to an old english folk tradition, if the weather is fine and clear on Candlemas, then cold and stormy weather will reign for the remaining weeks of winter. And bad weather at the beginning of February is a harbinger of a milder winter, and an early thaw.

There are different meanings for what Imbolc means, some say it means “In the belly” because of herding animals being pregnant. But historically Imbolc comes from the Gaelic word “Oimelc” which means “ewes milk”, because some animals have just given birth.

[aemondsbabe]

A Promise is a Promise

summary: promises & phone sex || tom's trying his best to make it home to you by christmas, but a snowstorm derails his plans

pairing: tom bennett x f!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, phone sex, dirty talk, fingering, masturbation, breast/nipple play, very slight angst but happy ending, probably not historically accurate bite me, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 2.3k

a/n: happy day eleven of 12 days of smuff and happy christmas eve to everyone who celebrates!! hope y'all enjoy this one! Can be read as a part 2 to Homecoming or as a stand alone!

12 days of smuff masterlist!

gif creds to @rxyl

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!

Your breath fogs up the window as you look outside one last time, sighing heavily as you watch puffy snowflakes rain down from the sky, scattering through the pale yellow shafts of light from the street lamps. You peer up and down the quiet street, frowning at the sight of all the twinkling lights and festive candles that decorated so many of the townhouses, feeling decidedly un-cheery this year. 

Deciding that it wasn’t worth it to torture yourself further, you pad up the stairs to your bedroom, trying to ignore the soft glow from the Christmas tree in the front room. Your footsteps sound much louder than normal in the quiet house since your parents were out for the evening, attending some holiday party at a friend's house, one that you were in much too foul of a mood to even consider attending. 

You’ve hardly had the chance to change your clothes before the phone in your room starts ringing loudly, making you jump. Sitting on your bed, you roll your eyes as you reach for it, expecting it to be your parents or some friend, calling half drunk from a party no doubt. 

“Hello?” You sigh, pressing the phone to your ear as you stare disdainfully out the window, watching more and more of the traitorous snow fall from the dark sky. 

“Well, try not to sound too excited.” A familiar voice chuckles, instantly making you perk up.

“Tom?!” Your eyes widen as you press the phone harder against your ear, “Where are you? Are you okay? I thought you said you’d be home this afternoon!”

You can hear him laugh on the other end of the line at your rushed questions. “Relax, love, I’m fine,” he sighs, you can hear springs squeak softly in the background, like he’d sat down on a bed, “The train’s just got delayed, ice on the rails or some fucking nonsense, and with the damn snowstorm, well…” He sighs heavily.

“Delayed for how long?” You ask, crestfallen. 

“Dunno, the man at the station said maybe a day, maybe two,” you can practically hear his frustrated sneer, “What with it being Christmas eve, everything’s just a damn wreck, apparently.”

“Oh…” You try not to sound too heartbroken, not wanting him to feel worse, “Well, did you find somewhere to stay in the meantime? I hate the idea of you sitting at the station.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “Some shoddy little inn. The train had to stop at some farming town in the middle of God knows where, but a bed’s a bed, I suppose.” You can hear two thuds in the background, no doubt him tossing his boots off somewhere carelessly. 

“I’m glad you’re somewhere safe, Tommy,” you smile sadly, idly fidgeting with the bottom of your night shirt, well, really his nightshirt, “I wish you were with me, though.” You whisper, trying to ignore the sad little squeeze your heart gave. 

“Wish I was too, love.”

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, happy to simply listen to each other breathe after so many months apart. You really are trying not to let it get to you too much, but he only got so many days of leave from the RN and once he got shipped back out… you dare not think about it too deeply. 

There’s some rustling on the other end of the line and you furrow your brows as you listen, hoping the storm isn’t interfering with the phone lines too. 

“Tom?”

“‘M here,” he reassures you, springs creaking again as he settles back on the hotel bed, “Was just taking off my shirt.” He cooed, making you roll your eyes as you picture his playful smirk, your cheeks flushing as you imagined that cheeky little head bop that followed most of his lewd comments. 

“Now there’s a sight I’d like to see.” You hum, reclining back against the many pillows on your bed with a small smirk.

“Bet you’d be falling all over yourself for it,” he laughs, propping up a knee, “It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long without it.”

“Without what?”

“My cock.” He answers, voice confident and cocky. 

“Tommy!” You squeak, giggling despite yourself, which makes him chuckle on the other end, “And here I was hoping months away would turn you into a romantic!”

“Fat chance, love.” He laughs heartily, smiling genuinely for the first time in months. 

Again, a comfortable silence washes over the two of you, each of you clinging to the phone like it was truly a lifeline, feeling closer than you have in months although you’re God knows how many kilometers apart. 

He sighs again, though this one makes you smile. It’s a familiar sigh, one he only does before he says something he knows will get a rise out of you.

“What’re you wearing?” You can hear his smirk, you can practically feel it on you as he speaks, his voice already low and raspy. 

You can’t help the tittering little giggle you let out, biting your lip as your cheeks flush further. “Erm, just your button down, actually,” you say, shy all of a sudden as you squirm atop your covers, “The one you wore in secondary some days… oh, and knickers.”

“And knickers,” he murmurs, quiet for a moment before continuing, “My girl in my shirt n’ I’m not there to see it. A real shame.”

“Yeah…” you whisper, fidgeting with the small buttons lining the front. 

“D’you have my shirt buttoned, love?”

“Yes?”

“You think you could unbutton it for me?”

The way he asks for it has your heart racing, excitement building steadily within you as you rub your thighs together, already seeking something to lessen the tension within you. Almost automatically, your hands reach for the buttons as you cradle the phone on your shoulder, holding it in place with your cheek. 

“Yes, Tommy.”

“That’s a good girl, love.” He praises, chuckling lowly as a small, delicate whimper just barely makes it through the phone lines. 

You scramble, all but ripping the shirt in two until finally the fabric falls away. You’re already breathing heavier, chest heaving enough to have the shirt slip off your chest instantly; your nipples harden quickly in the cool air of your bedroom, the small radiator only doing so much to heat the space. 

“It’s unbuttoned.” You breathe, squeezing your eyes shut as you desperately try to envision him doing the same. 

“God, I wish I was there,” he sighs and your ears perk up when you hear a soft tinkling in the background, cheeks heating up at the thought of him slowly taking off his belt, “I miss those perfect fucking tits, lovely girl. Got off thinking about them every night.”

“Yeah?” You ask breathily, your fingers skimming softly over your stomach, coming to rest in the valley between your breasts. 

“Mhm,” he murmurs, already breathing hotly into the phone, “Pinch them for me, pretty girl, yeah? Like I would.”

You gasp and quickly do as he requests, not being able to hold off any longer yourself. You whimper into the receiver as you tweak your nipples, your eyes roll back in your head at the thrill that shoots down your spine and settles right between your legs. 

“Fuck, good girl.” He praises again, sounding like he’s speaking through clenched teeth.

“What’re you wearing?” You ask breathily, lightly tugging at your stiff nipples still as you rub your thighs together, your center already aching, “What’re you doing?” 

“‘M rubbing my cock through my boxers,” he sighs heavily, “S’all I’ve got on.”

The thought makes you whimper again, imagining him cupping his already twitching length through the thin fabric of his underwear. Your mouth waters as you picture a wet patch near the tip, his cock leaking at the thought of you. 

“Tommy,” you sigh as your back arches into your own touch, “Can I?” 

Your meek question makes him chuckle. “Can you do what, love? You’ll need to be specific.”

You whine this time, biting your lip as your cheeks flush. “C-Can I…” you start, still feeling so impossibly shy around him sometimes, “Can I touch myself?”

“Thought you were already touching your tits?”

“Tommy!”

“C’mon, pretty,” he laughs, licking his lips as he imagines how cute you must look, cheeks all blushed with embarrassment, “Y’know what I wanna hear.”

“Can I touch my cunt?” You murmur, voice high-pitched and breathy.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head lolling back against his pillow, “Yeah, y’can, love, lemme hear you.”

Mindlessly, your hand drifts down. You don’t even bother to take off your panties, too impatient to go to the trouble as you shove your hand inside. A moan is punched out of you at the first touch, your core already throbbing as you glide your fingers through your slick folds. Tom groans along with you as your fingers finally begin swirling around your clit, your thighs spreading further. 

“What, shit,” you sigh, a shudder rippling up your spine, “What’re you doing now?”

“Got my cock out,” he rasps, his voice catching, “Thinking about you while I fuck my hand, God, I wish it was your tight cunt, pretty girl.”

You whine again, back arching once more as your fingers skim over your clit before dipping down to gather more slick from your dripping entrance. You all but see stars when you rub yourself again, core clenching around nothing. 

“Wish you were here…” You murmur, breath catching as you move your hand a little quicker. 

“Yeah?” He asks in a low voice, “What would you want me to do?”

“Fuck me,” you whine, wiggling your hips impatiently, like he was just at the end of the bed teasing you instead of lost somewhere in the countryside, “Want you to fuck me, Tommy.”

He groans, louder than he probably should in a small inn. Your face flushes when you hear him spit, imaging his cock glistening as he uses it to stroke himself. 

“Christ, I miss that pretty cunt,” he mutters, breath catching, probably speeding up in time with you, “Get a finger in there, love, fuck yourself like I would.”

Obediently, you do as he says, rutting against your own hand as you unceremoniously push two fingers into yourself, marveling at how tightly your walls already clench around them. 

“Fuck, Tommy!” You squeak, clit tingling every time your palm smacks against it as you fuck youself. 

“God, that’s it,” he groans, “Keep going, fuck, ‘m not gonna last.” He warns, knowing it’s been too long since he’d last had any privacy. 

“‘M not going to either,” you assure him, shaking your head to your empty room as if he could see you, “Feels too good, oh!” You gasp, your whole body tensing up as you crook your fingers up, expertly locating that sensitive spot within you. 

