#large sunflower canva

[lady-morrigen]

(just say the word and) i'll be home

pairing: gwayne hightower x oc victaria cuy

a/n: idk what happened. i blacked out and this was in my docs. @vampire-exgirlfriend made it pretty for your eyes.

warnings: smut, p in v, idk let me know if i missed anything

rating: explicit (18+ ONLY, mdni)

wc: ~1500, just a little thing

The light of the dawn peeked through the curtains, painting the bare skin of her back a delicate, pale blue. Warm, calloused fingers danced over her spine, drawing invisible flowers and jewels and all things as precious as she. 

Stretching, Victaria’s dark hair spilled over the pillow, ink on blank canvas. The man beside her smiled. 

‘Gods, but she was beautiful.’ 

He propped his head on his hand to gaze down upon her, drinking in every moment, committing every contour of her body to memory. She was never more beautiful to him than in the quiet of the morning; warm and relaxed, pliant in his hands. When he tickled the soft skin at her sides, she flinched, curling in on herself and pushing her hips back to align her body with his. 

She mumbled, soft and sleep riddled, wiggling to fill the gaps between their naked bodies until they were flush. Gwayne wrapped a strong arm around her belly, pulling her impossibly closer, intoxicated by the warm scent of her skin as he buried his face in her neck. He rolled his hips against her, the hardening length of him nestled firmly between her cheeks, a test to see if she was feigning sleep. A moment passed, then another, his breath trembling and hot in her ear, the anticipation almost too much to bear. 

She whined, hiding a smile in her pillow as she wriggled her hips against him—taunting, teasing. He throbbed in response, a large hand lifting her knee to hook her leg over his hip. Hot, open mouthed kisses trailed along her shoulder, her skin pebbling in their wake. 

“Good morning, little sunflower.” His voice was gruff, the last vestiges of sleep not yet faded, and she reacted to the sound of it, pushing closer against him. “I trust you slept well.”

He shifted, adjusting himself so that the firmness of his cock slid smoothly between her folds. The blunt head nudged gently at her clit, and the sound of her sharp intake of breath sent a lightning bolt straight to his core. Her hips began to circle at a deliberate pace, covering him in the growing wetness between her thighs. 

“Aye, Ser, I did.” Victaria reached an arm back, tangling her fingers in his hair. She tilted her hips forward, catching the blunt tip of him at her entrance, languidly teasing it in and out, tightening her grip on his nape when his teeth scraped across the skin of her neck. He could hear her grin as she continued. “Once you finally gave me leave to rest.” 

Gwayne growled, a low rumble against her back, pushing her forward to lie face down on the bed, the weight of his lithe body pressing her into the lush sheets. His fingers gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, lifting her backside so he could continue to slide between the delicate heat of her sex. A string of muttered curses fell from his lips as he fell forward, lacing his fingers with hers and bracing their hands on either side of her head. 

“I did not hear you complain,” he groaned against her skin as he teased at her entrance once more. “I must ensure you think of no one else whilst I am away.” 

Shifting his weight, he freed a hand to line himself up, pushing into her slowly. They groaned in tandem, Gwayne biting at the junction where her neck met her shoulder as he seated himself fully inside her. After a moment, his breathing haggard, he began to roll his hips, moving oh so slowly, lest he finish too quickly. He was impossibly hard, as he always was with her, every muscle in his body straining against the urge to find his release. 

“Fuck, Gwayne,” her voice was tight and reedy, still slightly sleepy, as she moved beneath him. “I would never.”

“No one else could fill you like this.” His thrusts grew deeper, the obscene sound of him moving in her threatening to send him hurtling over the edge.

He leaned back, grabbing fleshy handfuls of her ass as he watched himself disappear into her wet cunt. Reaching down, he pried her hand free from where it gripped the sheets, guiding it to her center, urging her to rub tight circles over her clit. 

He could spend hours with her like that. In fact, he had the night before. Once he learned he would be leaving Oldtown to fight his nephew’s war, he wanted to spend every spare moment tangled up in her, collecting blissful moments to hold him over until his return. ‘If the gods willed it so,’ came the unbidden voice. Though he pushed it away as he fell deeper into her.

As she tightened around him, he began to lose his resolve. He could feel how close she was, the two of them teetering on the brink, racing to the finish line as their thrusts became desperate. He grabbed a handful of her hair, twisting it over his fist and tugging her back until she was pressed against him. He reached around, palming at her breast and rolling a pebbled nipple between his thick fingers. 

“Come on, my love,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. “Let me hear you.” 

With a shout of his name only seconds later, she clenched around him, her body convulsing in his arms as he continued to thrust into her, his pace unrelenting as she came. He let her body fall to the bed, pushing between her shoulder blades, his hips snapping erratically until he stilled, spilling inside of her with a groan so loud it was sure to be heard by the rest of the keep. 

Gwayne collapsed beside her, his hand gripping the back of her thigh, their chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breath. Victaria rolled to face him, throwing a leg over his middle, the contact with his softening length threatening to have him ready for another round. He chuckled, brushing her hair from her damp forehead as he took in her flushed features. 

A feeling of panic made his mouth dry out, his tongue suddenly thick and heavy, sticking to the back of his throat. He had never known what love felt like before Victaria. Gwayne was a handsome young man;the ladies of Oldtown had all but thrown themselves and their daughters at him from the moment he hit puberty, but those were mere dalliances in comparison. What he felt for the woman he held in his arms was foreign, incredible, yet absolutely terrifying. The idea of leaving her behind, with the risk of never returning to her warm embrace, sent ice through his veins. 

He stared at the ceiling, willing the panic to subside, to enjoy the tender moments with her while he had them, to no avail. Her lilting voice pulled him from his reverie. 

“You are thinking loud enough to wake the dead, my love.” Victaria drew soothing circles on his chest, her large, blue eyes searching his face. “Tell me what is bothering you.” 

Gwayne loosed a breath, throwing his arm around her and pulling her close. 

“I am…” he trailed off, the words dying in his throat as he fought the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “I am afraid.” 

She hummed, a sound of understanding, gentle and comforting. There was no need for him to elaborate. For that, he was grateful. He found it difficult to discuss his fears, the fear of being seen as craven louder than all else. She peppered his chest with kisses, climbing on top of him, holding him firmly between her thighs, grounding him. 

“You are the most gallant knight in all the realm, my lord.” His hands came to rest against her thighs and she began to move against him, offering a welcome distraction. “You will return to me. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Looking up at her in that moment, Gwayne thought that he could die happy having known the love of a good woman, of this good woman. No matter what happened in the weeks to come, he would fight like hell to come home to Oldtown. To her. 

“I’m going to marry you, Taria,” he said. She smiled down at him, lifting her hips to sink down onto his length, his remaining spend lubricating enough for him to slide in. She rolled her hips against him, throwing her head back and raking her nails down the length of his chest. “When I come back, I am going to make you my wife.”

She moaned, speeding up her movements as his words spurred her on.

“And then,” he flipped her over, settling himself between her legs and bottoming out inside of her. “And then I’m going to put a baby in you.” 

“I like the sound of that,” she whispered, reaching up to place a gentle hand against his cheek. “How about we get a head start?”

taglist: @dragonsbone, @emilykaldwen, @arrthurpendragon, @lightblindingme

[tinytinyblogs]

A kiss from you would be nice

They successfully achieved their goal of receiving a kiss from you.

(Atz reaction, non-idol)

Hyung line Maknae line

Ateez masterlist here

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Hongjoong

The shrill ring of the doorbell sliced through the air like a playful melody, snapping you out of the warm bubble you'd created with Seonghwa. With a smile still lingering on your lips, you hurried to the door, eager to see who stood on the other side. Twisting the doorknob, the outside world flooded in, revealing a grinning Hongjoong with a bouquet of sunflowers that rivaled the summer sun in brilliance. His smile widened upon seeing you, a genuine beam that crinkled the corners of his eyes. You mirrored his expression, your heart swelling with happiness at the unexpected visit. "Hey!" you exclaimed, stepping aside to usher him in. He sauntered past, his arms laden with more than just flowers. A large paper bag peeked out from his grip, overflowing with promise. You followed him inside, curiosity bubbling over. He made a beeline for the table, dropping the bag with a dramatic flourish that mirrored his playful personality. You plopped down beside him, anticipation tingling in your fingertips. "What's all this?" you asked, leaning in for a closer look. Hongjoong grinned, then slowly unraveled the package, revealing a treasure trove of delights. There was the jacket you'd admired in a tiny boutique, the one covered in whimsical sketches he'd claimed to have doodled on rainy days. Nestled beside it were the adorable plushies you'd squealed over on display, their fluffy faces mirroring your own surprise.

"It's your birthday present!" he declared, his voice ringing with excitement. "I didn't know what to get you, so I got you everything!" A laugh bubbled up from your chest, warming your cheeks. His gaze clung to you like stardust to a midnight sky, each flicker of your smile catching the light in his eyes and setting his heart ablaze. It was a smile he craved, a rare bloom in the desert of his days, and to see it blossom across your face was a treasure beyond compare. The curve of your lips, the soft dimple that danced in your cheek – these were his constellations, guiding him through the vast unknown. "Hongjoong, you really didn't have to go to all this trouble!" you protested, even as your fingers trailed over the soft fabric of the jacket. "But I wanted to!" he insisted, sitting closer to you, his knee brushing yours in a subtle gesture. His cologne became a tangible melody around you, weaving through the air and wrapping you in its warm embrace. It was a scent of wood and spice, of sunshine and laughter, an olfactory portrait of the man himself. Its intensity mirrored the way his gaze held yours, an unwavering presence that felt like a blessing on your face. His figure, usually shrouded in an aura of nonchalance, seemed magnified. The angles of his jawline chiseled by unseen light, the slope of his shoulders a canvas for cascading moonlight. He carried himself with the grace of a dancer, each movement deliberate and captivating. Yet, amidst this breathtaking portrait, an unexpected warmth flickered in his eyes.

Your lips stretched into a little smile, mirroring the sunshine spilling from Hongjoong's eyes. His happiness was infectious, a golden bloom radiating outwards, warming the room despite the autumn chill. You tilted your head, curiosity dancing in your eyes. "What's now, Hongjoong?" you teased, your voice laced with playful anticipation. He grinned, a mischievous glint in his gaze. "Ah, but this, darling, is the finale," he declared, his voice rich with unspoken promises. "The grand curtain call, the pièce de résistance!"he said. "Another gift?" you exclaimed, your brows raised in mock disbelief. He chuckled, a low rumble that tickled your stomach. "But not just any gift," he clarified, his eyes holding yours with a newfound intensity. "This, my love, is the most precious one of all." Before you could blink, his lips descended upon yours, soft and warm like a summer breeze. The kiss was a whispered promise, a silent explosion of fireworks painting the night sky behind your closed eyelids. Time slipped away, becoming a tangled ribbon lost in the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. This, this was a first kiss like no other, a meeting of souls under the soft glow of candlelight, a whisper of forever stolen in the space between breaths. He finally pulled away, his eyes smoldering with an affection that made your heart skip a beat. "It's me," he breathed, his voice raw with emotion. "The last gift, the most important one."

Seonghwa

Seonghwa hummed a gentle melody, the notes swirling around the room like autumn leaves dancing in the breeze. It reached your ears, pulling you into the warmth of the kitchen where he stood, a picture of domesticity. He'd declared earlier that he wanted to cook for you both, to spend the rest of the day wrapped in each other's company, and the aroma of sizzling garlic and spices already hinted at the deliciousness to come. Drawn by the music and the promise of food, you tiptoed closer, a smile playing on your lips. Standing behind him, you stretched up on your tiptoes, peering over his shoulder to see the culinary magic he was weaving. "Need a hand, chef?" you teased, your voice tinged with amusement. Seonghwa glanced over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners with warmth. "No, it's all under control, darling," he assured you, his voice a silken caress. The "really?" that escaped your lips was almost inaudible, a sigh of contentment more than a question. You rested your head on his arm, your cheek finding a haven in the crook of his elbow. The world shrunk to the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his movements, and the whisper of his laughter as he turned on you fully. "Why the long face, love?" he chuckled, pulling you into a warm embrace. His hands settled on your back, grounding you against him. "Feeling bored already?" You nodded, your face buried in the comforting expanse of his chest. "Maybe just a little," you mumbled, your voice muffled by his shirt.

