#sxunnylixie

A Painter’s Curse | introduction.

ꔫ : fox!spirit Hyunjin x crane!spirit fem reader.

ꔫ au/genre: Historical Fantasy/ cursed lovers AU

ꔫ rating: M (this fic may explore some darker themes please read at your own discretion. Take care of yourself.)

ꔫ wc: 1.2k

ꔫ warnings: dark themes, obsessive nature, obsessive nature, SMUT, fighting, swords.

ꔫ Summary: In a world of ancient shrines and restless spirits, Hyunjin is a painter cursed by a nine-tailed fox—doomed to spend eternity painting the same woman he can never truly have.

You are that woman, reborn in each lifetime, your soul protected by a sorrowful crane spirit who warns you to stay away from him. But fate is cruel, and the moment your eyes meet, the curse awakens again.

Bound by past sins and divine punishment, your lives entwine under blood moons and lantern light. Love has always been your salvation—and your downfall.

When the fox and the crane clash once more, will you finally break the cycle, or become another tragedy painted in ink and blood?

ꔫ tagss: @trashlord-007

The temple bell tolled in the distance, low and mournful, its sound carrying across the misty mountains. Lanterns flickered to life along the village path, their soft glow chasing away the gathering dusk. The world smelled of pine, rice wine, and woodsmoke, a fragrance that belonged wholly to the Joseon nights.

Hyunjin sat alone in his Giwa, brush poised above a half-finished painting. Candlelight danced across his pale features, and his hair—long, black, and unbound—fell like silk across his shoulders. Before him, the canvas waited, but his hand would not move.

The problem was always the same.

He could paint the line of your jaw, the shape of your hands, even the delicate curve of your lips. But your eyes… he could never finish your eyes.

His jaw clenched. The fox spirit’s voice whispered in his head, silken and cruel.

“She will never belong to you. Paint her face, carve it into your memory—but she will always fade. That’s the only thing you can cling onto. She will never be in your arms again. That is the curse your family begged upon you.”

Hyunjin closed his eyes, fighting the ache that pressed against his chest. Centuries had passed, and still he carried the curse like a shackle: to love one soul through countless lifetimes, only to lose her again and again. To watch her forget his face again…and again. 

He didn’t know what hurt him more. The constant loss of you or the simple fact of you not remembering him. 

In a cruel way he would rather you remember him so that when he looks for you, it’ll be like you never left. You guys could pick up from where you left off and be further along in this love story. That would be a dream. 

That is his dream. 

But this was the price of betrayal. This was the punishment for his family defying the fox spirit. 

Over and Over. 

And yet… he painted. He always painted.

You arrived in the village that same season, daughter of a disgraced scholar seeking refuge after your family’s exile. Though your hanbok was beautiful and your manner quiet, there was something about you that unsettled the townspeople.

Perhaps it was your eyes—eyes that sometimes seemed too knowing, too ancient.

You knew why.

From the time you were a child, you had felt the presence of the other. The spirit who lingered at the edge of your vision, slipping into your dreams. Unlike Hyunjin’s fox spirit, yours was a crane spirit—white-feathered, graceful, and sorrowful. Where the fox mocked, the crane whispered warnings.

“Do not trust him,” the crane spirit murmured, appearing in your dream as you stood in a field of reeds. “The painter will find you again. He always does. And each time you follow, you die.”

You woke with the echo of wings fading into the night.

You felt hopeless. This was a constant battle that had followed your family for years and now it was bestowed onto you. 

You remembered your mother’s words. You remember what she said about your grandmother. 

“My mother fell so deeply in love with my father. Their love was unmatched. He was her every waking moment and she was the love of his life. They lived in love with one another for five years before they had me. That’s when your grandmother sadly left us..” 

That’s the dreadful thing about all this. It’s not always instant and it’s not always drawn out. 

It can be the moment you lock eyes with one another, the moment you lock hands or the moment you get comfortable and think you’re in the clear when it can all be taken away from you. 

~~~~~~~

The following day, the mountain mists curled around the roofs of the small village. At the edge of the road, a horse-drawn cart creaked forward, carrying a scholar and his daughter—you.

Your hanbok was beautiful, pale gold and white, resembling the beautiful crane that follows you, that lives within you. Your hair was beautifully styled.

Still, whispers followed as you passed through the market. The villagers had always been suspicious of newcomers, but with you, their unease was sharper. You thought it was the way you were dressed but it seems they looked past that. 

“Her eyes,” someone whispered. “Too strange. Too wise  for one so young.”

You lowered your gaze, pretending not to hear. But you knew why they stared.

For as long as you remembered, you had not been alone.

That night, in your dreams, you stood in a field of reeds swaying beneath the moonlight. A crane descended from the sky, its white feathers glowing, its red crown gleaming like a drop of blood. Its wings spread wide, sheltering you in shadow.

“Do not trust him,” the crane whispered, voice soft yet heavy with sorrow. “The painter seeks you. He always does. And each time, you die. You will have to start this over again.”

You reached out, longing to touch its feathers—but the dream shattered.

“Trust me,” the crane started, “I always take care of you.” 

You sighed softly nodding, knowing that no matter what, your crane will always protect you. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The forest shrine had been abandoned for years, its wooden beams collapsing, its paint faded and flaked. But something pulled you toward it, as though unseen hands guided your steps. Beneath the sagging roof, you found the murals still intact—an ancient story painted across the walls. No matter how faded it looked it was still beautiful to you. 

The stories it held had a place in your heart. 

A man stood with a brush in hand, his eyes full of sorrow. Beside him was a woman’s figure, her face unfinished. Opposite them, a fox spirit crouched with nine curling tails. And painted above them, stretching her wings wide, was a crane—her eyes red as blood.

You staggered back, breath stolen.

The mural… It was you.

A shiver, cold and sharp, traced its way down your spine. The air in the decaying shrine seemed to thicken, pressing in on you, stealing the breath from your lungs. It wasn't just a painting; it was a mirror, reflecting a truth far more ancient and terrifying than you could have ever imagined.

The woman with the unfinished face, the sorrowful painter, the menacing fox, the protective crane—it was all you. A sense of profound disorientation washed over you, blurring the edges of reality. Your life, your memories, even your identity, felt suddenly fragile, like old parchment crumbling at a touch.

Confusion warred with a terrifying clarity. How could a mural, long abandoned and decaying, depict the very essence of your existence?

The whispers of the crane, the unsettling feeling of being watched, the strange familiarity you sometimes felt with places you'd never seen—it all coalesced into a single, overwhelming truth. T

his wasn't just a story; it was your story, unfolding repeatedly through the tapestry of time. A profound sense of helplessness settled deep within you. Y

ou were a character in a play written long ago, and the script was being replayed, its ending already known, its tragedy inevitable. The realization was not just unsettling; it was a soul-deep terror, stripping away any illusion of free will you might have held.

Later, at the village square, you saw him.

He was seated behind a low table covered in inkstones and brushes, his paintings propped around him. Faces stared from every canvas, all bearing a resemblance to you.

Your steps faltered, heart thrumming against your ribs. And then his eyes lifted, locking with yours.

Hyunjin’s brush slipped from his fingers, clattering against the wood.

The curse had come full circle again.

And both your spirits—fox and crane—laughed in the shadows.