The two of you pleasure yourselves together for another few moments, heavy breaths and moans passing between the phones. Finally, Tom groans lowly again and swears through gritted teeth. 

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum,” he pants, the slick sound of his hand streaking over his cock in the background nearly makes you unravel, “Cum with me, pretty girl, please.”

The whiny way he says please is your undoing and you finally break, calling out his name breathily as you arch against your sheets. Slick sounds fill your bedroom as you peak, breathless at the way your core clenches rhythmically over your fingers. 

Tom isn’t far behind you, his rough groans only adding to your pleasure. You whimper when he hisses out your name as he finishes, envisioning the way he paints his lower stomach with spend, cock twitching against his palm. 

You breathe heavily for a moment as you both come down before you dissolve into giggles, your sour mood from earlier almost completely gone. 

“Fucked you dumb n’ I’m not even there,” Tom gloats, sighing as he wipes away his cum with his boxers, too tired to get up and clean himself off properly, “You’re gonna make me blush, love.” 

“Tommy!” You groan playfully, admonishing him through a giggle, “You’re horrible.”

“You love it.” He laughs tiredly, yawning quietly. 

“Tired?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, the bed squeaking again as he makes himself comfortable, “Sorry love, s’been a long day.”

“I would imagine so,” you smile sadly still, twirling the phone cord around a finger, “I’ll let you sleep.”

“I’ll get to you tomorrow,” he promises, his voice heavy with sleep, “I swear, told you I’d be back for Christmas.”

“Tommy…” You sigh, glancing out the window to see snow still pouring from the sky.

“I mean it,” he murmurs tiredly, “A promise is a promise.”

You wake with a start, jerking up in bed as you look around blearily, unsure of what woke you. Your eyes narrow as you glance at the clock on your bedside table, too early still for even your alarm to be going off. 

You jump as you hear a knock from downstairs, someone pounding at the door. Rolling your eyes, you slip on a robe before making your way downstairs. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” You sigh, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you reach for the doorknob, tugging it open with a frown. 

“Wha–” You stop in your tracks, gasping loudly.

“Y’gonna let me in or are you gonna leave me out here to freeze my bollocks off?” Tom asks with a grin, laughing when you practically leap into his arms and pull him into a suffocating hug. 

“Tommy!” You gasp, clinging to him, “How did you, when did you?” You stutter, a million questions running through your mind. Finally, you pull back just enough to look at him, nearly crying as you at last look into his familiar blue eyes, “How?” You breathe.

“A very nice famer with a truck,” he laughs, holding you tightly to him, “Told ya I’d get home to you by Christmas.” 

Not being able to hold off anymore, you press your lips against his, feeling warm despite the cold.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @alerisc @fan-goddess @wickedfrsgrl @moonriseoverkyoto @echos-muses @schniiipsel @avidreader73 @marvelescvpe @imawhorecrux @grsveeth0m

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[themidnightcrimson]

tinseltown ࿏ wm

summary: in which you are drawn to an old movie theater playing an 80s sitcom called wandavision.

words: 4.8K

warnings: fear, horror, manipulation, mind control, oh how i wish this happened to me, no smut surprisingly, straight outta goosebumps episode

this post should be read with discretion.

masterlist.

It was almost summer.

The last cool breezes of spring strung their chilly tendrils throughout the air, desperate to hold on, desperate to provide relief before the blazing sun and suffocating humidity took its hold over the town. When the sun went down, spring was back in full swing again, offering its comfortable air and soft winds that refreshed your lungs as you walked downtown.

The night was quiet and desolate. There weren’t many people on the streets, though usually the streets are still crowded even in that late hour of the night. You passed by shops and markets who kept their lights on though they were closed. You peered into the window of a drugstore as you passed, seeing the eerie stillness of the empty store as its lights flickered over the rows of products, no clerks standing at the counters.

Even the roads were relatively empty save for the occasional passing car that drove smoothly down the road, as if relaxed to be free from the usual traffic that prevented the driver from soaking in the beauty of the historic downtown of your city. When a car was not passing, the only evidence of the town being alive was the interval change of the redlights going from red to green, to yellow, then back to red again as its adjacent constituent followed the same pattern.

You stuffed your hands into your pockets as you walked. Recently, you have been suffering bouts of insomnia. You wake in your bed in the middle of the night, sweating, restless, panting, desperate to break out of your apartment and get out into the fresh air. It had become a routine. You try to go to sleep early, wake up in the middle of the night, and find your apartment lacking oxygen, throwing on the nearest pair of shoes and proper clothes you can find before heading out to walk the streets.

Tonight, you were extra antsy and reluctant to go back home. Usually, you walked around the corner of your apartment building and up six blocks until you passed the drugstore. You would cross the street, an easy feat due to the empty roads, and walk back down the six blocks, cross the street again, and turn the corner to your apartment to head back inside. Usually, you feel relaxed enough after that to go to sleep for the remainder of the night. Tonight, you didn’t cross the street. You kept going after the sixth block, after you passed the drugstore.

Hearing no car around, you didn’t bother waiting for the crosswalk to signal for you to walk. You stepped right onto the row of lines and crossed the street, until suddenly headlights were flashing into your eyes and a loud honk made you jump and freeze.

“Hey!” someone yelled, and you turned your face to see that a car’s bumper was inches away from your knees, the yellow headlights blaring into your face and blinding you from seeing the driver who was sticking his head out of the window and yelling at you.

“Sorry,” you murmured and skipped out of the way to the other side of the street. Once your feet hit the sidewalk again, you turned to watch the car zoom past the greenlight angrily. You hadn’t even seen the car coming.

Wiping your face that was hot now from the adrenaline of nearly getting hit by a car, you stuffed your hands back into your pockets and kept walking, now feeling much farther from being able to relax and sleep.

You needed to go back to your apartment, as much as you hated to. You were obviously getting delirious from lack of sleep and were going to get yourself killed—you hadn’t even seen a car driving towards you as you crossed the street. Even if it meant just sitting up all night on the couch watching TV, you would be safe back home and not endanger yourself or others.

So, after the next block, you turned the corner and decided to walk down the other street. It would put you farther from your apartment, meaning you would have to cross two blocks to get back, but you didn’t mind. Maybe a change of scenery would intrigue you enough to soothe your racing mind. You noticed that this side of the block was darker than the other side. The shop owners did not leave their lights on, as the other block did. Every building and store was entirely dark, and the only thing that lit your path was the orange flickering streetlights and the full moon hanging above the sky like an animated sticker.

As you realized that there was no chance of you getting sleepy enough to go back to sleep, you noticed something sparkling down the block, too far away for you to see what it was, but close enough for you to see green and purple lights and the dazzling white sign in cursive letters you could not read from so far away.

“Huh,” you murmured to yourself, casting a glance around the block and seeing not a soul in sight. You found it odd that there was only one building not cast in total darkness, thinking that maybe it was some nightclub. It was a bad part of town to put a nightclub, since it was so empty here tonight, and you wondered if it was just recently established. You had never seen it before, though you have only walked this side of the block a few times since living in the city. There wasn’t much on this end except pawn shops and electronics repair and bail bonds and a dingy fitness gym.

As you walked on the other side of the street and came closer to the dazzling building, you could finally read the big sign across the front.

Tinseltown.

A movie theater, you realized—one that stayed open all night, apparently. How had you never known that you lived a few blocks away from a movie theater? You didn’t recall ever seeing it on the maps, nor hearing people speak of it, nor noticing it on your occasional walks through this street.

As you came closer and saw the retro way in which it was built, the cinema signs looking like they were straight out of the 90’s or 2000’s, you couldn’t convince yourself that this theater was so recently built, unless its purpose was to look old-school and vintage. It looked like the kinds of movie theaters that your parents might have taken to you when you were only a small child.

You stopped walking as you stood face-to-face with the theater across the street. There was still nobody around, not even the pigeons that usually pecked at the day’s crumbs on the sidewalk. The street was entirely lifeless, except for this movie theater whose LED stars sparkled and blinked invitingly.

Maybe a movie would calm your nerves—it looked open, besides the fact that there was no one around going in or out. Maybe sitting in a dark theater would soothe your nerves, get you sleepy enough to go home and finally sleep. Something was drawing it towards you—the bright lights, the buzzing noise of the electronics of its face, the bright purples and greens of its temple.

Why the hell not? You couldn’t remember the last time you had went to a movie theater, anyway. And this theater seemed to you like a little hidden gem in the neighborhood just waiting to be picked.

This time, you looked both ways before crossing the street. As you came near, you noticed that the breeze picked up, sending chills up your spine. You clutched your jacket closer to you and came towards the wide front doors, your hand touching the cold metal handle—was it buzzing under your palm? You pulled, and the door swung open with a squeak.

You stepped into the warm theater and found that the first room was the ticket center, booths lined up along the wall with two sets of doors on either end. You stepped up to the glass, pressed your nose close to the speaking hole and looked around.

There wasn’t a single worker in the booths. There were no noises besides the whooshing sound of old central air conditioning coming through the dusty vents. “Hello?” you called, wondering if someone would come through the back.

Not a sound, not a soul.

Maybe the workers were further inside, you thought. Maybe the theater was brand new and still understaffed, so they sold tickets inside where you could get concessions simultaneously, reducing the effort of labor.

You pushed through the swinging doors and stepped into a much larger, well-lit room. The ceilings, floors, and walls were painted deep scarlet with golden designs. A large counter stood at the front of the room, a menu hanging on the wall. You could smell popcorn and looked to see a large golden popcorn machine behind the counter, humming as it popped fluffy kernels into the vessel below. You saw hot dogs roasting on a rotating spit. You saw rows of candies and drinks, and even an icee machine that hummed with life. The sounds and sights and smells of it all soothed you deeply, but still, you saw no one.