"Hmm," he hummed, the sound vibrating through you like a lullaby. "Then stay right here," he whispered, his lips close to your ear. "The food will be ready soon, and then we can snuggle up on the couch and watch every terrible movie we can find. How does that sound?" The pout on your face was as adorable as a kitten's, pulling at Seonghwa's heartstrings and making him chuckle. He reached up, his large hand dwarfing your cheek as he cupped it softly. The warmth of his touch seemed to radiate inwards, melting away your little frown. His eyes, those beautiful pools of melted chocolate, held yours for a moment, a silent conversation playing out between their depths. Then, with a slow, deliberate lean, he closed the distance between your lips. The world narrowed to the space where your breaths mingled, the taste of him sweet and intoxicating. The kiss was like a slow burn, starting as a gentle brush of lips, then igniting into a smoldering ember that spread through you. His hand on your cheek deepened, tracing the curve of your jaw with a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the feel of his solid form an anchor in the swirling current of sensation. He tasted of sunshine and spices, of laughter and promises whispered in the twilight. His tongue danced with yours, a playful duet echoing the melody that still hummed in the air. Each touch, each breath, was a whispered affirmation of everything unspoken, a story written in the language of desire.

His breath fanned against your lips as he pulled away, leaving behind a trail of fire and unspoken promises. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he cupped your cheek with his hand, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "Cute," he whispered, the word echoing with a possessive tenderness in the quiet kitchen. "You're so damn cute, I can't even focus on cooking anymore." He glanced back at the stove, the pot of simmering sauce bubbling gently as if in agreement. With a decisive click, he turned off the heat, his attention fully back on you. "If you didn't stop being so adorable," he continued, his gaze holding yours captive, "I think I'd just keep kissing you until the kitchen caught fire." His hand reached out, finding yours like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole. With a gentle tug, he pulled you into another hug, his strong arms enveloping you in a warm embrace. He swayed you slowly from side to side, a contented sigh escaping his lips. "Just… stay like this," he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair. "Let me hold you, let me be close to you for just a little while. Then, we'll eat, we'll watch movies, we'll do whatever you want… as long as you promise to keep being this ridiculously cute." His words, each one laced with affection, sent shivers down your spine. You nestled closer, his warmth seeping into your bones like sunshine on a cold day. In that moment, surrounded by the scent of spices and the melody of his laughter, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just you and him, two souls intertwined in a dance of unspoken promises and stolen moments.

Yunho

Your knuckles turned white as you clutched Yunho's hand, a plastered smile stretching across your face. His fingers rested comfortably on your waist, a stark contrast to the jitters in your stomach. You'd successfully cajoled your friend into playing pretend boyfriend for the evening, proving to the gossips that 'Loner (Y/N)' was a thing of the past. But Yunho's performance seemed too genuine, too familiar. Had he always played out imaginary scenarios where you were his, where these stolen touches were more than just a charade? Every brush of his palm against yours sent a shockwave through you, making your heart threaten to leap out of your chest. Even his casual hold tightened a knot in your throat. You snuck a look at your phone screen, a silent signal that it was time to escape the prying eyes at the friendly gathering. Yunho understood instantly, his goodbye smiles as easy as yours were forced. As you walked, his hand lingered on your back like a brand, refusing to relinquish its hold. "Thanks," you breathed, attempting to turn your body and face him, but he mirrored your movement, creating an unexpected intimacy. "At least they'll stop pushing blind dates and 'fix-its' on me now." Your eyes locked, the air around you charged. The space between you, once comfortable, now felt electric. "Your hand," you stammered, "You can let go now." Yunho hummed, his gaze tracing the path of his fingers on your wrist, then meeting yours with a slow, enigmatic smile.

"I find it comfortable," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin. "So, maybe we can just... keep it like this for a while longer, hmm?" His eyes, usually brimming with mischievous laughter, were suddenly serious, holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. They glittered, not with amusement, but with something much deeper, something that sent a tremor through your entire being. You cleared your throat, the playful question dying on your lips. "What's wrong with you, huh?" you asked, hoping the light tone would mask the fluttering in your stomach. He didn't respond at first, just stared at you with an unnervingly earnest gaze. Then, he hesitantly reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a whisper of a touch. Instead of pulling away as you expected, he surprised you by intertwining his fingers with yours, linking them together in a way that felt strangely intimate. "Being your fake boyfriend," he began, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, "made me realize a few things." He paused, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken emotions. You could feel his thumb gently tracing circles on your cheek, its warmth branding your skin, rendering you speechless. Then, he spoke again, his voice softer now, almost a confession. "All this time," he breathed, "I've dreamt of being your real boyfriend. Imagining holding you close, claiming you as mine, just like I did today." His words resonated through you, each syllable echoing in the chambers of your heart. His other hand found your chin, tilting your face up towards his, drawing you closer, closer still.

The distance between your lips shrank, the air crackling with electricity. This wasn't the practiced kiss you'd imagined for your fake relationship, there was no performance, no pretense. This was raw, honest, and terrifyingly real. He was here, professing his true feelings, blurring the lines between reality and your secret desires. Every fiber of your being yearned to meet him halfway, to surrender to the promise of his lips on yours. The spark from his kiss lingered on your lips, a phantom fire dancing across your skin. You pulled away slowly, your heart thrumming like a hummingbird trapped in your chest. His eyes, still smoldering with unspoken desire, held yours captive in that impossibly close space. "That's..." he began, his voice a husky murmur, barely louder than the frantic echo of your own pulse. A subtle smile softened his features, catching on the edge of his lips as his gaze flickered to the blush blooming across your cheek. It was a sight he swore could paint constellations across the night sky, a whisper of a vulnerability that made his own heart skip a beat. "That's what I've always wanted to do," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek, a feather of promise tracing the contours of your ear. Each word was a brushstroke across your soul, painting a future you'd once only dared to dream of. Your senses swam; the scent of his cologne, the heat of his hand still lingering on your chin, the taste of his kiss lingering on your lips - everything conspired to pull you deeper into his orbit. "So," he murmured, his voice laced with anticipation, "why don't we make it real? Why don't we be together, not just pretend?"

Yeosang

The downpour outside was a symphony of percussion against the café windows, each raindrop a drumbeat on the glass pane. You sat nestled in the worn leather booth, gaze drawn away from the swirling steam of your hot chocolate and towards the blurred grey world beyond. Kang Yeosang occupied the seat beside you, the familiar warmth of his presence radiating like a tiny sun against the chill of the storm. Despite the shiver that danced down your spine, Yeosang's company was a soothing balm. Each conversation felt like a brushstroke, building a vibrant tapestry of your shared past. His voice, usually a playful lilt, softened to a contemplative murmur as he spoke, "The rain, trapped here with just each other...it's like being back in university." You hummed in agreement, memories flooding back with the evocative scent of wet pavement and damp coffee grounds. You could almost feel the clammy press of textbooks against your thigh, the nervous tremor in your fingers as you fidgeted with a pen, stolen glances at Yeosang across the crowded library table. It was then, amidst the whispered discussions and rustling papers, that your heart first learned to tap out a frantic rhythm against your ribs, an inexplicable melody dedicated solely to him. Yeosang chuckled, a soft sound that melted into the hiss of the rain. "Remember that time we got caught in the downpour after class? Stuck in this very café, talking until the sun peeked through the clouds." His words were a whispered key, unlocking a treasure chest of shared smiles, hushed jokes, and unspoken feelings.

You saw it again, your younger self with cheeks flushed pink and eyes filled with a dawning awareness. Every stolen glance, every whispered exchange, felt like a whispered confession, leaving your heart hammering a wild tattoo against your ribs. He paused, tilting his head towards the drumming rain. "You were so cute that day, you know? Just like you always are." The vast cafe became a forgotten canvas as the storm outside waged its war against the windows. Rain, the sole audience, pelted the glass in a relentless rhythm, a silver curtain isolating you and Kang Yeosang in your own intimate world. No other soul dared venture into this downpour, leaving you two adrift in a sea of shared memories and quiet anticipation. His question, soft as falling rain, broke the silence. "Do you remember it?" Yeosang turned, his smile a beacon in the dimly lit cafe. It was a perfect smile, one etched in your mind alongside the memory he was about to evoke. You nodded, the echo of that day forever resonating within you. "Me too," he murmured, fingers nervously tracing circles on the table, a warmth radiating from them despite the storm's chill. "I remember it too," he whispered, his voice a delicate thread woven through the rain's insistent drumming. It was faint, almost swallowed by the downpour, yet every syllable resonated deep within you. "It's etched in my soul," he continued, his gaze locking with yours, "because I always wanted to..." He seemed to be searching for words, for a way to bridge the gulf of years and unspoken yearning.

Then, leaning closer, his voice became a conspiratorial whisper against the drumbeat of the rain. The world narrowed to the space between your breaths, the air thick with unspoken truths. His lips met yours, soft and tentative at first, then deepening as the dam of unspoken desires finally broke. The rain, which had been a persistent thrum in the background, faded into a distant echo, replaced by the frantic symphony of your heart. Pulling away, his eyes smoldered with an intensity that mirrored the storm outside. "I really wanted to kiss you just like that," he confessed, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. The words, whispered but heavy with meaning, hung in the air like raindrops clinging to leaves. His gaze held you captive, an intense emerald beacon in the rain-kissed cafe. The storm outside drummed a frantic rhythm, but it was the thunder in his eyes that made your breath hitch. Inches separated you, his breath warm against your cheek, and you felt rooted in place, a fragile flower under the scrutiny of the sun. The memory tugged at the corners of your mind, a whisper from your university days now blossoming into a vibrant truth. That shared gaze, that stolen moment in the sun-drenched library, it wasn't just a silly crush story, a whispered hope lost in the cacophony of student life. It was real, a seed that had taken root in both of your hearts, growing silently but steadily through the years. His voice, when it finally broke the spell, was a husky murmur, like a secret shared in the quiet hush of a confession booth. "I always wanted to tell you after that," he admitted, his eyes searching yours with the intensity of a thousand untold stories. "Always wanted to tell you that I like you, so much more than words can say."

©Tinytinyblogs

[starlost-mochi-x]

omg how about artist!reader trying to teach changbin how to paint/draw, would be so cute!! idk but when i draw i love to make au of me with my friends, like spidersonas, or tlou yk? do as you wish 💥

hey anon ! i love this, as an artist myself i would be so excited to teach any of skz how to draw/paint (aside from hyunjin ofc, he's so great at it lol) here you go love <3

sunflower - seo changbin

pairing: seo changbin x reader

summary: you decide to try and teach changbin how to paint

genre: fluff, non-idol! au, crack, reader is the artsy type, changbin tries his best lol

a/n: comments are appreciated <3

"Binnie, that's not how you hold the paintbrush-"

"But I like holding it like this!"

You sigh and fight a smile as you reach across and attempt to adjust Changbin's grip on the paintbrush. He's holding it in his fist, all his fingers curled around it, a bit like the way a murderer would hold a knife.

Hopefully he doesn't end up trying to stab anything with it, you think. That brush was really expensive.

Changbin whines as you take the brush out of his grip and show him how to hold it, swiping a few experimental strokes of red against his canvas.

"Like this," you say, handing it back to him.

He pouts but does as you say, attempting to swipe across the canvas just like you showed him. He manages to get the hang of it, his eyes widening. He laughs, the sound bright and surprised.

You laugh. "It works better like that, doesn't it?"

The bedroom floor is scattered with canvases, watercolour paint palettes, a box full of mismatched acrylic paint tubes, and various other artists' paraphernalia. You had pulled out the box of all your art stuff from the cupboard earlier, intending to paint for the afternoon. Changbin, who was bored, had coaxed you into letting him join you.