“Hello?!” you called more loudly, coming up to the counter and peering past it. “Um,” you began, “I’m here to see a movie.” You looked at the popcorn machine and the buttery, golden fluffs, your mouth watering. “And maybe get some popcorn.”

Is this place even open? Surely it would be, since it was unlocked and lit up and had the machines going.

Then, you heard a noise coming from deeper in the building. Your eyes turned towards the noise—a wide hallway to the right. You heard the distant sounds of people talking, of laughter. Your stomach, which had started to knot, soothed as you felt relief at the evidence of people. Maybe the graveyard shift was still a little unexperienced and expected no one to come in this late at night and were all huddled somewhere down the hallway in a break room.

Your feet led you toward the hallway, hesitantly leaving the delightful smell of the popcorn and candy. You came closer to the noise, to the sound of a woman’s voice, of a man’s, too. You look around the hallway and see the doors to theaters with the numbers written on a sign above them, along with what is playing in the theater—all the signs are blank, and the voices are not coming from them. You come to a jog, eager to find the workers so you don’t get in trouble for being there without a ticket.

Finally, near the end of the hallway, you can hear the muffled voices more clearly now, light flickering from the circle of glass on the theater door. You glance up—the sign says Theater #13, and below it, the title of what’s playing: Wandavision.

You’d never heard of that, and you wondered why the workers were watching a movie if they were supposed to be out in the front hall selling tickets. Carefully, you push through the swinging door, and you freeze.

The entire theater is empty, not a single soul sitting in the crowd of red seats facing the screen. The theater is entirely dark, except for the ray of light particles above your head projecting the film onto the screen; you look.

You see a woman on the screen, with fiery red curls, wearing a blue plaid shirt and jeans with suspenders. She is in a kitchen, picking up toys and putting them into a basket under her arm. You see the camera shift—a blonde man walks into the kitchen, looking distressed.

“You can’t do this again, Wanda,” he says in a refined, almost robotic voice. They start to argue—this looks like something from the 80’s, like some sort of sitcom rather than a film. How old was this theater?

With legs that suddenly feel wobbly, you step down the stairs and look around again. There’s evidently no one in the theater. Even as you glance up at the projector box high up on the wall, you don’t see anyone in the little room there either.

There is not a single soul in this entire movie theater.

You hesitated, considered. What would a worker say if they walked in and saw you watching the screen without a ticket? It wasn’t your fault that there was no one around. You would easily pay for a ticket right there if they asked you to. Surely, they would understand that you simply couldn’t find anyone, and that the seats were calling your name, and that suddenly you found yourself sitting down on a seat somewhere in the middle, red fabric scratching your fingers as you gripped the squeaking cushion and sat down, eyes stuck to the screen.

“Do you know how lonely it gets, Vision?” the woman with red hair, apparently named Wanda, asked the blonde man named Vision, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at him. “You are hardly ever home. The kids have grown up—God, it feels like they were just born yesterday!” A laugh track of an audience plays, and your lips curl upwards at the comedy of it, though you didn’t get the joke. It definitely was an old sitcom—maybe they were still practicing using film rolls and were using this old TV show to test their machines. The quality of the show was grainy, a colorful little square box of images on a wider, more rectangular screen.

“Wanda,” Vision says, stepping closer to her and placing his hands on her shoulders, but she moves away from him. “You are abusing your authority. Your… powers.” Vision face tilts to the side towards the camera, and for a moment you thought his eyes looked right into the lens and at you, as if you were interrupting the conversation, before he turned back to Wanda. “Please don’t do this.”

Wanda only raises her eyebrows and smirks, a satisfied and amused look crossing her features. She was beautiful, really. You didn’t recognize her as an actress, nor him, but the green in her eyes and red on her lips, with her fiery hair and fierce cheekbones, mesmerized you.

“This conversation is over,” she whispered, and suddenly credits started rolling up the screen, listing the names of the directors and producers and actors over the image as an audience clapped in the background.

“What the hell,” you mumbled, disappointed that the show was ending right as you had just sat down to watch. Through the letters of the rolling credits, you saw Wanda turn away and walk through a door, Vision following after her.

“Wanda!” he exclaimed, trying to follow her through the door, but suddenly the picture was jagged on the screen. Your eyebrows sewed together in confusion as the image froze, of Vision just getting to the door, the credits flickering.

“What the…” you began, glancing up to the projector box. There were no more light particles in the air.

The image blinked and glitched in pixels of red, the image warping and the saturation fading as if it were melting right off the screen, only incoherent bits of audio glitching through the speakers before suddenly the screen went black, leaving the theater in complete and utter darkness and silence. It must have been an issue with the projector.

“Shitty movie theater,” you grumbled, throwing your head back on the seat. You got the sudden feeling that you should not be there, that you should leave immediately, that you were about to get in trouble.

You should just head back to your apartment, you thought to yourself. Stop running from your problems and lay down in your bed and just force yourself to go to sleep no matter what it takes. Do anything. Just get out of there.

As you stood to leave, a light emerged from the screen. You froze, looking at the screen to see that the projector was working again, that the show was back on. Only this time, the blonde man named Vision was not there, and Wanda was in a living room right now, sitting on a couch and staring right into the camera with an eerie half-smile. You felt the shock of the fourth wall breaking.

You blinked—why was she staring into the camera, making it seem as if she was looking right at you? What kind of a show was this?

“Where do you think you’re going?” she spoke languidly, her voice echoing through the large, empty, dark theater. A hot fire of fear rose up through your chest, alighting your nerves.

Was this another one of your insomniac episodes, like when you didn’t see the car coming as you crossed the street? Was it the projector glitching again? Was it some strange joke within the show that you didn’t understand?

She was silent again, staring right through the screen with her lips curled into a subtle smile, hands resting on her jeans. On the screen, on the projection, she was ten times larger than you, like some sort of purveying giant watching the theater with catlike, observant eyes.

You looked around the theater again, now hoping to see a worker, but there still was no one.

“I’m talking to you,” Wanda spoke, the ends of her words curling up like crumpled paper, the edge of a foreign accent. “Yes, you.” She tilted her head patronizingly, her voice lilting. “The girl with the jacket and the sleepy look on her face.”

Your hands in your jacket pockets started to sweat. There were no other people in the theater, and you were a girl, wearing a jacket, donning perpetual dark circles under your eyes. You opened your mouth to say something but stopped, feeling stupid for the urge to talk back to a TV show. But how did she know? Was it a joke? Was the theater playing a prank on you using the magic of technology?

“Come closer,” she said, whispering. “I want to get a better look at you.” You only stood there in the row, lips agape, eyes widening and moistening with fear. She stared at you expectantly—what were you supposed to do? You were curious about this, albeit terrified.

With unsteady feet, you stepped out of the row and onto the center aisle, taking a few steps downward, closer to the screen. Her eyes squinted and followed your figure.

“Oh,” she said, her smile turning into a wide, pearly grin. “You are a pretty one.”

A pretty one?

“Why don’t you tell me your name?”

This would be the final evidence of whether this was real or not. If this was some pre-recorded clip, some kind of uncanny coincidence, there was no way you could reason its unreality if she said your name.

“Y/n,’ you murmured.

She leaned forward, turning her head and cupping her ear. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

Your mouth was dry as you licked your lips and said louder, “Y/n.”

She leaned away and grinned. “That’s a pretty name, y/n.”

Horror sparked within you, your feet stumbling backwards as you gasped. All the hairs on your neck stood up on their ends, and you finally listened to your instinct telling you to run. Grabbing at the railing, you sprinted up the stairs towards the door, only inches from grabbing the handle when a sudden wall of red energy bolted itself against the wall. You stopped, staring at the strange red energy that buzzed and circulated within itself as if it were alive. You reached out—fingertips met the wall of red and zapped you, sending you stumbling back down the stairs.

Wanda’s voice was louder and deeper now through the speakers. You stared up at the screen as she stood up, smile fading, camera following her to focus on her face. “You’re not going anywhere, detka.”

Shadows cast down on her face as you watched her green eyes swirl into vermilion orbs, her hand lifting and reaching forward, that same red energy swirling around her fingers. You watched her fingers, so close to the camera that they were blurred, make a gesturing motion. Red energy jumped through the screen and wrapped around your ankles like a rope, pulling you down to the ground harshly.

A scream left your throat as the magic started dragging you by your ankles towards the screen. You grabbed at a railing to catch yourself, but the magic was too strong. The metal railing slipped from your sweaty palms and sent you off again, down the long center aisle, the stairs bruising your body as you turned onto your back and flailed, reaching for anything but finding nothing. You were dragged closer and closer to the screen, and when you expected your feet to rip through the paper, instead a red orb opened and swallowed you whole.

Hot energy surged through you, and you felt things moving on your body, moving within you, the air getting hot and cold and then there was no air at all, a loud buzzing sound piercing your eardrums, redness blinding you, until suddenly you felt the feeling of cold wood on your face. Catching your breath, you laid your palms flat on the wooden floor and lifted yourself up.

Blinking, your vision cleared, and you looked around the room you were in. It was a house, a living room—the same one that the redheaded woman was in on the TV show. You were lying on the floor in front of the couch as if you had just fell off it, and as you raised your head, you saw her sitting there.

The redhead named Wanda, who had just been a projected image on the movie screen, was sitting on the couch right in front of you, now proportioned to real life.

“This isn’t real,” you whispered, grabbing at your face and scratching to wake yourself up. Surely this was a dream, a nightmare. Maybe you never left your apartment at all, never walked past the six blocks and the drugstore, never stepped into the theater. Maybe you had fallen asleep that night and were having this horrific nightmare safe in your bed.

“Oh, it’s all real,” Wanda said, glancing around the living room with a proud smile. “Down to the details.”

You could feel the wooden floor under your hands and knees. Her voice was clear in your ears. You smelled the lingering smell of dinner having been made just hours before. You heard an engine—looked outside a near window to see a neighbor mowing the lawn, and another neighbor with long black hair and a purple sweater clipping the hedge bushes, discreetly looking towards the window.