Now you both sat in the dappled sunlight filtering into the bedroom from the large window. The light cast a mahogany glow over the floor and the mess of various paints and watercolours seemed to reflect their bright colours onto the far wall in haphazard, colourful strokes and patterns. You and Changbin had a large canvas each, set and propped against the bed. Subconsciously, you realised too late that it might not be a good idea to paint near the bedsheets, but Changbin didn't seem to mind, so you let it go.

Your canvas was covered in varying shades of pastel greens, browns and yellows, a bouquet of sunflowers tied with a red ribbon. You were quite proud of it, having spent about an hour painting each individual petal of the sunflowers. It looked great.

Or better than Changbin's, at any rate.

His canvas was a mess of vibrant blues and pinks, two messy stick figures in the middle painted in thick strokes of black. One was taller than the other, and you smiled at his messy depiction. A drip of blue paint hit the floor, followed by a drop of pink. He'd put so much paint on his canvas it was all beginning to slide off. You hurriedly set your brush down and adjusted his canvas to lie down on the floor to prevent any more mess. Sitting up on your knees, you surveyed his canvas. Tilting your head, you looked at the man sitting beside you.

"What is it?" you asked gently, so as not to upset him.

Changbin grinned, a smear of pink on his cheek curving upwards as he smiled. He kissed your temple, then looked down at his work, obviously very proud. He laughed.

"It's us."

a/n: we love artist changbin ✊

[riotwritesthings]

Pride month request!!!

Color: purple my beloved

Ship: stony

Word prompt(if you want): sunflowers

Love youuuuuuu 🥰🥰🥰

I love youuuuu and you've already read this but I guess everyone else can read it too lol

Royal Purple

Stony - T, 600 - Fluff, artist!Steve Rogers

Yes this is technically part of "a series of learning experiences" But that's not important to read it

-

“You know, when you asked to paint me, this is not what I had in mind.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Steve asks, lifting his brush as he looks up at him.

“No no, just making conversation,” Tony says quickly.

“And moving my canvas in the process.”

“Hey, you knew I was gonna talk the whole time,” Tony points out, “and if you didn’t, well, are you even my boyfriend?”

“I did, and I am,” Steve says happily, turning his attention back to the field of wildflowers he’s painting across Tony’s stomach. “So what did you think I meant?” He asks as he carefully adds flourishes of color among the shades of green.

Tony hums, letting his gaze drift up to the ceiling, and finally says, “I don’t want to say now.”

"Did it involve the phrase ‘French girls’?"

“Noo…” Tony says slowly, trying to fight down a laugh, and he feels the bed beneath them shaking as Steve chuckles fondly. He quickly gets bored of staring at the ceiling and cranes his head down again to watch the movement of the paintbrush as he says, “So, tell me about these flowers.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks distractedly.

“Well, like those purple ones, what are they called?”

"I don’t know any of the names," Steve says with a laugh, then lifts his brush and looks up when Tony makes surprised sputtering noises at him. “I just know what they look like, sort of!” He defends, “I’m working from memory here!”

“So you’re just making things up,” Tony says with an offended sniff, "and here I thought I was going to be your masterpiece."

“Hey now, I am putting thought into it here,” Steve pouts, flipping his paintbrush around to poke the end against one of the flowers near Tony’s hip. “This color is called royal purple, and I’ve been thinking that it would look perfect on you,” Steve explains, then shoots him a cheeky grin as he adds, “You know, because you’re my prince charming.”

“Boo, cheesy,” Tony says, but he can’t fight down his smile or the pleased flush rising in his cheeks.

“You love it,” Steve says confidently, grinning wider, and Tony can’t exactly argue that. Steve props himself up and then leans over to grab a different brush, his elbow digging into Tony’s thigh a little. “Here,” he says as he settles back down sprawled between Tony’s legs,“I’ll add a flower I do know the name of.”

“The suspense builds,” Tony says, dropping his head back against the pillow again.

He tries to figure out what Steve is painting from the ticklish drag of the brush, but he quickly loses track. So instead he lets his eyes fall closed and just tries not to squirm until Steve announces that he’s done.

“Alright, lets see the extent of your flower knowlege,” Tony says, lifting his head and looking down at himself. He finds a large, familiar yellow flower spread across his skin, the tips of its bright petals reaching from his ribs to his navel.

“Its a sunflower,” Steve says unnecessarily, smiling widely up at him and Tony can feel it coming as Steve adds, “because you’re my sunshine.”

"So cheesy," Tony accuses, but his voice comes out thick and he can’t resist reaching out. He gets his hand in Steve’s hair, on the curve of his shoulder, and then pulls him up into a kiss, heedless of the paint smearing between them.

“You love it,” Steve says again, smiling against his lips.

"I love you, Tony corrects, even though they both know its the same thing.

[rainbowcaleb]

If you need a goofy little fic distraction right now, here is 1.2k short and sweet words about surprises, costumes, Jester, Fjord, Beau, boats, bagels, baguettes, buns, breads and more 💙🍞

(Read and comment on ao3)

“Jester, this is an awful lot of bread.” Fjord pushes past the two heavy bags by the door, their canvas sides obscuring what’s inside but the heads of the baguettes peeking from the top are clue enough.

“Hellooo, I'm in the kitchen!”

He can hear her voice despite the well padded room muffling the sound; Jester’s skill at projection is the stuff of legend. He side steps another crate that smells suspiciously like yeast and a large sunflower patterned tote bag of buns as he gingerly makes his way through their house. “Beau is with me, she says she ‘has the stuff’ . Should I be worried?”

Beau’s sigh is audible even though Fjord doesn’t have eyes on her in this carbohydrate jungle. “What part of ‘need to know’ escapes you?”

“Kneed to know!” They’re close enough to the kitchen now that Jester pokes her head out of the doorframe giggling. “That’s a good one, Beau.” Miraculously there’s nary a crumb on Jester’s all-black lace outfit, incongruous to the room behind her piled high with crusty rustic loaves.

Fjord has experience in how to navigate this. “Wow, don’t you look lovely today, also, if you could perhaps tell me what is going on—”

“Can you hold out your arms?” Jester steps towards him and lifts her arms straight, a strange mimic of a hug as if one has never done it before.

Fjord does so, but continues his gentle prod. “My love, would it be okay if I grabbed a snack? It looks like we have plenty extra.”

“Whoa, your wingspan is so wide.” Jester looks at Beau. “You think you brought enough?”

Beau gives Fjord an appraising look. “You working on your traps and lats? Some pre-wedding routine? Looking good.” She grins at Jester. “Yeah, I have enough.”

“Absolutely not!” Jester rounds back on Fjord, taking advantage of his raised arms to wrap her own around his waist. “The bread isn’t for you. It’s not really for me either. It’s the theme , Fjord.”

Fjord knows if he doesn't or if he does asks it's a trap either way, but it’s a risk he must take. “Someone want to clue me in?”

“Fuck man, did you forget?” Beau laughs then covers her mouth to hide it. “He’s all yours, Jester.”

“Should I pre-apologize?” Fjord glances over Jester’s head at Beau. She shrugs but there’s a glint to her eye he doesn’t like.

“It’s fine , like totally, I know you’ve been super busy this week finishing up the whole ‘buying another ship for the fleet and hiring a crew thing’ but you really should look at a calendar once in a while.” She squeezes his middle then quickly shoves her hands under his shirt. Jester tickles like it's her mission to seek, destroy, and cause the most giggles.

“Mercy!” Fjord laughs. “I concede! Do I need to wave a white flag above my head?”

“Depends, are your undies white today, and can you take 'em off and wave those?” Jester pats his stomach and pulls her hands back out with a smile.

“Absolutely do not forget I am in the room right now.” Beau speaks from behind the safety of her hands shielding her eyes.

“Pbbfft, you’re no fun.” Jester sticks out her tongue but does take a step back. “It’s the costume party today! The neighborhood contest? All the kids are going to be stopping by for treats ‘cause I’m trying to bribe them to vote for us?”

“Oh.” Fjord inhales; some part of him knew it is today and that part of the chaos of this week had been decorating every surface with fall leaves, gourds of all sizes and painted face persuasions, and Jester’s insistence of sampling a strange but bountiful variety of baked goods. He knows it doesn’t look good that he forgot, but to be fair his makeshift panel for hiring new crew had included Marius for ‘reading people to see if they’re the right fit’— whatever he meant by that– and Kingsley who in their words ‘think the newbies need a bit of a test first’ which Fjord learned the hard way was just skirting the lacey edge of unethical. He is feeling exhausted after a week of too much peopleing and too little fire extinguishers on board a wooden ship.

“The party is tonight.” He says simply.

“And you, my lovely to-be, are just in time for the costume fitting. Have you been practicing your bat screech?”

“Ah.” It all comes back to him in a buttered bread scented rush. The half-conversation he heard Jester and Reani having. The craft night with Veth and Yasha. The suspiciously full bag Beau is currently carrying. “I’m not good at animal voices the same way I am with accents.” Fjord tries to shrug like he isn’t afraid of what is in store.

Jester sighs. “Just promise me you’ll do your best. I heard the best themed house on the street gets free cinnamon crunch rolls for a month .”

“Darling, my love, we are surrounded by rolls right now.”

“And that’s for the bribe! Keep up!” Jester smacks his arm lightly.

“Yeah, keep up, Captain.”

Fjord sends a lukewarm glare Beau’s way but he is intelligent enough to know when the battle is lost. He has to keep his eyes ahead on the war.

“Are our friends joining us?”

Jester takes the bag from Beau’s arms. “Duh, of course! Caleb is helping Reani teleport over and she’s bringing the headbands. Veth says she’s gonna try and get Luc to be a baby bat but he’s been really teenagery this week so who knows. Yasha and Caduceus picked up their costumes this morning so I bet they’ll be here any minute!”

“Do you need me to run out and get anything?” Fjord eyes the distant door, half-walled off by baked fences.

“Nope!” Jester pops the ‘p’ with her mouth. “Just put on the sexy bat costume and we can start the night with a bang!”

“I am right here. ” Beau repeats.

“Surely Beauregard, you’d want to be the sexy bat instead? Yasha would love to see you…” Fjord tries to think but it’s like the flour has seeped into his brain. “Flap around sexily?”

“I don’t need any help there.” Beau flexes and sends a wink to Jester. “No, this bat costume is made. Just. For. You.” She pokes his arm with each word like deflating a balloon with a barb.

“Captain Tusktooth, won’t you do it for me?” Jester’s voice lilts up and Fjord knows what he will see when he meets her eyes. Glossy, round, perhaps a little magically enhanced to be utterly convincing, but that may just be Jester’s natural charm.

“Just for tonight?” His willpower is crumbling like the pastry crumbs below his boots.

“Yes!” Jester hugs him again. “Just for the party!”

“It’s only a couple hours?”

“Maybe like four or five or maybe six,” Fjord’s sudden cough sounds strangled. “It might go past midnight, but yes just for tonight! My sexy little flappy Fjordy bat, please do it for me.”

“For you, always yes.” He doesn’t have it in his heart to say no. Fjord can suffer the embarrassment for a few hours. He knows the smiles and laughing kisses from Jester will be worth it. Plus, who are they to pass up free cinnamon crunch buns for a whole month ?

[imaginatorcreates]

Commission for Toast (@sketchy-tour)!

Toast here asked me to make a tune for their Welcome Home OC, Dandy Leon, and the lovable Wally Darling. A sort of love song, if you will. Add on top of that an idea for a written scene between the two and you have this!

(Also I'm eating up your comments in Discord, please know that /pos)

This is my 29th creation. This is for Dandy Leon and Wally Darling. A song of spring, being in bloom, and many references to Dandy's Delights (for this is a tune with Dandy in it!). The goobers are waltzing in the garden and having fun little stumbles, but they're enjoying themselves because the world is in bloom.

Painted Flowers

25 March 2024 — 26 March 2024

Summary: Wally wants to paint someone to day. But who should he paint? Barnaby suggests to him, "Why not Dandy?"

Word Count: ~2.8k words

TW: None

Author’s Note: Enjoy! Also on AO3 as a gift.

One day, Wally Darling woke up and decided that he was going to paint today.

If someone were to ask him why, like his best friend did when the large blue pooch stopped by the painter’s sentient house, he couldn’t explain it. “I just want to paint today, Barnaby,” Wally said in his signature monotonous voice. He pocketed some of his paintbrushes and tubes of acrylic paint in the pockets of his blue cardigan as he added, “I have a problem, though.”

“Eh? What’s botherin’ my lil’ apple today?” Barnaby B. Beagle asked as he leaned against Home’s outer walls. The dark blue ear closest to the front door perked up as he joked, “Ain’t it too early to feel gray? I thought that was Frank’s job!” The dog howled in laughter, then in mock pain as Home lightly smacked him with his door. “Alright, alright! I get it Home!”

Wally laughed a quiet little “Ha ha ha,” even though he didn’t quite get what was funny about the joke. The few times he had asked Barnaby to explain a joke to him, his best friend had groaned and placed a paw over his snout.

“A joke ain’t funny if I hafta explain it,” he had said, “but for you, lil’ buddy, fine. I will.” Barnaby had patted his shoulder to show that he meant no ill will with his tone, but that night and for the next few ones, Wally had tried and failed to squash the thought that he might’ve ruined his best friend’s jokes forever.

“Home, I get it. No makin’ fun of the sourpuss– Home!” Barnaby let out a few more laughs, then thumped at his chest twice as he cleared his throat. “Lil’ buddy, ya said ya had a problem?”

“Oh, yes. I have a problem.” Wally wordlessly gave Barnaby a blank canvas, then his folded wooden easel. The former was off white and lightly textured, while the latter was light brown with splatters of miscellaneous colors. The hinges were squeaky with use and no longer smelled of wood but instead, it smelled faintly of chemicals from the paints he used.

It was bad for him, according to Frank and Poppy, but he found it comforting. Could something that was bad also be comforting? He would have to ask someone about it.

But, that was for later. Another problem for later.

“I don’t know what to paint,” Wally said as he grabbed his palette, stepped outside, and closed the door. He craned his neck up, took a few steps away from his taller friend, then craned his neck a little less. “I don’t feel like painting red apples. But I like painting red apples. I don’t feel like painting you, but I like painting you too.” He fiddled with one of his paintbrushes, running the clean bristles over his fingers as he asked, “What should I do, Barnaby?”

“Well, gee Walls.” Barnaby furrowed his brow as he exhaled through his nose. “How’s about ya paint one of your neighbors?”

“Oh. That’s a good idea.” Wally paused stroking his fingertips with the paintbrush bristles, then resumed as another problem made itself apparent. “But who? Who should I paint today Barnaby?”

“Well, you can’t paint me! You said you didn’t wanna.”

“I still love you Barnaby.”

“Yeah, love ya too.” Barnaby started to thump his foot on the ground, quietly letting out a low growl as he thought. “Who have ya painted?”

“I’ve painted you, Barnaby. I’ve painted Julie, and I’ve painted Frank. I’ve painted Sally, and I’ve painted Poppy. I’ve painted Eddie, and I’ve painted Howdy.” Wally counted off each neighbor on each of his fingers, and he was left with one finger left standing. “I’ve tried to paint Home, but Home is very large and requires a lot of time. I will finish Home’s portrait soon.”

Home creaked an apology.

“It’s okay Home.”

“Huh. How about ya paint one of our other neighbors?” Barnaby asked. “How’s about that one with the sunflowers in their yard? Dandy?”

“Dandy?” Wally stopped brushing his fingertips as the name bounced around his head, trying to attach itself to a face. Sunflowers in their yard…green…brown hat…flowers. But not Julie’s type of flowers. Julie’s flowers were loud and vibrant, brave and running towards what she loved. Flowers attached to Dandy’s name were bright, yes, but they were gentle. They curled away from harsh words and they bloomed in the quiet moments.

The painter gasped. “Oh! Yes! I should paint Dandy!” Almost at once, the floodgates in his brain opened. Ideas flooded his mind, breaking through darkness with shades of green and yellow and red. He almost wished that he was as big as Barnaby so he could walk further with each step. His plans of painting couldn’t wait!

Barnaby let out a howl of laughter and gestured to the main road with a jerk of his head. “C’mon lil’ apple. Let go get your sunflower’s portrait painted.”

“My sunflower?” Wally asked as the pair started on the journey to the gardener’s house. “Barnaby, the sunflowers belong to Dandy. And I will be painting Dandy, not their sunflowers.”

The blue dog snickered. “Alright lil’ buddy.”

Wally didn’t understand that joke either.

The sun shone down on the pair of best friends as they approached the earthy-colored house. Even from a distance, the yellow flowers stood tall towards the sun, almost greeting them with how they were turned towards them. Some were lightly tied to wooden stakes, but they still looked healthy.

Standing next to the sunflowers was a puppet with green felt, short and fluffy brown hair, and squarish glasses on their face. The sleeves of their brown cardigan were partially rolled up as they inspected some of the leaves of the sunflowers, their face deep in concentration as their mouth moved slightly with words that were too quiet to hear.

“Heya Dandy!” Barnaby barked out as the distance between the puppets started to close.

Dandy jumped and looked up from their work. Their eyes widened and they scrambled to dust off their clothes, roll down their sleeves, and step out of the thick of their sunflowers. “Wally! Barnaby!” they called back. “What can I do for y’all?”

“Funny, they called your name first Walls,” Barnaby murmured.

“That was supposed to be funny?” Wally asked.

“Eh.” Barnaby shrugged and turned his attention back to Dandy. “Wally here wants to paint ya.”

Wally watched as Dandy’s gaze rapidly turned to him, hovered for a moment too long, then turned back to his best friend. “Me?” the gardener asked as they pointed to themself. Their gaze turned back to Wally as they repeated, “You want to paint me?”

“Yes,” Wally breathed. “I want to paint you, Dandy.”

“I — ” The gardener's hands started to wave dismissively as their eyes dropped to the ground. “I don’t think I’m good enough to be painted! I’m a mess, and I have dirt on my hands. My hair is messy, and I have to send some flowers to Howdy’s — ”

With one swift motion, Barnaby unfolded Wally’s easel and placed it down nearby. He then patted Dandy’s head and chuckled at the yelp of surprise the gardener let out. “Re-lax Dandy. Walls here ain’t gonna eat cha alive!”

Wally’s fingers tightened around his cardigan for a brief moment. His eyes itched.

Not today. Not today.

Barnaby placed the blank canvas down on the empty easel and patted Wally on the shoulder before he bid the two shorter puppets farewell and walked away. “Peace out ‘n have fun! I’ll be at Howdy’s if ya need me!”

Wally waved goodbye to the blue dog, then turned his attention back to Dandy. “I will be painting you soon, neighbor.”

“Wally,” Dandy murmured. They kept looking at the ground, their voice even quieter than when Barnaby was there. Their brows were furrowed slightly and their mouth was pressed together in a thin line. “You don’t have to paint me. I think there are better neighbors to paint than lil’ ol’ me,” they chuckled. At the last half of their sentence, they sounded a bit like Eddie.

“I want to,” Wally countered. “I really do want to paint you.” He started to take out some of the acrylic tubes and laid them on the excess wood of the easel. He untwisted some of the caps to loosen them up, then carefully squeezed a bit of paint onto his palette one at a time. A bit of black and white in the corner for mixing, then green here and yellow there. Blue as well, and brown was very important.

“I woke up today and wanted to paint,” he confessed. “But I didn’t want to paint red apples or Barnaby, even though I love both red apples and Barnaby very much. Oh, thank you Dandy.”

The gardener blushed as they helped screw the caps of the paints back on. “I can getcha a cup of water for your paints. And a stool, if you want one.”

“A stool for the paint water would be nice, thank you.”

As Dandy hurriedly walked inside their house, Wally made it his mission to stare at the blank canvas with a paintbrush in one hand and his palette in the other. He had the subject, and he had the colors. He had the idea, no matter how faint it was. But now that he was here, with his subject nearby and with his colors laid out, the idea was rapidly vanishing.

His grip on the paintbrush tightened. The pose. How should Dandy pose? And any objects? Should they be holding anything in their hands? How much of Dandy should he paint?

He wanted to paint today, that he knew. But why was it so hard to paint?

“ —lly? Wally?”

The pompadoured puppet let in a sharp inhale of air and turned towards the voice.

Dandy gasped in return, backing away slightly. They bumped against the stool where an old cup filled with water sat, and they cried out to catch it as it wobbled precariously. “Golly! I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Wally said. He found his voice again — again; he was losing it…what year was it? — and forced himself to take a slow, calm breath. “I still want to paint you, Dandy. But, I’m having trouble imagining how I want to paint you.”

“Paint me however you want Wally, and I’m sure it’ll look nice.” Dandy’s gaze alternated between him and the ground, and their felt still showed hints of a blush. Pinkish, maybe red.

Like apples.

Wally slowly raised his paintbrush and started to circle it in midair, pretending that the ends of the brush were covered in red paint. He brushed an imaginary stroke upwards to make a stem, then two smooth lines to make a leaf. He liked apples. Those were the first things he painted.

What did Dandy like?

“Oh!” he gasped. “Dandy, can I paint you with sunflowers?”

“Sunflowers?” Dandy repeated. “The tall ones or the ones I picked earlier for Howdy’s?”

Wally paused. He looked at the sunflowers that towered above their heads nearby. Instead of looking friendly, they now looked intimidating. “I want to paint you with the sunflowers closer to your face.”

“My face? Oh, you’re going to paint my face?” Dandy’s hands waved, though not as erratically as Julie. “Can’t I hide behind my sunflowers? I’m a mess like I said and the sunflowers are more beautiful than I am and — ”

“Dandy.”

Dandy stopped.

“I think my neighbors look beautiful on my canvas because I paint what I see.” Wally’s smile widened as he added, “And I think the painting I want to do with you and your sunflowers will be beautiful too.”

If Dandy’s face could turn into a pretty red apple, it would. The gardener sputtered something before they stumbled away and stumbled back with a large bouquet of sunflowers in their hands. Dozens of yellow petals shone outwards, almost giving Sally a challenger for the brightest one in the neighborhood. In their centers, hundreds of seeds created a dark contrast.

In the middle of it all, Dandy’s face was buried in it.

Wally didn’t mind so much. He needed to paint the sunflowers first.

So began the long and slow process of mixing colors to create the right shade, then applying them onto the canvas in gentle strokes. The petals were abstract shapes at first, radiating from a circle of darkness in the center. As Wally switched brushes and added details, the sunflowers gained personality. Individual petals started to differentiate, and someone could pluck out the seeds if they wished to.

He dipped the brush in the murky paint water and started on the puppet. He looked around the canvas and saw Dandy’s face still buried in the sunflowers.

That was no good.

He placed the paintbrush on the stool and slowly approached them. “Dandy. Could you lift your face up please? I need to paint it.”

Dandy hesitantly complied, but most of their face was still covered by yellow petals. “The sunflowers are more beautiful,” they faintly insisted. “They’re in bloom.”

“You are in bloom too,” Wally said. Despite his brush hand smelling slightly of paint, he reached out and cupped his hand against Dandy’s cheek. He gently lifted their warm face up and out of the sunflowers and said, “You are in bloom, Dandy. Like the sunflowers, and the apple blossoms.

“I woke up and wanted to paint today. I wanted to paint, and you are in bloom. Why should I not paint a beautiful bouquet of sunflowers and the neighbor that grew them?”

A long, palpable pause stretched out between the two. Wally wondered if he made a mistake with this. He knew that Frank didn’t like to be touched very often, so what if Dandy was the same?

Then, Dandy slowly smiled. Their smile radiated through the sunflowers, and for a second, Wally thought that the gardener was the most pretty flower he’d seen.

His own smile widened and he withdrew his hand. “This…this is the most! I will paint this now!” He swiftly came back to his canvas and started mixing the right shade of green. The portrait slowly came together. First the general shape, then the details. The highlights came last. A few broad strokes for a blue sky, and…!

“Dandy, it’s done.” Wally placed each used paintbrush into the murky paint water, one by one as he waited for the subject of his painting to shuffle around the easel to look at his work.