You moved your hand outwards to touch the coffee table—it was real. You swiveled your head around to where you had fallen through, expecting to see the other side of the screen, but you only saw the other side of the room. It was all dimensional now, all real right in front of you. You were not dreaming.

“Let me go,” you said, clumsily getting to your feet. “Please.”

Wanda smiled and stood from the couch, stepping towards you. You took a step away. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, y/n. It’s a one-way street, as they say.”

You turned in a circle, trying to find the movie screen again, the red seats, the golden popcorn machine. There was nothing but this unknown house you were standing in.

“The man,” you said, turning to look at her again, feeling yourself dwindling down. “Vision,” you remembered, thinking back to their conversation before the screen had glitched. He was asking her, pleading her, to not do something. You remembered the way he nearly looked at you. Maybe he could help you. “Where is he?”

Wanda laughed, her voice ringing eerily in your ears. You were still having trouble realizing that she was real, until she reached forward and snaked a hand on your shoulder, her touch warming your skin there. “Oh, he went out of town,” she said, holding back her strange laughter. “Don’t know when he’ll be back.” Her laughter ceased, smile fading as she stared at you.

You tried to step away from her touch, but her hand squeezed your shoulder. “Wanda,” you said, and it sounded strange saying the name of this woman you didn’t even know, who had only been a character just moments before. “What is this?”

She blinked and creased her brows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Where am I?” you demanded. “I was just in the movie theater—Tinseltown.” You tried to remember walking into the theater, seeing its dazzling sign from across the street, but your brain could not conjure the memories. You froze, feeling fog fill your mind. Why couldn’t you remember walking in? It was all fading fast from you now. “And you…” you trailed, trying to catch onto the memories of your last few moments before you were pulled into the screen, but you couldn’t. “You…”

“Oh, honey,” Wanda cooed, placing her hands on either side of your face, grinning at the confused look on your features. “You must have had a bad dream.”

A bad dream is what it felt like to you. You wanted to ask her how she pulled you right into the TV show, right through the screen with that buzzing crimson magic roped around your ankles, but it was gone from your mind now. All of it was. All you remembered was standing up from the wooden floor and touching the coffee table. Did you fall asleep on that floor? Had a bad dream, like she said?

You didn’t know that the Tinseltown theater was closed during the day. It was closed because, under the sunlight, around the swarms of people, it was a fitness gym, filled with weights and machines and sweaty people. During the night, under the stars and the full moon, it transfigured into the Tinseltown theater, empty and luring with its flashing lights, inviting any stranger in, never letting any of them out.

You didn’t know that the neighbors you saw out the window of that house had once walked into Tinseltown, curious about the retro theater with not a soul in sight. They had once walked that same block, wondering why they didn’t see anyone around, why they had never seen that theater before, why it was totally empty, why the only thing playing was a TV show called Wandavision. They never left the theater. They were residents of Westview now, the population built from the number of individuals who were lured into Wanda’s trapping illusion. Once Wanda pulled them through the screen, they forgot who they were, what life they lived before, where they came from.

You didn’t know that the reason you didn’t see any other people on the streets that night was because Wanda’s reach left you blind, made you see what she wanted you to see, made you do what she wanted you to do. In reality, the theater was still a fitness gym at night. When you stood across the street, the dazzling lights you stared at was actually the dark face of the closed gym. When you walked in, the ticket counter was just a service center. The popcorn machine, the candy, the hot dogs, none of it was there. You were only staring at stacks of weights and metal machines in the dark, empty gym.

You had fallen for her hex.

“Come, detka,” she whispered, placing a kiss on your forehead and holding you in her arms. Suddenly, you no longer remembered your apartment or your friends or your parents. You only remembered living there with Wanda as her lover and wife, raising Billy and Tommy with her, leading a simple, calm life in Westview suburbia. Your life built up behind your eyes, constructed by the vermilion flare in Wanda’s fingertips.

Wanda’s lips kissed down your cheek as you remembered these things, as if her lips were pressing the memories into your skin. She kissed the corners of your mouth, then her lips melted against yours. Her lips moved to your jaw, your neck, behind your ear, encasing you in a familiar lust that it seemed you had known all your life. “Come to bed,” she whispered, and you did, not seeing the devilish, malignant grin on her face.

[yoga-onion]

Legends of the humanoids

Reptilian humanoids (4)

Five Dragon Kings – the Five Coloured Dragons with Directions in ancient Chinese belief

Historically there arose a cult of the Five Dragon Kings in Chinese legend based on Wuxing (5 elements, Nature Philosophy on Taoist cosmology). The name Wufang longwang ( "Dragon Kings of the Five Regions/Directions") is registered in Taoist scripture from the Tang dynasty, found in the Dunhuang caves, also be known as the Magao caves.

Incorporating elements of traditional Chinese beliefs, the Five Elements, it associates the Five Dragon Kings and the five coloured dragons with the five directions. In the east, there is the Blue Dragon God King, who has 49 Dragon Kings under his command, who control 70 myriad myllion small dragons, mountain spirits and sundry charms. The document states that it is the work of the small dragons and spirits under the control of the Dragon King that cause poison and disease to people, and that they should pray to the Dragon King who oversees them for healing. The Red Dragon God King is located in the south, the White Dragon God, the White Dragon God King in the west, the Black Dragon God King in the north and the Yellow Dragon God King in the centre, each with a considerable number of Dragon Kings, countless small dragons and charmed demons. 

The Azure Dragon or Blue-Green Dragon (Qīnglóng), or Green Dragon (Cānglóng), is the Dragon God of the east, and of the essence of spring. The Red Dragon (Chìlóng or Zhūlóng, literally "Cinnabar Dragon", "Vermilion Dragon") is the Dragon God of the south and of the essence of summer. The White Dragon (Báilóng) is the Dragon God of the west and the essence of autumn. The Yellow Dragon (Huánglóng) is the Dragon God of the center, associated with late summer. The Black Dragon (Hēilóng), also called "Dark Dragon" or "Mysterious Dragon" (Xuánlóng), is the Dragon God of the north and the essence of winter.

[Image bottom: One of the Buddha statues in Mogao Caves, China]

伝説のヒューマノイドたち

ヒト型爬虫類 (4)

五方龍王 〜 古代中国の信仰における五方位に結びつく五色の龍王

歴史上、中国の伝説には五行(5つの要素) に基づいた「五方龍王信仰」があった。敦煌石 (莫高窟) で発見された唐代の道教経典には、「五方龍王」という名前が記されている。

中国の伝統的な信仰の要素である五行 (道教の宇宙論に基づく自然哲学) を取り入れ、五龍王と五色の龍を五つの方角と関連付けている。東方には青龍神王がおり、配下に49の龍王をしたがえ、それらが70万億の小龍や山精・雜魅を従えている。この文書の趣旨は、四方八方どこにでも、人間を毒や病に侵す龍王の手先がいて、彼らの主である龍王に救済を祈り求めなければならないということだ。南方には赤龍神王、西方には白龍神王、北方には黒龍神王、中央には黄龍神王がおり、同様にそれぞれ相当数の龍王、無数の小龍、魅鬼などが配置される。 

蒼龍または蒼緑龍（靑龍）、または緑龍（蒼龍）は、東の龍神であり、春の本質を表す。赤龍（辰砂龍 または 朱龍）は南の龍神で、夏の神である。白龍は西の龍神であり、秋の神である。黄龍（黃龍）は中央の龍神で、晩夏に関連している。黒龍（黑龍）は「暗龍」または「神秘龍（玄龍）」とも呼ばれ、北の龍神であり、冬の精髄である。

[dcdreamblog]

@terriwriting That's actually a great question. I assume you're thinking of "The Phantom of the Fair" Very mysterious that one. Though he's known as "The First Supervillain" in many respects his actual story is unclear even to this day. I can share what I know though.

This is probably the clearest photo ever taken of the man, from very early on the morning of April 30th, 1939 taken by a photographer from the New York Globe-Leader. The photographer assumed it was some kind of statue only "it" vanished when he went to take a second picture. No one was prepared for what would occur during the opening ceremony conducted by then mayor Fiorello La Guardia

Another photo, this time from the Planet capturing the moment where the Phantom dropped in on La Guardia, causing a panic in the crowd and taking the microphone The Phantom spoke the now famous works "Men and women of New York City—this World's Fair is now declared officially haunted by the Phantom of the Fair!" before vanishing back into the rooftops despite the best efforts of the NYPD

Now you would THINK that he would instantly be marked for arrest but World's Fairs aren't cheap so Mayor La Guardia, in his infinite wisdom, treated the guy like a publicity stunt for the next several days.

A photo of the Phantom taken on the evening of May 3rd, 1939 as a spotlight is pointed up at the building. No attempt is made to apprehend the Phantom It wasn't until the visit of the UK's King George VI and Queen Elizabeth that the Phantom made a move. Somehow "reprogramming" the mechanical marvel Elektro in the other room and sending it to attack the royal couple.

The police escort was caught totally flat footed and the royal couple was nearly smashed beneath the robot's heavy iron boot until...

The appearance of two strange men. One in an inhuman gas mask and the other in a blood red cloak. Courtesy of the Gazette Up until that point "The Sandman" and "The Crimson Avenger" were considered myths, legend, yellow journalism crafted by a New York in the midst of the Great Depression and an organized crime spike. A modern day Spring Heeled Jack. But there they were. Their fight with the rampaging Elektro and the Phantom lasted for upwards of two hours across the interiors and rooftops of the Fair's central buildings. In the end the broken robot was left sprawled across the dance floor of the central hall and the Phantom was nowhere to be found.