On the canvas, were dozens of sunflowers arranged in a strong bouquet intermixed with delicate petals. The sunflowers themselves were made of strokes of yellow and circles of black, highlighted by elegant lines that made each detail pop. In the middle of it all, was a puppet whose smile was the centerpiece of the painting. Eyes slightly squinted shut from how wide they were smiling, a hint of red on their cheeks, and hands that held the entire bouquet together by their stems.

A gasp followed by a squeal of joy. Hand waving and heel bouncing briskly followed, alongside quiet bursts of “It’s so beautiful!” and “The detail on the sunflowers!”

Wally watched Dandy go through several levels of joy and awe, and the semi-permanent smile on his face softened. His partially-lidded eyes took in the small details: brown eyes that sparkled at the work of art on the canvas; the little yellow flower on their hat that never wilted; gentle flowers that reached towards the sun, fingers curling around the drops of light and holding it close.

Quiet.

“Do you want to keep it?”

“I…I shouldn’t.” The light was escaping from their fingertips.

Did he do that?

“I insist. I would be honored if you took it.” Wally gingerly took the still-drying painting and held it out towards Dandy. “I want you to have it.”

Dandy’s mouth pressed into a thin line as they looked down at the ground for a moment, then thrust the sunflowers in front of them. “Take these. I’d feel bad if you didn't have something in return. I can always get more for Howdy, it’s not a big deal.”

The next minutes were spent juggling an exchange; between trying not to touch any paint on the canvas and not dropping any sunflowers on the ground, the two spent an excessive amount of time trying to give each other the items. In the end, Dandy was left holding their portrait and Wally had a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand.

Dandy lightly bounced inside their house, and Wally was left outside with a sunny-smelling bundle of flowers counteracting against the chemical scent of his acrylics. He buried his face within the flowers and deeply inhaled. Between strong whiffs of paint, he breathed in drops of sunlight.

“The most,” he exhaled. “These are the most.”

For the next several days, anyone who peeked in the window of Home could catch a glimpse of a vase filled with cut sunflowers. They were perky and alive, and it certainly complimented a fresh red apple that always sat next to the vase for as long as the sunflowers lived.

[eucanthos]

Bartholomeus van der Helst (NL, Haarlem, 1613 - 1670, Amsterdam)

Young Woman Holding a Sunflower, 1670. Oil on canvas 100 x 75 cm. Currently on view: Chicago, The Art Institute

Painted the last year of his life, it contains the assertive mastery developed throughout his long career [definitely meant to be seen up close]

Possibly commissioned to celebrate her engagement or marriage (fitting for the display of luxurious clothing, large diamond ring, and the sitter’s gesture toward her heart). The import of the flower symbolizing fidelity and the young woman’s unwavering gaze, declare: [my] love is true!

hi res viewing:

https://www.theleidencollection.com/viewer/young-woman-holding-a-sunflower/

[luckycharms1701]

Okay but imagine rise!Mikey painting but using your skin as his canvas.

I mean, he's always painting on his brothers' shells so what difference would your arm or the length of your back make?

anon-chan. it's like you read my mind. how does it feel to be a telepath?

i just. imagine. the first time is just a funny moment. he draws a silly little face on your hand while you're sleeping. you laugh about it when you wake up.

after that he gets more comfortable, and you are regularly as decorated as his brothers. he loves how the difference in skin tone changes the colors, and spends a lot of time experimenting on you.

you don't tell him, but you take a picture of every single doodle and painting before you wash it off. they are your treasures.

then he tells you he wants to try a larger painting, can he paint your back? you honestly don't think much of it until you are taking your shirt off. he's waiting for the go ahead that you're ready on the other side of his door.

maybe he won't notice your blush when you're on your stomach, you hope as you lay down and tell him you're ready, come on in!

he bounces in and is so normal about it that you find yourself relaxing, at least until the first brush stroke against your back. he asks if it's too cold as shivers wrack through you. you tell him it's fine, you'll get used to it, please continue.

so mikey continues as you try to keep your suffering to a minimum. you hadn't expected this to feel so intimate. every brush stroke feels like a caress, and when his fingers go to smudge a line or remove some stray paint you feel faint.

when he's (finally) done and the paint is dry and you see what he's painted, you can't breathe.

a giant bouquet covers your back. sunflowers mix with marigolds and daffodils dance along with orange tulips. in the middle of the bouquet is a large, highly detailed orange rose.

you reach for him and his lips meet yours halfway.

[swede1952]

Knight of the Highest Order

This silver helmeted bird is a male house sparrow (Passer domesticus). You can tell by the large black gorget on his upper chest. The black mark really identifies this bird as a dominate male, a breeding male.

"House Sparrows eat mostly grains and seeds, as well as livestock feed and, in cities, discarded food. Among the crops they eat are corn, oats, wheat, and sorghum. Wild foods include ragweed, crabgrass and other grasses, and buckwheat. House Sparrows readily eat birdseed including millet, milo, and sunflower seeds. Urban birds readily eat commercial bird seed. In summer, House Sparrows eat insects and feed them to their young. They catch insects in the air, by pouncing on them, or by following lawnmowers or visiting lights at dusk." - allaboutbirds.org

You can check out my gallery at:

[high-functioning-fang1rl]

Time for some Mother’s Day Fluff because I SAID SO!!! 🥰 I think @barclaysangel @nicascurls @fairchilds-glasses and @silvershewolf247 may appreciate this one cause it made me emotional as HELL.

Nica’s First Mother’s Day:

*****

Nica sighed, setting the paint brush down. Despite her best attempts, she couldn’t seem to focus enough to actually brush what she was picturing on the canvas.

It was Mother’s Day, and regardless of her strained relationship with Sarah, she had woken up missing her mother more than she normally did.

She thought about how much had changed so quickly, staring at the unfinished sunflowers she was painting. She supposed it was macabre, painting the symbol her traumatized mother was haunted by, but recreating the painting her mother had spent countless hours making over and over helped her feel closer to the woman.

“You got a second, honey?” Andy’s voice snapped her out of her thought and back to reality.

Nica managed to smile at her boyfriend, turning away from the easel. “Sure!” She agreed easily.

She followed him out through the cabin, stopping when they reached the dining room.

The first thing she noticed was that all of the kids were there; Junior, Jake, Lexy, Devon, and the twins. A few streamers were hung from the large windows, a small stack of presents piled onto the table next to the most ornate bouquet of flowers that were displayed proudly in the center.

“What’s going on?” She asked slowly. “Did I forget something?”

“HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!!” They all shouted in unison.

Confused, Nica simply blinked, and she looked to Andy, finding him leaning against the door, watching her and beaming along with the kids.

“You’ve gotta come open your presents!” Jake told her excitedly.

Stunned, she opened her mouth to reply, only managing a “Wha-? Why?-“

Lexy rolled her eyes affectionately, smiling at her. “It’s Mother’s Day, duh! Of course we got you something.” She explained slowly.

“You know you’re our Mom, right?” Junior said simply, shrugging as if the words didn’t cause Nica’s heart to stop. “In all the ways that count, at least.”

“We’d be pretty shitty kids if we didn’t celebrate you on Mother’s Day.” Devon agreed.

Nica felt like her brain was misfiring, and her heart was racing as she struggled to compute what they were saying. “…You did all of this for ME?”

Junior nodded. “Yeah, Mom. It’s YOUR day. You took us all in when you didn’t have to, and you do everything for us…We wanted to thank you for…everything.”

Her jaw dropped, and tears immediately filled her eyes.

“Oh Jesus don’t CRY!” Junior whined. “It’s the one day we can’t be brats, you better appreciate it!”

A half laugh/half sob was ripped from her chest, and before she could say anything else, she was surrounded, all the kids she thought of as her own hugging her, thanking her, and telling her they loved her.

The rest of the day passed in a blur; the kids had all made her cards and gifts, and with Andy’s help had made sure the afternoon was occupied with all of her favorite activities and foods.

When it was late and the kids had been woken up from their slumber in their “Nica cuddle puddle” on the couch (they’d dozed off halfway through the movie) and had been moved to their beds, Nica and Andy spoke quietly in bed.

“It was all their idea, you know. They came to me with the idea, I just helped them.”

Nica hummed happily. “Really?”

“Really.” He confirmed. “They love you so much.”

Ignoring the lump in her throat Nica admitted “God I love them SO much, Andy. I never thought-especially after Alice…I can’t believe they’d do that for me.”

“What?”

“…Be their Mom.”

Kissing the top of her head Andy murmured “It’s because you’re good at it, baby.”

She snorted drily, though Andy could see the emotion in her eyes. “I don’t know, it still seems crazy I manage four of them on a daily basis, nevermind six when the twins are here.”

“And you manage it beautifully.” He assured her. “Besides, who knows… “ Andy said teasingly, a hint of wistfulness and question in his voice “We may have one of our own some day.”

A slow smile came to her face, and with blushing cheeks and s wide grin Nica just agreed:

“Yeah…yeah, maybe we will.”

*******

Hope you enjoyed! 🥰 I thought we all deserved a little happy fluff! Or at least Nica does 🥹😭 This was so much fun to write! 😍

[nightly-ruse]

Today is the 20th anniversary of Into the Wild!

Rusty right before he steps into the shadows and finds out where his true fire will shine

This is a scene from the first book of The Prophecies Begin, where Rusty (soon Firepaw) joins Thunderclan.

Please reblog this I usually don’t ask but I spent so long on it and would like it to get more than a few likes!

I’d usually just put the ID in the desc section but it’s so long it may be easier to read down here!

🔥Rusty is off to the right and is a round fluffy cat with a green collar, bell, shining emerald green eyes, and a fire like tail. He is pale orange with darker orange down his back, mane, tail, front paws and over his face in a mask. Red is on his tail base, nose, folded ears In heart shapes, nose, and paws. White is on his belly, ear tips in a heart shape, chin, nose, and chest in a heart shape. He has a amazed expression with a star in his eye as he looks at the cats before him. 💙To the left is Bluestar who is a sharp foxlike cat with gray blue fur, darker fur down her back, paws, ears, chin, and over her eyes in a mask. Light gray is on her ear tips, chest, inner ear tufts, and under her eyes which thins out to a star shape. Her eyes are dark blue with slitted pupil looking to Rusty, her paw out as a way to show their agreement for him to join. 🐻Next to her is Graypaw who is a fluffy round cat with warm toned gray fur and a mullet. His eyes are brownish orange with gray fur on his head, chin, eyes, down his back, and on his paws in stripes. Darker gray fur is on his ear tips, eyebrows, nose, chest, back, and paws. Lighter gray is on his mane and paws with a little nick in his ears as he stares at Rusty with sparkly eyes. 🦁Behind them is Lionheart who is very fluffy and golden, his eyes covered by dark brown fur as a light smile is on his face. A few freckles on his cheek with a light yellow on his cheeks and chin. 🌳To the right is a oak large tree marking the border into the wild, it’s leaves above it with a few of them flying away. Bushes are beside it along with two sunflowers. That whole side of the canvas is shaded in a warm purple tone to create a mysterious feel while the other is yellow toned to really shine on Rusty. At the right is the white fence where Rusty’s yard is, three clouds just above with stars faintly shining as they watch the arrangement going on.

[theladycarpathia]

And My Waves Meet Your Shore Chapter 2: Quarter

The day after Chrissy makes her escape from Hawkins, one of the pirates knocks on her door.

She scrambles for the housecoat lent to her by Captain Munson and carefully pulls it around her before she opens it. She’d slept in her petticoat, the only piece of clothing she had that was suitable, but she’s not about to let anyone else see her in such a state. She hurriedly smooths down her hair, although she’s not entirely certain why.

The gentleman waiting for her outside is tall with curly brown hair and a rounded face. She’d seen him briefly the night before, deep in discussion with the captain. He holds out a large canvas bag and she carefully takes it.

“The captain thought you might like a change of clothes, miss,” he says, gesturing to her unexpected parcel. Chrissy feels a trickle of relief. She’d half expected to wear her heavy teal dress for another day or so. She’d feel so out of place among the pirates with their colorful waistcoats, gleaming belt buckles, and sturdy boots.