Now this one, taken after the defeat of the Phantom by a photographer from the Planet is one of my favorite shots in history. Beneath this picture, a reporter would coin the term "Mystery Man" and it is at that very moment that the age of the superhero is born. The Sandman and The Crimson Avenger had made themselves known as not just specters in the dark but honest to god crime fighters known the world over. This is the photograph that christened an era. Within the next year we would move from "Yellow Journalism" to the foundation of the Justice Society. As for the Phantom, no one really knows what happened to him. but there are two popular theories. The historically attested theory and the one that was unquestioned for the longest time is that The Phantom was a Nazi saboteur attempting to assassinate King George VI on American soul to alienate the two nations and remove a powerful symbol against fascism (possibly attempting to secure the throne for Edward VIII who was more sympathetic to the German cause) In the early 90s however historian Matt Wagner put forward a theory connecting the Phantom to a man named Gerald Zimmerman as the suspect in a series of anti-queer hate crimes that occurred near the fairgrounds in the days leading up to the Fair itself. The crimes, as one can expect of anti-gay killings investigated in the 1930s, were never conclusively solved but circumstantial evidence and modern psychological analysis of the Phantom and Zimmerman gives the theory some legs. As a historian myself, I can't make conclusive proof one way or another. Rest assured the Fairground has LONG since been scoured for every single scrap of proof that might grant us insight one way or the other Perhaps the Phantom was one last Penny Dreadful style unsolved mystery to open the door to a newer age. When these "Mystery Men" would, for once and always, step out of the shadows as the world sat balanced on a knife's edge.

[balkanikabg]

Romanian Cuisine

So, the beginning of the month I had the pleasure to spend 8th of March with some friends in Romania and while trying their traditional kitchen I came up with the idea to create some dishes for our Sims to enjoy some delicious Romanian food too! I hope you enjoy it!

Mămăligă - polenta made out of yellow maize flour. Historically a peasant food, it was often used as a substitute for bread or even as a staple food in the poor rural areas.

Ostropel - typical Romanian stew that is primarily made from chicken mixed with a thick tomato sauce. Additionally, garlic or spring onions can be added to the dish. 

Tochitură - traditional Romanian and Moldovan dish made from pork cut into small cubes. It is traditionally served with over-easy  eggs and mămăligă.

Tochitură de Pui - Tochitură but instead of pork cuts is made with chicken.

Joffre Cake - chocolate buttermilk layer cake filled with chocolate ganache and frosted with chocolate buttercream originally created at Bucharest's Casa Capșa restaurant, shortly after WWI.

Papanași - doughnut-shaped with the doughnut hole on top traditionally fried or boiled, they are served covered in crème fraîche, and topped with sour cherries or jam.

Gogoși - sweet pastries similar to filled doughnuts that are deep-fried in oil and optionally dusted with icing sugar.

Zmeurată - alcoholic beverage produced from raspberry, sugar and alcohol.

Socată - soft drink made from the flowers of the elderberry shrub.  It may be non-alcoholic or, usually, low-alcoholic, and can be  carbonated or non-carbonated, depending on the fermentation type and  duration.

Access for Official Patrons on 30th of March

Public Access on 7th of April on Curseforge 

@sssvitlanz @maxismatchccworld

[adore-laur]

BEAUTY

— harry & nadine’s meet-cute 🕊️

——

SIX YEARS AGO

Grey skies loomed over Loire Valley with the promise of an April rainstorm. The slow-moving river snaked through the scenic countryside and stretched beyond what the human eye could see. Trees rustled in a favorable breeze, stirring up aromas from nearby fruit orchids. Firecrests and turtledoves chirped in the distance, signaling the start of spring.

Nadine savored it all while crossing the bridge on her Beaumont bicycle. In the front wicker basket was her canvas tote bag containing her Kodak camera protectively wrapped in a pillowcase, a serving of fresh tapioca pudding she had impulsively purchased from the local farmer's market, and an unknown flower she had found under the oak tree in her backyard. Her yellow raincoat crinkled as she pedaled vigorously to get to her destination before the clouds burst. The scrape on her knee she had gotten from falling off her bike in her gravel driveway dully ached. Maybe the rain would wash away the dried blood.

The Domaine de Chaumont-sur-Loire opened its annual International Garden Festival that morning, which Nadine wouldn't have missed for the world. It resurfaced fond childhood memories of strolling through the enriching gardens with her family and getting lost in the creative landscapes showcased by landscapers, architects, and photographers far and wide.

Nadine planned to take photos to build her modeling portfolio. As a curvy girl with distinct ethnic features, getting her foot in the door had been challenging, but the alluring backdrop of the gardens would make her stand out. The theme was Gardens of Sensations.

In the past, it had been no easy feat to photograph herself with her less-than-adequate camera and awkward self-direction. However, she prepared to make these sacrifices for a prosperous career. Loire Valley only had one modeling agency, which meant she had to start somewhere small and affordable before traveling north to Paris for more lavish opportunities.

To earn a living, Nadine provided housekeeping services for surrounding chateaus. The work was rewarding, but it did not spark any passion for her. As a young girl, she had been fascinated by the aesthetic of posing in different environments and making fashion statements after seeing magazine spreads of French models strutting down the catwalk. But she had never been able to imagine herself in their shoes—literally and figuratively. Those six-inch heels seemed killer. With her thick eyebrows, pesky cellulite, and blemished skin, she had been the complete opposite of what model scouts sought.

Once Nadine became wiser over the years, she knew her worth. Her natural beauty just needed to be highlighted by the right scenery and garments.

When she arrived at the festival, she locked her bike on a rack and slung her tote bag over her shoulder. The historical Chateau-de-Chaumont on the sprawling lawn caused her to stop and stare for a moment. It was grand and beautiful, just as she remembered. Her new-fangled perspective left her wondering what inspiration she would discover.

After purchasing an admission ticket, she walked under the arch of the chateau to reach the garden path that weaved through twenty-one hectares of artistic garden exhibits. Each display differed depending on where the landscaper originally hailed from, like Japan, South Korea, Great Britain, and countless other countries. Among the trees was a greenhouse kitchen where vegetables were grown and offered to visitors. Nadine remembered eating juicy little tomatoes there as a teenager—they were called 'the nipples of Venus.' The memory made her smile faintly.

She glanced around for a pretty scene to photograph herself in just as rain began to sprinkle. Shivering, she pulled the hood of her poncho over her head. Maybe today wasn’t the best day to embark on a modeling adventure. Maybe she should have turned around and gone home.

But further in the gardens, Nadine stumbled upon a peculiar situation. An exhibition was still being set up, nestled in an opening surrounded by greenery like a secret oasis. Landscapers worked diligently to put the finishing touches on it. Their work had been delayed by the unpredictable climate in central France. It was a blessing that the rain didn’t fall much through the canopy of trees above.

There was a rectangular vat of water with a wooden path winding through it, similar to a Candyland board. The landscapers removed leaves and branches from the water with pool skimmers. Red bamboo canes stood tall around it, hugging the scene with vibrant color. There was something simple yet entrancing about it, and she was drawn to the energy of tranquility that called to her.

Nadine slowly approached, attempting to act invisible so as not to disturb them. She would wait until they were done before taking photos. Perhaps sitting on the path and posing near the bamboo would be adequate. Yes, that would be a fantastic shot. Unique, too, which was what she strived for.

Her childlike wonder pushed her closer until her attention snagged on something else. Something a little more intriguing.

A man stood waist-deep in the water, rearranging bamboo with sedulous care, his bare back turned to her. He had the most muscular, contoured back Nadine had ever seen in her life. It was sculpted in a way that captured her gaze, but she should not have been surprised. He was some sort of landscaper, which was a labor-intensive job. His tendons were surely robust. Sacré bleu, why was she thinking about his tendons?

She snapped out of her man-induced hypnosis. She had a job to get done. Her future was at stake! With that thought, she unwrapped her camera from its cocoon just as a couple of landscapers brushed past her with metal buckets, paying no mind to her lingering presence. She must have looked like a mere tourist.

Nadine delicately cleared her throat in an attempt to catch the attention of the man with the beautiful back. He was the only one still tending to the exhibit and did not seem to hear her.

"Excusez-moi?" she said, removing her hood to appear more approachable.

The man's large hands, which were also gorgeously sculpted, halted around the lithe bamboo sticks. His face turned before his body did, and goodness gracious! Oh wow. He was pleasing—to look at, she meant. His foreign face was a masterpiece of symmetry. While he did not look French, remnants of European features still adorned his face. A well-chiseled bone structure and an elegant straight nose. Pink lips that were parted. A firm chest with a ridged midsection. Disheveled, rain-soaked hair.

"Bonjour," he replied, sounding perplexed. Soulful green eyes stared intently at her.

Nadine's gaze desperately wanted to wander south again, but she remained strong. "Is this exhibit open to visitors?" she asked.

He regarded her for longer than normal—not scrutinizingly, but rather in a mystified manner. "Yes. My apologies; I was just perfecting a few details."

"I did not mean to intrude. I—" She paused and searched for the proper words. "Well, I was hoping to take pictures for my portfolio here."

"Your portfolio?" he echoed.

Nodding, Nadine nervously tucked her damp hair behind her ears. "For modeling. I want to broaden my use of compelling backdrops, and this festival has plenty of them." She waved a hand, the flourishing nature around them not needing further explanation. "Anyway, this particular exhibit caught my eye. Would it be possible for me to take some pictures?"

The man glanced behind her, his brows furrowing. "Where’s your photographer?"

"I do not have one," she said shyly. "I just place my camera on a flat surface and set the timer."

It was far too expensive to hire an entire crew for a photoshoot. She would have rather saved money by gaining hands-free experience herself. Besides, people in the modeling industry admired humble beginnings. She was building her career from the ground up.

"Would you like some assistance?" he asked, raindrops gently falling from his chin. Nadine detected a lilted British accent.

"Oh, I do not want to be a nuisance," she said. "I’m sure you’re busy."