“Thank you…” Chrissy says, remembering her manners and then trails off. She doesn’t know his name. Yesterday she’d been brought aboard and taken to one of the few private rooms that are kept for higher ranking members of the crew or their paying passengers. It’s very simple - a single bed and table bolted to the floor, a hook on the back of the door. There’s a small mirror attached to the wall, and a box under the bed to store valuables. She’d immediately locked her bag away in there, well aware that it’s everything she now owns in the world.

“Gareth, miss,” he says, not at all affronted. “The Captain would like to see you for breakfast in his quarters when you’re dressed.”

There’s an excited shiver down her spine. Yesterday she’d eaten in her room, bread and cheese and meat delivered to her on a tray. Captain Munson had thought it best they be far away from Hawkins before she stepped out on deck. She hadn’t minded so much. The bread was fresh, the slices of ham were delicious and she’d laid back and listened to the crashing of the waves. She was going, she was going.

“Thank you, Gareth,” she says, because she’s still Lady Christine underneath. She could be sixty and she’d still remember how to waltz and how to use her soup spoon like a lady. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Inside a bag are several simple cotton dresses - a pale sky blue, a foamy ocean green, a bright sunflower yellow. Each one is soft and lightweight, much more suited to a life at sea than the heavy teal skirts and corset that she escaped with. She closes the door and looks over her choice, finally pulling out the green dress with the long sleeves and a delicate neckline. She pulls it on over her undergarments and carefully brushes her hair, leaving it down over her shoulders.

She did not pick this dress because she thinks Captain Munson would like it.

But her fingers still tremble when Gareth returns to escort her to the captain’s quarters.

It’s quiet when they cross the deck, only a few crew members already up and at work. The same cabin boy from yesterday mops the deck and there’s a glint up in the crow’s nest as the lookout keeps watch. What startles her is the pirate’s flag hanging from the mast, the sharp white of the crossbones against the bright blue of the sky. The Hellfire takes down the flag sailing into ports but somehow it’s still shocking to her that these men are all pirates. All she’s encountered so far is kindness and good manners.

They head down into the cabin at the stern of the ship, where the captain lives. Chrissy raises another nervous hand to her hair as Gareth raps at the door.

“Enter!” comes a voice from inside and when Gareth opens the door, she finds herself urged inside. Clearly, Gareth is not meant to join them.

When the door shuts behind her, she forgets her nerves and stares around the space in amazement. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of treasures: a mahogany jewelry box, overflowing with thick chains and large rings of silver, beautiful portraits hung on the walls, heavy looking rugs woven with gold string. There’s a large wardrobe, with elaborate carved mermaids on the doors tucked away in a corner and to the far side of the room there’s a bed, messily made, and she hurriedly turns her eyes away from it. She’s hesitant to think of the captain sleeping there, his long dark hair spread across one of the silk pillows.

There’s a grand window right in front of her, the bright morning light falling onto a dining table laid for breakfast for two. But she doesn’t see this, just the man staring out at the endless blue.

“Good morning,” Chrissy says shyly and he turns. His eyes are soft as they look her over, taking in the hair curling around her ears, the shade of green against her pale skin. She resists the urge to tug on her sleeves, wondering if she's presentable. Her shoes are the pair that she’d escaped with, teal slippers that don’t quite match, and she lacks any sort of ribbon for her hair. But when she sees him smile, she no longer minds.

“Good morning, my lady,” he says warmly. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” Chrissy says, to her surprise. She hadn’t expected it, not when the sounds and smells are so different from her family’s country estate. The tang of salt in the air, the thrash of the waves against the wood, the early morning calls of the crew as they work. But she’d fallen asleep so easily, the lead weight buried in her chest suddenly lightened. “Thank you. And thank you for the dresses. I wasn’t sure what else to wear this morning.”

Captain Munson drags out a chair for her to sit in and then takes his place. Chrissy inhales the smell of fresh bread, the sweet smell of strawberries, and the rich scent of coffee. There’s too much food and she wonders if he’s made the extra effort for her sake.

“You left with so little and we have some supplies onboard,” he says, deftly removing his hat and placing it on the table. “I hope you don’t mind - I chose the dresses I thought you would like.”

“I do,” Chrissy assures him. “They’re wonderful.” She touches the soft cotton of her skirts, thinking how her mother would hate that she was wearing anything other than silk or fur or linen. Chrissy is used to petticoats and corsets, several layers of heavy material, gilt-tipped pins in her hair.

“Please help yourself,” Captain Munson says, seeing her eyes flick over the bowls of porridge and the freshly cut fruit. “I apologize for you being confined to your rooms last night. It seemed safest, just in case your betrothed happened to catch wind of your disappearance before we were fully out to sea. You said he was a merchant?”

Chrissy has to stop herself from piling her bowl of porridge too high, covering it with a fine layer of brown sugar and slices of fresh strawberries. She doesn’t protest when the captain fills her cup with steaming hot coffee.

“He is,” she says, dipping her spoon into the thick, gooey concoction. “And he often sails to other ports to trade. He has many friends along this coast, as far as Red Lake.”

“Is that so?” Captain Munson notes, filling his own plate with bread, eggs, sausage and ham. Chrissy places the spoon on her tongue and nearly swoons. This is so much better than the watery porridge that she was served at home.

“If that’s the case, I think we’d better amend the agenda,” he says thoughtfully. “I had intended for us to stop at a nearby fishing port to purchase some supplies for yourself. However, if his reach extends this far out of Hawkins then perhaps you can supply us with a list. I have a few women on my crew and they’re more than capable of fetching what you need.”

Chrissy swallows her mouthful far too quickly in her excitement and it burns all the way down her throat. But she doesn’t care. She can have soap and fresh slippers and a matching ribbon for her new dresses.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m very grateful. But won’t your crew mind?” Captain Munson snorts in amusement, and stabs at another sausage for his plate. Somehow the large quantities of food he’d served himself have already decreased at an impressive speed.

“Far from it. The men usually get the fun jobs of going into town to trade, especially in less savory places like Driscoll. They’ll be delighted to wander around the local shops to gather what you need. After you’ve eaten, I’ll find you some paper and a pencil.”

“Thank you, Captain Munson,” she says again, wondering if she’s able to say anything else and he smiles. When her stomach churns, she tells herself that it’s just the porridge.

“Edward,” he corrects. “Or Eddie, if your manners permit you.”

“Edward,” she says, trying out the name on her tongue. The look he gives her when she says his name is just as sweet as the fruit on her plate.

XXX

He’s true to his word and brings her paper as soon as the plates have been cleared away. She twirls the quill between her fingers and considers what might be the priority items. She’s not used to having to use what possessions to have, not when she’s been given every single whim her heart ever desired. But she’s quick and thorough, choosing the necessary amenities that will see her through a brief life on the ship.

Captain Munson looks over her note briefly and nods, tucking it away in a breast pocket.

“I’ll give this to the ladies,” he says, and offers her an arm to escort her. They’re mere miles up the coast from Hawkins and she’ll have to stay on board when the ship docks for a while. This close to her former home, there will be plenty of people who might recognise her. It’s a risk that they can’t take.

“How did you come to have women on board?” Chrissy asks curiously, settling her arm neatly into his as though she’s done it all of her life. “I thought pirates viewed female sailors as bad luck.” Eddie chuckles.

“I view these two as bad luck, although not because they’re women,” he says dryly. “You’ll understand when you meet them. Robin, in particular, is always getting me into a world of trouble. The girl’s mouth runs a mile a minute, often without her brain in tow.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” Chrissy says, a little delighted that she will have company during her journey. She’s so used to the presence of other women around her. Nancy and Barbara have been her friends since their debutante days. Carol and Tina making little jokes at the dinner table, Heidi bemoaning Lord Harrington’s lack of interest in having a space on her dance card. She is used to perfume and chatter, talking to each other from behind their fans.

She misses Nancy more than she can say, the lack of her friend feeling like a gaping wound in her side. Nancy has always been there, even after she wed a local boy. When Chrissy went to her for help, she and Jonathan had immediately offered a plan and their aid.

On deck, there is a clamor of activity already and Chrissy looks around with interest. A young lad with dark hair and a pale face pauses in mopping the deck to make way for Chrissy and Eddie to pass. There’s a figure up in the crow’s nest, a spyglass pressed to his eye, watching for danger on the horizon. Even pirate ships are never truly safe on the seas, fearing ambush from a rival crew or being spotted by the royal navy. The Hellfire are cautious, taking care to lower their flag when they’re near any proper civilisation.

Captain Munson takes her down the stairs to the dining area and Chrissy immediately spots a young woman with short, red hair, wearing a pirate’s bandana around her neck. She has a pretty, elfin face, with a small nose and a rosebud mouth. To her shock and delight, Chrissy spots that the girl is wearing trousers, like the men do, in a fading blue color, fraying around the ankles. The shirt she wears is a man’s - tied instead of buttoned at the waist - as are the sturdy pair of boots and she sloshes water over them as she mops.

“Vickie!” Edward calls and the girl looks up. “Come meet our guest.”

“More strays, Cap?” she asks cheekily, as she takes Chrissy in. Edward fondly rolls his eyes at her and Chrissy feels a low prickle of jealousy in her gut. She hadn’t considered the ramifications of other women being on the ship. But when she sees Edward ruffle Vickie’s hair, the shards of envy fade away. Clearly, their relationship is not a romantic one.

“This is our paying guest,” Edward corrects her. “This is…Christine Cunningham. She’s sailing for a new life further up the coast and we have the honor of taking her.” He’s missed off her title for a purpose, she realizes. Better to not make a fuss of nobility fleeing her home. Young women strike out to seek their fortunes every day…just not ladies of Chrissy’s rank.

“Hello,” Vickie says cheerfully and extends her hand. Startled, Chrissy takes it.

“Hello,” Chrissy says shyly. There’s a clatter behind them and a loud bang, followed by some words Chrissy only ever heard from the men by the servants’ entrance.

“That is Robin,” Edward informs her helpfully. “And you can see why she gets me into trouble more often than not.” Vickie playfully swipes at his arm.

“She’s not that bad,” she protests, as another young woman emerges from the swing door of the galley, caked in flour. She wears a similar outfit - beige trousers, a loose red shirt, her dirty blonde hair pulled back from her face with yet another bandana, and absolutely all of it covered in a thin layer of white. She stops dead when she sees the Captain. “That was not my fault, Cap,” she says immediately, brushing off her hands into clouds of fine white dust. Vickie sighs heavily, as it settles onto a previously clean patch of floor.

“Whose fault was it?” Edward asks, but his face is immeasurably fond. He clearly loves these women, enough for him to ignore any disapproval of their place on board the ship. “That wretched cat for not doing his job,” Robin grumbles and her face is sheepish when she spots the mess that she’s made, a winding trail of flour following her footsteps all the way from the kitchen. “We have mice again.”

“It’s not Larry’s fault,” Vickie insists immediately, folding her arms across her chest.

“Given that Larry is meant to be a pirate cat and his only job is to catch mice, he’s certainly failing at it,” Edward sighs. “Ladies, I actually did have a job in mind for you, if you are done bickering and making a mess of my ship?”

“Oh?” Robin asks, and Chrissy can see her eyes flick inquisitively over her. She wasn’t seen by many of the crew when she arrived yesterday, and she was settled in a guest cabin almost immediately. “How’s that, Cap?”

“Miss Cunningham here left home quite suddenly and is in need of a few items,” Edward explains. “I thought perhaps that you both might be interested in going ashore to retrieve them for her?” Vickie drops the mop in her excitement, all mentions of flour forgotten.

“Really?” she asks, exchanging a gleeful look with Robin. Eddie pulls Chrissy’s list from his pocket with two fingers and dangles it in front of the two girls.

“Really,” he says and then tugs it away again before Vickie can grab it. “But I want all of this cleaned up! And you must take someone with you. Driscoll isn’t a safe town. Have Fred or Argyle go with you.” Robin immediately pouts.

“Why have us go at all, if you’re having us chaperoned?” she complains, but she takes the offered list anyway.

“Because I don’t trust one of the men to fetch the correct items for Miss Cunningham,” Edward`says, perhaps entirely correctly. Chrissy has asked for undergarments, beauty products, and several hair ribbons. She’s not sure what one of these men would bring back for her, save for a barrel of ale.

Vickie flicks her eyes eagerly over the list. Robin wanders up behind and peers over her shoulder.

“Should be simple enough,” Vickie says, with a nod. She tucks the paper away into her trouser pocket and Chrissy marvels at the concept. Women wearing trousers. Pockets. As lovely as her new gown is, it lacks pockets.

Edward digs in his coat and pulls out a small velvet bag that clinks. Chrissy grips at his arm and he smirks.

“Don’t make that face at me,” he says, of her indignant expression. “I will not hear of it.”

“I’m supposed to pay my way!” she says furiously, because she suspected from the moment that she stepped on the ship that he was undercharging her. She does not want to be pitied or coddled just because she’s had a sheltered life.

“I’m sure we can arrange another method of compensation,” he says easily. “There’s always work to be done on a ship. Cooking, cleaning, sewing. Vickie and Robin can help you.” She scowls at him. Tasks that she doesn’t know how to do, tasks she was not allowed to do. Simple things that she will need to learn to survive.

“Did you plan this?” she asks suspiciously. There’s a glint in his eyes before he slides his arm away from her’s. She feels a momentary sense of loss before he gently raises her hand to his lips.

The brush of his mouth against her bare skin is enough to make her knees want to buckle. For a split second when his lips brush gossamer soft against her knuckles her entire world narrows down to the instant where she can feel him. So far, his only touches have been proper and gentlemanly, taking her arm and reaching out to steady her. This is something else and the hunger that claws its way out of her belly is only just successfully pushed back down below her rib-cage.

“I’m a pirate, Miss Cunningham,” he says, his eyes light, and her heart skitters furiously.

“Chrissy,” she corrects him. But he’s right - he’s a pirate and she should remember that.

He just smiles at her in that incredibly attractive and infuriating way and nods to the women, before leaving. Chrissy listens to his boots disappear up the steps and wonders if her face is as hot as she suspects that it is.

When she turns to look at Robin and Vickie, their faces tell her everything.

“What should I do?” Chrissy asks, self-consciously pressing a hand against her burning cheek. She’s never felt like that with a man before, ever. She’s had plenty of men kiss her hand in her time out in society. Lord Harrington has kissed her hand plenty, as has Duke Hagan. Mr Byers, Nancy’s new husband, has once or twice, and Jason in more recent months.

“Go upstairs and take a dunk in the ocean to cool off,” Robin says bluntly and Vickie neatly steps on her foot.

“It’s fine,” Vickie says hurriedly. “Don’t embarrass her!” Robin shrugs and runs a hand through her hair, shedding more white dust down onto the floor.

“Well, she should,” Robin continues calmly. “She looks as though she might need it. Or she can come stand in this mop bucket.”

“Ignore her,” Vickie says, throwing an annoyed look at Robin as she vanishes back through the doors into the kitchen. “I think she’s a little stunned. We’ve never seen Cap act like that with a woman before.”

“Really?” Chrissy asks, unable to stop the excitement rising in her voice. Vickie shrugs and picks up her mop again.

“Not really,” she says, dunking the mop into the dark bucket of water. “There was a bar wench a year back, I think? Very briefly while we were docked for a job.”

Chrissy watches the sloshing over the water over the floorboards rather than think about Edward and the tavern girl.

“It was a very long time ago,” Vickie says, seeing her face. She offers Chrissy the handle of the mop. “Here. You can get to grips with the basics of mopping before we arrive at Driscoll.”

Chrissy makes a mess of mopping while Vickie sweeps up Robin’s stray trail of flour. Where the woman herself has gone, Chrissy doesn’t know.

“So how did you come to book passage with us?” Vickie asks politely and Chrissy tightens her hands around her mop. She’s glad that Vickie’s face is turned away so that she can’t see Chrissy’s obvious indecision. She’s not used to lying.

“My family,” she says instead, opting for the half-truth. “They had plans for me. Expectations.” Vickie snorts.

“None of which aligned with your actual plans for your life?” she asks.

“No,” Chrissy agrees. “So I just…decided that it would be best to leave. Start fresh.”

“Well,” Vickie says, neatly chasing the flour that has crept into the corners. “If it helps, you’re not the only one. Robin and I…we don’t have the best relationships with our families. Or any relationship at all, really.” Chrissy can’t miss the dark note of bitterness coloring Vickie’s tone.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chrissy says and then frowns as she forgets to wring out the mop again. But Vickie shrugs - whatever estrangement she has is merely a fact of life to her now, something that settles over her like a familiar, worn old coat. Chrissy wonders if she will feel like that in a few years, wondering about her parents, her brother. She feels a twinge at the thought of Andrew but she pushes it away. He’s heir, so he’ll have no shortage of opportunities and a suitable marriage when the time comes.

“Sometimes, the people who love us only think of the things that are best for themselves,” Vickie says pragmatically and lifts her head up as the kitchen door creaks on its hinges. “There you are!”

Robin emerges, free of the smears of white that had caked her chest and head, her face washed clean. She looks over Chrissy’s sloppy mopping but she doesn’t say anything. Instead she runs her fingers through her hair, looking pleased.

“I cleaned up,” she says. Vickie shakes her head and rests her chin on her mop. There’s an achingly fond smile on her face and there’s something about the softness of it that feels familiar.

“You left us with the flour out here though!” she admonishes. “I just hope that the kitchen is clean for dinner. Help Chrissy with that mop.”

But before Robin can move, there’s a shout from overheard and a sudden clamor. It means nothing to Chrissy but both girls suddenly look delighted. Vickie leans her broom against the wall and gestures to Chrissy in excitement.

“We’re arrived!” she says, and indicates that Chrissy should leave her task. “Come see!”

Chrissy looks hesitantly at her work and then agrees. Hopefully, Edward will not see the wet clumps before she returns.

They pile up the stairs into the glare of the sunshine and find the deck in a flurry of activity. Chrissy watches with amazement at the men rushing back and forth, pulling on ropes, and shouting to each other. She follows Vickie and Robin to the rail and leans over to see Driscoll come into view.

Captain Munson is at the helm, his hand resting on the beautiful carved wheel. She watches the feather in his hat rippling in the wind and thinks that she’s never seen him look so at ease. He belongs on this ship, in a way that she used to fit in a crowded ballroom.

There’s a dim ache in her chest that she refuses to look at too closely, so she turns her head away towards the promising gleam of shore.

XXX

Chrissy changes into a sunny yellow gown for her first meal with the crew. Old habits are hard to break, after all.

The dining area is as loud as the very tavern where she first met Edward, the constant chatter and laughter, the familiar clank of tankards. She sticks close to Vickie and Robin as they lead her to the hatch where they retrieve full bowls and mugs. Chrissy wobbles slightly as she follows them back to a table with her tray. She’s managed to keep her grace so far on board, even managing to control the nausea that comes with the constant rocking of the ship.

The table they sit down at is at the back of the room, much smaller than the large tables that hold the men. Chrissy puts down her tray before she takes her seat and hopes that the waves don’t become too choppy.

They’re not alone, as the crew picked up another female passenger in Driscoll. She’s already sitting down, dunking her spoon into her bowl, roughly cut dark hair falling into her eyes.

“Thank you for getting those things for me,” Chrissy says gratefully, even though she’s already profusely thanked both of them. Spread across her small bunk are the assorted items that the girls had delivered to her this afternoon. To her delight, they’d successfully retrieved everything she’d asked for. A new bar of soap, a comb, some rouge, assorted undergarments, a nightshirt, hair ribbons and a new pair of slippers.

But Robin just waves off her gratitude. “Not at all. It was good to get off the ship for a while. Cap never lets us do the fun stuff.”

“She means the dangerous stuff,” Vickie says wryly, reaching for the water jug. “There are a few female pirates but they’re lethal. I suppose they have to be.”

“I didn’t know there were any,” Chrissy says, a little surprised. Robin shrugs. She’s still wearing the same red shirt and trousers that she’d had on earlier but Vickie has changed into a sage green dress, the color suiting her red hair.

“I only really know of two,” she admits. “And they’re deadlier and more ruthless than most male pirates. It’s the only way they’d be taken seriously. Eddie can afford to be a little amiable but any woman in this business would be called soft if they did what he does. Speaking of...” Robin licks her spoon clean and jabs it at the door. Chrissy twists in her seat and, to her shock, spots a familiar figure striding in the door.

“He’s not like the other captains,” Robin says, spotting Chrissy’s wide eyes. “He won’t hide in his quarters away from us. There aren’t any other captains who’d have us aboard anyway. Eddie’s special.”

Chrissy hides her face by raising her mug for a sip that she doesn’t even want. She’s been beginning to suspect as much herself.

She watches Eddie stride through the room and tries to smother her nerves as he gets closer. He pats a young man on the back, makes a quick comment to another and then pauses as he reaches their table. He looks hesitant when he sees her, and it’s the first time he’s ever looked truly uncertain. This is her first night as part of the ship and it’s almost as though he’s thrown by it.

“Cap?” Robin asks, pausing in the middle of her bowl. It’s some sort of seafood stew, hot and thick with tomatoes and Chrissy - who is used to bland vegetables, watery potatoes, and delicate cuts of chicken - has enjoyed it far more than she expected to.

“May I join you ladies?” he asks, and Robin’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Their small table is exclusively women - the three of them, and Eden Bingham that they picked up in Driscoll.

“Of course,” Vickie says, when everyone else is too stunned to speak. She shifts a few bowls over, earning herself a dirty look from Eden when she nearly tips the young woman’s water glass right over.

“Thank you,” Edward says, easing himself down into one of the spare chairs. He removes his hat and politely drops it into his lap. Chrissy pulls her arms into her body, suddenly afraid that she might reach out, overcome with the urge to graze his hand.

“What brings you here, Cap?” Robin asks and shrugs when Vickie shoots her a look. “I can ask! It’s allowed, isn’t it?” Edward chuckles, and accepts the bowl that’s been brought to him by another crew member. Chrissy has had little opportunity to learn their names. She recognises Jeff and Gareth, Edward’s first mates and his right hand men, who are often by his side. Both have been unfailingly polite to her and she has to wonder if they behave this way with all guests or whether it’s at the Captain’s request.

“I thought I’d come and see how our new guests are settling in,” he says and judging by Robin’s raised eyebrows, this isn’t something that she believes.

“Because you’re so usually interested in our paying customers?” she says pointedly and there’s a brief scuffle under the table as Vickie tries to tread on her friend’s foot. This appears to be a common occurrence.

“I can be,” Edward says and there’s a distinct edge to his tone, something that causes Robin to pick up her spoon once more. “Miss Bingham, Miss Cunningham, are you well?” Chrissy mutely nods. Eden shrugs and places a small bite of bread on her tongue. Their new traveling companion is far from chatty, with dark hair and matching eyes set into a pale face.

“We’ll drop you in Montmouth in a few days' time,'' Edward says to her, clearly not bothered by the less than social attitude of their passenger. Chrissy is a little unsure of how or why Eden came to be on the Hellfire but she supposes that it’s Eden’s business, given her own lies.

“Sure,” Eden says easily, and she’s the one least phased by the Captain’s appearance to dine with them.

“And Miss Cunningham…?” Edward says hesitantly and Chrissy accidentally drops her spoon back into her bowl.

“Yes?” she says, hurriedly checking that no flecks of bright red have made it onto her dress.

“I know that you didn’t have a destination in mind but I may have found a place for you,” Edward says. “Vickie here has some family up south, in a little town named Frostproof. It’s fairly quiet, without a particularly large or busy port. There’s a train station nearby and you could go anywhere you want.”