He walked to the edge closest to her and shook his head, a handsome smile pulling at his lips. "No, not anymore."

Feeling thrilled, Nadine's heartbeat pounded like a stampede of wild animals. "All right, then."

It was an unexpected turn of events. As far as she was concerned, she had not expected to meet someone as generous as this man. She hadn't expected much of anything out of today since the weather put a damper on her mood, and her dreams often felt unattainable.

"What's your name?"

Handing over her camera, she answered, "Nadine."

"I'm Harry," he said. "I'm a landscape architect, which might not help your situation, but I did get a passing grade in a college-level photography class. Is that good enough?"

"I don't know," she countered playfully. "I might interpret a passing grade differently from you."

He laughed, his nose scrunching. "B-minus."

She pretended to mull it over before saying, "I will accept that."

"Merci." He sat on the wooden path. "So, do you have any specific ideas in mind for the photoshoot?"

"I know I want to be a part of nature. Close-up shots are preferred. And..." Nadine looked at the exhibit, pondering. "Am I allowed to go in the water?"

"I don't see why not."

"Will I get into trouble? I couldn't stand being banned from this place."

While fidgeting with her camera, Harry said, "This is my exhibit."

This had been designed by him? It was highly impressive, and it made her feel better knowing a person with a meticulous brain and a keen eye for design was helping her. It was also attractive knowing he had constructed it with his bare hands. Did his fingers have calluses? Were there blood, sweat, and tears involved? No, don’t think about him sweating!

"You're letting a stranger interfere with your creation?" she asked, willing away the heat rushing up her neck.

As Harry raised the camera to his eye and pointed it at random things, seemingly testing its functionality, he murmured, "You would be adding beauty to it."

In the middle of removing her sandals and poncho, Nadine’s breath hitched. It was quite bold of him to make such a statement. She had to tread carefully around this male enigma. She was there for business and business only.

"Hop in," Harry said. "The water is heated."

She felt vulnerable in her white camisole and brown silk maxi skirt. Her curves were accentuated by the spring breeze blowing through the fabric. Her feet sank into the dirt. To remain true to the theme of nature and its rawness, she had opted not to wear any makeup.

Shimmying down her skirt and letting it pool on the ground, she was left wearing beige underwear. Without a single word spoken, the mood turned intimate.

While she dipped one leg into the water, Harry's gentlemanly gaze remained fixed on her face. He was right—it was a glorious temperature, like sinking into a lukewarm bath after a long day. She was submerged up to her rib cage.

"Are you new to Loire Valley?" Nadine asked, curious about how this beautiful man showed up in her hometown.

"I live in England. I was invited to this festival to create a United Kingdom exhibit."

"Ah, oui. It must be such an honor. Do you like it here so far?"

Harry nodded. "It's gorgeous. The architecture is brilliant."

"I hope the sheer number of chateaus we have is not overwhelming,” Nadine said, slicking her hair back with wet palms.

He chuckled and stood up. "Shall we get started?"

Nadine leaned against the edge of the vat, swaying trees and clusters of red bamboo behind her. She settled her expression into her "model face," which was basically just her looking slightly pissed off at something, but in a sexy way. With her chin tilted up, she showed off her sharp jaw and neck muscles.

Harry knelt on the wooden path and held the camera steadily. Leaning forward, he zoomed in at a low angle. There was a look of concentration on his face, and she felt elated that he was so serious about assisting her.

The shutter clicked a few times. By moving her face just a smidge, she subtly posed. It was all natural to her once she was in the moment—like breathing. She loved immersing herself in working the camera to her advantage. She made it her best friend.

"Regardez-moi," Harry murmured, sending a delightful shiver down Nadine’s spine. She looked at him with her lips pursed attractively, and he snapped more photos. "Parfaite."

"You speak very good French."

Still adorably focused on his task, he hummed in acknowledgment. "I studied architecture at Versailles and took French classes. It's a romantic language."

"I agree." She switched her pose by spreading her arms in the water and trying to smize, as invented by Tyra Banks. The camera’s shutter sounded dozens of times.

To get the best angles, Harry contorted his body in semi-ridiculous ways. He then got in the water and stood near her. Nadine’s heart rate spiked since he was even more ethereal up close. There was a gentleness to his presence, and she was undeniably attracted to it.

"What do you call an angry French aunt?" Harry asked, setting up a joke.

"Oh, boy. What?"

"A crossaunt."

Nadine let a giggle escape. Slowly lowering the camera, Harry stared at her in awe. His smile was stuck in place, as if making her laugh stopped time.

"Fossetes," he whispered. Dimples.

A powerful blush expanded across her face and spread to her chest. Suddenly, her smile turned shy. She had never experienced such attention from a man before. The feeling was both daunting and exhilarating.

Water sluiced down Nadine's body when she stood at her full height. "Thank you for doing this," she said, her voice weak.

"It was my pleasure,” Harry replied. “You made my job easy."

She was going to burst into flames if she kept blushing. "Can I repay the favor in any way?"

His lips quirked to the side as he hummed thoughtfully. "What are your plans for next weekend?" he asked.

"I will most likely be back here again."

"As will I."

"So...” Nadine chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I will see you then?"

"Absolutely." He cleared his throat and held her gaze. "I was wondering if you would fancy doing something with me afterward. We could visit all the farmer's markets. Perhaps stroll along the river at sunset. You could show me your favorite spots and tell me why you love them."

Nadine inhaled a little gasp. If he wanted to spend an evening together, he had surely felt the connection too. It was palpable, hanging thickly in the air like a storm cloud. She could feel the electrical charge with just a single glance. It was definitely worth exploring.

"Unless you're taken,” Harry added uncertainly, combing a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I should have asked first. I just find you so pretty, and you have a lovely laugh." He paused briefly, glimpsing at her lips. "I'd love to hear more of it."

She walked toward him, her pulse going haywire. Her palms rested against his chest as she softly kissed his clean-shaven cheek and said, "I’m available.”

"Oui?"

"Oui."

Harry's eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Splendid. I'm looking forward to it, dove."

Gleeful flutters took flight in Nadine's stomach. She had been yearning for a serendipitous moment for ages. The prospect of being wanted always felt unreachable to her. No boy had ever decided she was worth a chance. Now, there was a glimmer of hope.

When Nadine arrived home later that evening, she perused through the pictures on her camera—there were at least a hundred. Each one captured her in a certain light that had been unknown to her. Through the eyes of someone else, she found herself desirable.

All thanks to the man with the beautiful back.

——

[ltwilliammowett]

In door no. 22 we return to the Netherlands and visit another VOC ship. Namely the VOC Amsterdam

VOC Amsterdam by Ashu Mathura 2014

More about her here:

The Amsterdam embarked on its first and last voyage from the Dutch island of Texel to the East Indies in 1749, after two attempts had failed - unsuccessfully due to adverse winds. But nothing went as it should. Not only did the 203-strong crew on board have to contend with a series of violent storms, but a mutiny apparently broke out in between. To make matters worse, many crew members had already died of yellow fever, but it was probably the plague after all, whereupon the sailors began to drink excessively to prevent them from dying too.

The Amsterdam's fate was grim indeed when she lost her rudder on entering Pevensey Bay harbour, leaving her defenceless against the merciless storm. Captain Klump, desperate to save his precious cargo, dropped anchor on the coast of Bulverhythe where, remarkably, much of the keel remains to this day.

At the lowest of spring tides, the ship’s ribs are exposed, and she emerges from her peaty sand grave. From top to bottom the wreck in 1969, below in 1984 and then 2021. She is still in good condition.

A replica of the ship was built in the Netherlands between 1985 and 1990 by around 400 volunteers according to the plans of the original Amsterdam, but is historically incorrect in many respects. The craftsmen used iroko wood for the hull and orientated themselves on shipbuilding techniques of the 18th century.

However, some modifications had to be made due to modern shipbuilding regulations: In addition to using tropical wood instead of oak for the hull and decks, the deck height was adjusted so that you can stand almost upright. The frames were also glued together and the ladders were replaced by stairs. The ship was transferred to Amsterdam and is moored here near the Amsterdam Maritime Museum; it can be visited as a museum ship.

[interneteclipse]

"pink is nice"

pairing: Valeria Garza x fem reader

synopsis: some domestic fluff backstory on Valeria's pink nails.

word count: 1.3k

tags: domestic bliss, fluff, silly wlw brainrot

A/N: Have you ever noticed Valeria has pink nails?? I have so many headcanons about her because she's just my little silly goose. Yes, she's 100% an artist and yes she has awful seasonal depression. I also think the y/n I've made for her is a beautician who does her hair and nails. Hashtag Valeria apologist lifestyle.

"Sorry that I don't have any more colors! I thought shades of pink, yellow, green, and blue would be cute for spring." You said while Valeria looked at your relatively empty nail polish organizer. "You could go with your usual picks too."

Her brows furrowed, eyes squinted, and she stood with arms crossed, deep in thought. Never have you seen someone so decisive with nail polish– it's cute, though! The people around Valeria could never see her in such a normal state– thank god you were able to witness this. You spaced out and stared at the organizer until she snapped you out of your trance.

"Pink is nice. I think I'll go with that." She kissed your cheek and handed you the nail polish, base coat, and top coat bottles. You fixed the throw pillows on your shared bed for extra cushion, one for you and one for her. She sat beside you in her spot, putting the polish next to you and handing you a nail file.

"You think you can shape them down? I think they're a little overgrown for work." She laughed while pushing her stray hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

"In your terms, they are. I hate filing them down, though... you have such pretty nail beds."

"I wouldn't be able to do my job properly with anything longer, but thank you for the compliment, amor. Sweet as always."

You jokingly groan at her response, continuing to file down her right hand. You both sat in a comfortable quietness, the occasional dog barking or car driving by being the only interruptions. Valeria darted her eyes around the room before circling her sight back to you, the floor, then to her hands. By now, you were working on her base coat. Her focus returned to you when you broke the silence.

"When we first met, I saw you as a purple gal. It's a very royal color historically– it fits you." You said, observing the bottle of hot pink nail polish beside you.

"Really?"

"Mhm. You usually don't pick bright colors, so it surprised me when you chose this. What's the switch up today?" Valeria bit the inside of her lip and looked to the side, trying to come up with an answer. If she had to be honest, it was just a pretty color– one of her favorites, too. She does understand where you're coming from, though. Her nails usually match her everyday closet, which are neutrals and some hints of blue from her jeans, so she opts for either black or shades of nude. They're colors that don't stand out too much but still make her feel pretty wearing them.

"I felt a little special. Spring is here, so it feels less dead, unlike winter. Plus, our anniversary is coming up! I'm in a good mood," She used her free hand to pet your head, not wanting to mess you up by shifting to kiss you. "I think a bright color fits how I feel right now."

 You smiled at her genuine happiness. It was rare for Valeria to come home without stress, walking in carrying her anger from a mistake her employees made or a mistake she made herself. Whenever that happens to be the case (which again, is frequent), she isolates herself immediately. Despite her line of work taking a fair amount of collaboration, she works by herself most of the time. That left a lot of speculation about what 'El Sin Nombre' was truly like, and not who Valeria Garza was under her work mindset. It amazes you that you were able to get to know her with how distant she was with the people around her. You're surprised she even wanted to date you– let alone marry you.

"As long as you're happy, I'm happy, love. Speaking of our anniversary, what do you wanna do?"

"Well... I think we could both benefit from going outside. How does dinner sound? We can still cook breakfast and lunch ourselves. I know you like spending our mornings together." She giggles.

"You know me so well." You laughed, finishing the base coat, and started with the main event; the hot pink nail polish chosen by your wife.

"It really is a nice color. It makes me forget the seasonal depression we both got out of." She said, examining the sheer first layer. She was right about the seasonal depression. You both get tired during December, then exhausted trying to start the new year correctly in January and February. It starts getting better in early March when you're finally caught up with life, and the pace quickens to prepare for spring.

"Now you have me wanting to use pink too. I might go with a lighter shade so we can still match."

After about three coats, you were finishing off Valeria's nails with a glossy top coat. She looked at her other hand which was drying to admire your work.

"Good job as always, amor! When can I not trust you with my nails? Thank you."

"It's nothing! Plus, it's been a while since you've taken some time for yourself." Valeria clicked her tongue and sighed, knowing what you were referring to.

"I know, I know. I missed being home, too." The only con to being married to her; she's rarely able to be home, especially nowadays with her bigger plans. As much as you appreciate the precious texts and phone calls while she's hours away from home, dealing with something work-related, it's hard to cope with life going on without her home. Your co-workers always see you mope around whenever Valeria is long-distance, and she's more serious than usual while operating away from home. You completed each other so perfectly– it was like tearing the sun and moon apart when you weren't together.

Every conversation you and Valeria had brought you closer; it was the reason you both took interest in each other from the start. One of the more hidden interests she had was art. She isn't into doing her own art– at least not often, but she could talk about how it impacts her for hours. You remember you were on a walk with her while admiring the street art of Las Almas after coming home.

"What made you start liking street art so much? You talk about it so passionately."

"Las Almas wouldn't be itself without the street art. I think it shows the community and the will of the people. I like it for that."

"Do you have a favorite piece?"

"Hmm... I don't think I could pick one if I tried. You're always my favorite work of art, though."

It makes you glad that she sometimes treats her trips as art tours, sending you murals in a new town she arrived in. Sometimes you think in another reality, Valeria pursued art and wouldn't be as stressed and overworked as she is now. But as long as she's happy with her life, all is fine. 

"Alright, they're dry- ah!" You got pulled into a hug while Valeria laid back on the bed, bringing you down with her. She peppered your face with kisses before deeply kissing your lips and burying her face in your neck.

"Thank you again. I love you." She said, sighing into you. You were on your sides facing each other while her arms were on your waist.

"I love you too. You're welcome, by the way." You giggled, wrapping your arms around her, enjoying her loving embrace. You stayed just like that for a minute, savoring the warmth before Valeria spoke again.

"Do you want to get snacks and watch a movie together? I call it an early anniversary celebration." She said while getting up on her elbows and giving you a wink. "I may have been able to work a little extra last month to be around you more."

"Of course, I want to." She got off your shared bed, helping you up to go pick movie snacks with her.

"Alright, let's go. This week will be just for us, I promise."

[hearthandheathenry]

All About Beltane

Beltane, also known as Bealtaine in Irish, is a Gaelic holiday traditionally held on May 1st or the halfway point between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. It is believed to be named after the Celtic sun god Belenus. It was widely observed in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle Of Man, and is one of the 4 major Celtic fire festivals. It is mentioned in even the earliest Irish literature and marked the beginning of summer and used as the marker to drive cattle into their summer pastures. Although public celebrations have mostly fallen out after the 20th century and many traditions have been mixed with other cultural holidays (such as the Roman holiday May Day), many Celtic Neopagans and Wiccans still celebrate, and many local traditions still continue, causing it to now get a cultural revival.

Traditionally, rituals were held to protect the livestock that moved pastures, along with crops, dairy products, and people, and to encourage growth. It was also important to appease the Aos Sí, or nature spirits/fairies, which were believed to be more active then.

According to early medieval texts in 908, druids would make two bonfires and drive cattle between them to protect them from disease. In the 18th and 19th centuries, bonfires continued to be an important part of the celebrations. Before the bonfires were lit, all hearth fires were put out, and then relit using the fire from the Beltane bonfires after the celebration.

Continuing into the 19th century, cattle were still driven over or between flames, or sometimes around the fires or made to leap over. The people themselves did as well for good luck and protection. Once the fires died down, people would dab themselves with the ashes and sprinkle them over their crops and livestock. Torches from the bonfires would also be brought home and carried around the home or boundaries, and also used to relight the hearth.

Food was also an important part of the Beltane festival, and usually included a feast of lamb, which, historically, was sacrificed. In 1769, it was written that a hot drink, called a caudle, made of eggs, butter, oatmeal, and milk was served, along with tossing a bit on the ground as an offering. A Beltane Bannock, a type of oatmeal cake, was also written to be important and had a few traditions around it.

In one tradition, the Beltane Bannock had nine knobs on it and each person would take the bannock and face the fire, proceeding to break off the knobs of bannock one at a time and tossing them behind their shoulder as an offering to the spirits for protection over their livestock and from predators (one for the cow, one for the sheep, one for the fox, etc). Afterwards, they would drink the caudle.

According to other 18th century writers, there was another Beltane Bannock tradition where the bannock would be cut into slices and one was marked with charcoal. The slices were then thrown into a bonnet and everyone would take one out while blindfolded. According to one writer, whoever pulled the marked bannock slice had to leap through the fire 3 times. According to another, the person would instead be pretend-thrown into the fire and for some time afterward people would talk about the person as if they were dead. This may have always been symbolic, or it may have been a tradition from a time where actual human sacrifice was used. This tradition was also near identical to May Day traditions that occurred in Wales and other parts of Europe, however.

Other traditions including flowers and plants were also observed, especially ones that evoked fire. Documents from the 19th century cite that yellow and white flowers, such as primrose, rowan, hawthorn, gorse, hazel, and marsh marigold was used and placed at doorways and windows. Sometimes they were strewn into garland, and other times they were made into bouquets, made into crosses, or fastened to them. They were also fastened to cows and milking/butter equipment.

Decorating a May Bush or May Bough was also a widespread tradition, and it usually consisted of a small tree or branch (typically hawthorn, rowan, holly, or sycamore) decorated with bright flowers, ribbons, candles, painted shells or egg shells from Easter, and more. In some traditions they also decorated it with gold and silver May Balls, which were hurling balls, that were then either given out to children or gifted to winners of a hurling match. It was also known as the only acceptable time to cut a thorn tree, as they were associated with fairies and may have also been a relic of worshipping tree spirits. It would either be decorated where it grew, or branches hung over windows, doors, roofs, and barns either inside or outside. Traditionally, it was the responsibility of the eldest of the house to decorate it.

The tree was usually left up until May 31st, but in some traditions it would be burned in the festival bonfire after singing and dancing around it. In Dublin and Belfast, May Bushes were brought into town and decorated by the whole neighborhood, with each neighborhood competing for the most beautiful bush. These competitions could also lead to neighborhoods attempting to steal others May Bushes, which eventually led to the May Bush being outlawed in Victorian times.

Appeasing the fairies was also a big part in Beltane celebrations, with many traditions revolving around offerings to the fairies and also warding them off, as there were many fears around them stealing dairy. One protection tradition was to leave 3 black coals under the butter churn. Another was to hang May Boughs on the milk pails. And yet another was to hang cattle tails in the barns. Flowers were also used to decorate the cattle's horns for good luck.

Farmers would also lead a procession around the boundaries of the farm and would "carry with them seeds of grain, implements of husbandry, the first well water, and the herb vervain (or rowan)", stopping at the four cardinal points of direction starting at the east, and performing rituals towards each direction at each stop. These processions were said to bring protection of their farm produce and encourage fertility. Some people also made the sign of the cross using milk on the backside of cattle for good luck.

As for fairy offerings, one tradition was to pour milk or leave food at places associated with the fairies such as "fairy trees". In Ireland, cattle were brought to "fairy forts" where a small amount of their blood was poured into the earth with prayers of the herd's safety. Sometimes, the blood would be left to dry and then be burnt.

Visiting holy wells was also a popular way to celebrate Beltane. Visitors would walk sunwise, moving from east to west, around the well while praying for health. They would then leave offerings of coins or cloth. The first water drawn from the well on Beltane was thought to be especially potent, and would bring good luck to the person who drew it.

Morning dew on Beltane was also thought to bring goodluck and health, and maidens would wash their face with it or roll in it at dawn or before sunrise on Beltane. It was also collected in a jar, left in sunlight, and then filtered. The dew was said to increase sexual attractiveness, maintain youthfulness, protect from sun damage, and ensure skin health during the ensuing year.

Modern day celebrations may vary from these more traditional festival activities, but many choose to incorporate or take inspiration from the traditions at least. Popular traditions still revolve around bonfires, feasts, decorating a May Bush, and focusing on protection and growth.

Beltane Associations

Colors - yellow, white, red, green

Food - lamb, milk and dairy, beef, bannocks, caudle, cakes

Animals - cattle, sheep, other herd animals

Items - primrose, rowan, hawthorn, gorse, hazel, marsh marigold, holly, sycamore, yellow and white flowers, flower garland, greenery, morning dew, dairy products

Crystals - citrine, fire agate, fire opal, carnelian, red and yellow jasper

Other - protection, fertility, good luck, fire, smoke, ash, sun, bonfires, farming

Ways To Celebrate

light a bonfire

jump over or dance around a bonfire

decorate a May Bush or May Bough

craft and hang flower garland

bake Beltane Bannocks

collect morning dew

create some caudle

ward and protect your home or property

leave offerings for the fairies

focus on protection, growth, and luck magic

enjoy time in the sun

have a feast

create a bouquet out of yellow and white flowers

visit a farm or petting zoo

[larryfanfiction]

Historical Girl Direction

🎀 The Sweet Yoke by little_obelia @littleobelia (1k, T)

Harry prays to Mother Mary, Undoer of Knots, to send a healer to attend to the Order's ailing hens. Mother Superior consults the blessed yellow pages and finds Tomlinson, L., a local veterinarian.

🎀 Oh Valley Girl by LadyLondonderry @londonfoginacup (3k, G)

Out past the rolling hills and the churning sea sits a little fishing village, nestled in a valley where its residents are protected from the elements, as well as from the outside world as a whole. Harry lives in this little fishing village, and she loves nothing more than feeling the earth beneath her and seeing the sky above her and sometimes dreaming of adventure. Then one day a ship arrives.

🎀 Too Great a Temptation by QuickedWeen @becomeawendybird (5k, G)

Harry and Louis attend a fancy dress ball.

🎀 In a Little Bit of Trouble by QuickedWeen @becomeawendybird (5k, T)

Agent Louis Tomlinson is in hot water and finds help in the most unlikely of places: the sweet waitress at her local automat.

🎀 Hoist the Colours High by Kerasines @justlarried (5k, M)

They’re facing each other, closer now, so close, cut off from the world completely, or at least it feels that way. The blanket cages them in, blocks out the moonlight, dulls the sound of the wind, the sea, and the birds coming from outside. The air is hot and musky, but she thinks she could stay under this blanket forever. It’s their own little universe, in here, shared breath and shared heat and shared time. Or: A Girl Direction Pirates of the Caribbean AU featuring Harry as Will Turner, Louis as Elizabeth Swann, swords, and my obsession with girls in men's period clothing.

🎀 Only You (Blue Always Stays True) by BeautifulWisdom @justanotherghostblr (11k, M)

Regency AU. Lady Harriet falls for her sister's best friend the elusive Alpha Lady Louise who couldn't possibly return her tender feelings. Or could she?

🎀 Withdrawal Was the Weeping by QuickedWeen @becomeawendybird (11k, E)

Confined by life and society, Harry spends her Sunday afternoons walking aimlessly about the countryside as it's her only source of freedom. One Sunday she is aided by the most beautiful woman she has ever met, but not everything is as it seems. Was it a trick of the light? Was it Harry's own active imagination? There is nothing to do but try to find her again.

🎀 Harriet and Louise by Blaaake @newleafover (29k, E)

There’s nothing Harriet can do to alter the world, but she can make Louise laugh. A regency-era girl direction AU

🎀 The Changer and the Changed by homosociallyyours @homosociallyyours (59k, M)

It’s the spring of 1977 and Harry Styles has just moved to New York City after graduating college. She knows she’s a lesbian. She just needs to figure out how to meet other lesbians. Louis Tomlinson works at a popular women’s bookstore in the Lower East Side, Womon’s Direction, where she spends her days reading feminist literature, writing poetry, exchanging friendly barbs with her boss Niall, and dreaming of finding someone to love. When Harry and Louis meet, their connection is instantaneous. Slowly but surely, Louis welcomes Harry into her community of women. Stonewall veteran and old school butch Niall; Liam, a land dyke who’s moved to the city for love; and Zayn, a lesbian musician who’s been ostracized by a vocal part of women’s community for being trans, welcome Harry with open arms, ready to help her find her place in New York City’s bustling lesbian scene. It’s a time of growth for everyone involved.

🎀 into the great wide open by mixedfandomfics @ficshl (69k, T)

It only took a week or so for Harry to truly get into the routine of life on the road. They woke before dawn each morning, ate a small meal, packed up the tent and rounded up the livestock, all before setting out. On a good day, they could make it twenty miles. There hadn’t been many bad ones, but Louis confessed that on a previous trip there had been a solid week where they hadn’t made it more than five miles a day. Soon, Louis promised, animals would start going lame, and wheels would start breaking, and people would start going hungry. The beginning was the easiest, and the end was doable only because the hope of finishing the trek fueled everyone. It was the middle bit, with the tedious marching hundreds of miles from any settlement, that people succumbed to the journey.

🎀 Among Lavender Fields by homosociallyyours @homosociallyyours (70k, E)

At twenty-one, Louis Tomlinson is more than ready to shed the girl next door image that's been with her since her entry into film in her childhood, but with a mother and father steeped in Hollywood tradition it's felt impossible. Meanwhile, Harry Styles is a young, struggling musician new to London, friendless yet eager for the next phase of her life to begin. When French director Marie Coutard casts the two of them in her film, it's a chance for both to break away from the people they've been. Together, they struggle through an acting process that's new and unfamiliar for both of them, learning more than they could've imagined about themselves along the way. As they spend long days picking lavender and long nights sharing the things they've never been able to tell anyone else, their love blooms. Will the flower fade, or will the love they make among lavender fields be one they carry with them to the end?

[moiraimyths]

just wondering, out of all the options for clothes at the tailor which one is the ‘masculine’ one, if that applies?

Temair's fashion sensibilities, especially among the upper classes, are in general very airy and loose regardless of gender. Take the following example: Cethor wears more traditional garments (inspired by historical Irish clothing), i.e. a léine (the long yellow tunic) and ionar (the vest), which may strike as rather dress-like or feminine when compared with modern clothing. Keagan conversely wears a newer style of clothing in Temair, popular with the middle class; a caftan (the robe-like garment), high collared tunic, trousers, etc. These are not especially historically accurate from a regional perspective; caftans/kaftans were more popular with the Ottomans, Russians, etc. But unfortunately the pool of historical Irish clothing with visual references is rather small (little is known pre-12th century, and the English banned a lot of Ireland's traditional clothes 😩), so we occasionally (often) need to "eeehhh?? sure".

So anyway: In the tailor scene, the 'masculine' garment would be the caftan outfit, which in our mind's eye blends these two styles together. You're dressed in a long saffron tunic (similar to Cethor's) with a mauve caftan (similar to Keagan's). Seelie love their spring/summer colours, and vibrant/colourful clothes are status indicators.

However, if you're looking for an outfit without any 'pomp', you can opt for the simple tunic and trousers instead - similar to what the lower class NPC sprites wear. They're as gender neutral as jeans and a t-shirt would be, but not terribly exciting either.

[chinesehanfu]

【Historical Artifacts Reference】

Chinese Tang Dynasty Female Figurines in “乌蛮髻/Wū mán Hairstyle”

some will put lotus flowers in the middle of the hair

[Hanfu · 漢服]Chinese Tang Dynasty(618-907A.D) Traditional Clothing Hanfu & Hairstyle Based On Tang Dynasty Female Figurines

High Tang Period Women Attire and Hairstyle

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📸Recreation Work: @吃货娃娃

🔗Weibo:https://weibo.com/1868003212/MD7GFiYs0

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【Shangsi Festival/Double Third Festival/上巳節】

Double Third Festival or Shangsi Festival (traditional Chinese: 上巳節) is a Chinese festival celebrated on the third day of the third month of the Chinese calendar.

It is said that the origin of this festival comes from the Dinner Party at the Qushui River during the Zhou Dynasty (about 1100–221 BC). Others say its origins come from the ceremonial custom of getting rid of evils by bathing in the river. On this day, people would hold a sacrificing ceremony on a riverside to honor their ancestors, and then take a bath in the river with herbs to cleanse their bodies of filth. Following that, young men and women would then go for a spring outing in which many of these scenes were described in Shi Jing (The Book of Songs).

The Shangsi Festival activities have changed over the course of subsequent dynasties. The entertainment feast and praying for descendants along the riverside were added in the Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD). It was after the Wei and Jin dynasties (220–420 AD) that the festival developed into the Double-Third (Shangsi) Festival that is fixed on the third day of the third lunar month.

In modern times, to observe this festival, people would go for an outing by the water, have picnics, and pluck orchids. It is also a day for invoking cleansing rituals to prevent disease and get rid of bad luck. The day is also traditionally considered to be a possible birthday of the Yellow Emperor.

The ancient traditions of Shangsi are mostly celebrated by several communities spread out among the provinces today, such as the ancient village of Xinye

The great calligrapher Wang Xizhi mentions this festival in his famous work Preface to the Orchid Pavilion Poems, written in regard to the Orchid Pavilion Gathering during the Six Dynasties era.

The Han ethnic people in some places also have special customs on March 3rd. For example, Hunan and other places have the tradition of "March 3rd, boiled eggs with ground (shepherd's) purse", while Anhui and other places have the tradition of eating Baba( a kind of bread, with meat):