Back in Hawkins, Chrissy would have adored the sound of that. Miles up the coast, and able to climb onto a train to go anywhere she wanted, starting anew. But she catches the tension at the corner of his mouth and thinks that he dislikes this suggestion as much as she does. She can go anywhere…but it will only take her farther away from him. “I have cousins I still send letters to,” Vickie says, perhaps not noticing the sudden and strange atmosphere. Chrissy stares into her bowl rather than at Edward. She’s known him for two days. She can’t be considering changing her plans for a man that she only just met.

“I’ll write to them to let them know that we’re coming,” Vickie continues and reaches for her butter knife. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to let you stay with them until you’re on your feet.”

“Thank you,” Chrissy says quietly. It’s a huge imposition and she should be grateful for the effort that everyone is going to on her behalf. She twirls her spoon in her bowl, suddenly no longer hungry.

“We’ll take care until we’re further up the coast,” Edward says. “And I trust that both of you will show them where to go should we run into any trouble?” He looks pointedly at Robin and Vickie. Robin swallows her mouthful and looks indignant.

“We’ll show them tomorrow, Cap,” and Edward gives her a look.

“You’ll show them tonight, in case we are boarded before dawn,” he says mildly and Eden visibly brightens.

“Are you often attacked by other pirates?” she asks curiously. Robin scoffs.

“Hardly,” she says disdainfully. “Not with a reputation like the Hellfire.” Edward takes pity on Eden and leans in to explain.

“Not often,” he says, to Chrissy’s great relief. She’s not sure she finds a pirate siege quite as exciting as Eden does. “We have a large ship and a full crew, with plenty of weapons to fight back. Only someone foolish would think to try and board us.” Eden deflates.

“Are there any ships who would be able to take the ship?” She pushes and neither she nor Chrissy miss the wary glance exchanged between the three members of the Hellfire. “There’s one,” Robin admits reluctantly. “We’ve never encountered them personally. A jet black ship, manned by the devil himself.”

“He’s not actually a devil!” Vickie protests, although the change of topic has left her looking uneasy. “But…he might be the closest thing there is to one.”

“They say he was a lord once,” Edward adds. “With a grand manor and many carriages and more money than half of England.”

“What happened?” Chrissy asks, curious despite herself. She catches sight of Eden leaning forward in her chair too, equally intrigued.

“People say he lost his mind,” Robin says, with a shrug. “Went half mad and vanished off the face of the Earth, reappearing several years later as the cruel and feared captain of the Chronos. But if you ask me, the change wasn’t all that sudden or unexpected.”

“Henry Creel’s family were all murdered when he was young,” Edward says, scraping his spoon around his bowl. “Mother, father, young sister, grandfather, an aunt…all butchered in their home. Some say that his father was still sitting in his chair clutching his spoon, waiting for his morning porridge.”

“The culprit was never caught,” Robin continues and Eden’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Their new companion is no pirate but she certainly has strange, bloodthirsty tastes. “Henry was the only one who survived. Out riding, so he claims,” she says, pointedly tapping her nose. “Bit convenient, if you ask me.”

“All rumors,” Edward says, catching sight of Chrissy’s face. “But…Henry was notorious even before the murders. He was an odd fellow, so I gathered. Too fascinated by the occult. He kept cages of large, poisonous spiders.”

“And now he’s a pirate,” Eden breathes. “Have you ever encountered him?”

“No,” Edward says coolly, dropping his spoon back into his bowl, every bit of stew devoured. “Not face to face. I’ve seen the devastation he’s left behind. Ships blown to bits, bodies left in the water, everything pillaged and ransacked. I am responsible for the safety of my crew and I will not take any risk that Henry Creel will ever have the slightest chance to board us.”

“Which is why should there ever be a chance that we’re about to be boarded, we have a place to hide,” Vickie says, pushing away her own empty bowl. “It’s a hidey hole down below in the storage area and can’t be found unless you know where to look. We’ve had to use it once before, not long after we joined the crew.” “If there’s any trouble at all, that is where you go,” Edward says, firmly, looking between Eden and Chrissy. “Anything at all. Captain Creel aside, there are still plenty of dangers out there. That may be the life that we signed up for but I’m aware that my passengers did not.”

The conversation becomes lighter after that, returning to upcoming stops, the chores list, necessary supplies. Eden quietly eats her portion of fruit and doesn’t join in again until the meal is over.

Very briefly, when most of the crew have vanished back to their various duties, Chrissy notices how Vickie’s arm rests so easily against Robin’s, the inevitable closeness of their bodies as they lean in to talk to each other. It’s not much but it reminds her of how new young couples used to look in dark corners of the ballrooms. The reason why both women left their homes for a pirate ship becomes startlingly clear.

Finally, when Chrissy feels herself begin to yawn, Vickie rests a hand on her shoulder, indicating that she and Eden should come quickly to see the bolthole for them to hide in. It appears that their captain doesn’t give too many orders but when he does, they are to be immediately obeyed.

“Good night, Miss Cunningham,” Edward says and Chrissy pauses.

“Goodnight, Captain,” she says, and follows Vickie out.

XXX

“Who’s the girl?” Jeff asks curiously, once Chrissy’s long red hair has vanished out of the door. Eddie has joined his usual table and it appears that his meal with the women has not gone unnoticed.

“A passenger,” Eddie says briefly. Most of his crew have drifted away back to their regular duties, or to play card games down below. Even so, he’s not willing to divulge Lady Cunningham’s real identity. “She joined us at Hawkins. Approached me in the Hawk and Dog yesterday. She was willing to pay.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow and reaches for his tankard. Judging by the flush to their cheeks, it may be one drink of ale too many this evening.

“You never normally sit with the passengers,” he points out, his tone deliberately casual. Eddie catches sight of Gareth’s smirk into his bowl.

He’d known that it would draw attention but somehow he’d been unable to resist the urge to be near her. She only has a limited time aboard and Eddie wants to make the most of it. Because before he knows it, she’ll be gone and the only one left to remember that she was even here will be himself. The sea, the floorboards of the Hellfire, even the crew…they’ll all forget after some time. He won’t. Some experiences - some people - carve themselves into your heart that way the ocean wears away at the cliffs.

“Well, I have done today,” Eddie retorts frostily. He reaches out to the bowl in the middle of the table. He’ll finish his meal in his cabin. He palms an orange and shoves it in a coat pocket.

“I thought we were going to discuss that job?” Jeff asks mildly but Eddie stands anyway.

“Tomorrow,” Eddie says. He’s in no mood to discuss work tonight. Every time he has to leave her, he finds himself at a strange sort of unease, like an itch under his skin was soothed without him even realizing it.

He stalks back to his quarters and shuts the door. He half wonders if he’d made a mistake but even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows that he didn’t. He never could have left her there in the Hawk and Dog, destined to marry someone she doesn’t love. But he’s going to have to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t purely goodness or out of pity that persuaded him to bring her on board the ship.

He drops down into a chair, looking out of the window across the dark sea. He loves nights like these, where the ocean meets the sky in the same stormy blue. He digs the orange out of his pocket and carefully peels it, very aware that only this morning Chrissy had sat in this chair.

Seeing her eat with the crew this evening had provoked the same sort of feeling in his chest. A strange wistfulness that comes with knowing something isn’t permanent. And he’s about to have three weeks of that same feeling, three long weeks until they reach the balmy southern waters of Frostproof.

Eddie places a section of orange into his mouth. He should be thinking of work, because that’s what his role requires. He’s responsible for every soul, to make sure that they stay fed and well armed, that they have enough to keep sailing. There’s trades to be made, cleaning to get done, the occasional threat made in a public enough place to keep his reputation alive and well. He doesn’t have time to sit and think about the curve of her cheek, the strands of ribbon in her brilliant hair, the expression on her face as she’d first seen the Hellfire.

But as the moon climbs higher in the sky, that is all he does.

[tinyvoicejill]

It’s not a competition, and Greta knows that. Really, she does. But knowing that on an intellectual level doesn’t stop the fury she feels every time Carson the flower clown comes around. “I’m not a clown,” Carson insists, waving her balloons around as if that doesn’t incriminate her further. “I don’t even wear a clown costume!” “You make balloon animals. Everyone knows only clowns make balloon animals, you clown.” Carson nearly bonks her across the head with her flailing. Thank goodness she missed, wouldn’t want Greta catching the raw end of that air-filled weapon. “They’re not even animals, Greta! I make flowers! Flowers!” “Can’t hear you over your squeaky clown shoes,” Greta retorts, turning her focus back to the canvas before her. Carson lets out a furious groan before stomping back to her tent, and Greta tries to contain the smile bursting out of her. One of the few perks of working the Rockford County fair this summer, aside from an endless supply of free funnel cakes, is pissing off Carson the flower clown. It’s nothing personal or anything - Carson’s actually very sweet if you let her talk long enough, which Greta tries not to do. Listening to how sweet she actually is makes Greta feel the kind of ways she’d rather not feel about someone who unironically describes themselves as a balloon artist, so instead Greta focuses on keeping up this imagined rivalry between Carson’s tent and her own, much cooler airbrush tattoo tent. That feels a lot safer than, you know, feelings. “You picked the butterfly one, right?” she asks the eight year old staring up at her in awe. Her clientele almost exclusively consists of children who think she’s the coolest person alive. “Awesome. Hold still, okay?” And with that she presses the stencil against the child’s skin and airbrushes the glittery design.

It’s nearly seven when the last of their guests trickle out of the fairgrounds and Greta can finally sprint to the bathroom in peace. Every child and their mother seemed to want some kind of tattoo airbrushed on them today, and Greta had spent the last two hours fighting for her life waiting for this chance. She nearly cries at the relief of it, and she takes her time wandering back to her tent to finish shutting down for the night. The first thing she notices, oddly enough, is Carson’s absence. Typically Carson is the last out every night, always too particular about everything being put away properly before she can leave. Greta’s not sure she’s ever left before her before. The second thing she notices is a new addition to her own tent: namely, a large rose resting upon her seat, carefully twisted with a green balloon as leaves and a red one as the rose itself. Greta’s thankful Carson is gone. She’d hate for her to see how flushed Greta’s face is, how affected. Greta’s always affected when Carson does this. When Carson leaves a daisy balloon hanging off of her car side mirror, or a sunflower shoved into her locker. Greta does as she always does in these moments: she feels a rush of something she’d rather not name, stamps it down, and then takes the balloon home before anyone else can see it. She adds it to her ever growing pile by her bed and thinks about what fun new things she can tease Carson about tomorrow. 

[stellibelli]

The Van Gogh Room

Hi! I'm a grad student in a writing program and i write mostly sad stories about sad girls in their twenties, but here's a happier story that i'm thinking of turning into a novel for my thesis. i hope you enjoy :) pls share your thoughts. (i also made a playlist for it <3)

Van Gogh. That’s what the signature in the bottom right corner of the painting was promising me, as well as the didactic placard on the wall. But it couldn’t have been. It was all clean lines and too much red. You could hardly see any brush strokes on it at all. I stood in front of this large canvas for quite a while. When I looked around to see if anyone else was as confused as I was, I noticed there wasn’t a single person in the room apart from me and the security guard standing in the doorway connecting this room and the Monet Room. It was a cold and rainy Thursday evening, so the museum was quite empty. No one was ogling at the Sunflowers or drooling over Starry Night. There was no grad student trying to impress his date with incorrect facts about the one-eared painter, no old woman scoffing about how her five-year-old grandson could do that. The room felt too still and muffled, as if some giant hand was forcing a chloroform-soaked rag over its mouth.

“Excuse me,” I said to the guard. She turned around with a bit of a jump as if she didn’t realize anyone was in the room with her. “Sorry, but are you sure this painting is really Van Gogh?”

She reflexively plastered on a well-practiced customer service grin. “Why of course, dear. This is the Van Gogh Room after all.”

“Yes, I know, but it just doesn’t seem like him. Something about it feels off.”

“Didn’t you see his signature in the bottom right corner?”

“I did. That was my other question. He always signed his name ‘Vincent,’ not ‘Van Gogh.’”

“No, he didn’t,” she told me, with that smile and all the certainty in the world as though I was an insolent child making things up to seem smart.

“What? Of course, he did. Look at this—” I stopped short in front of the Sunflowers. ‘Van Gogh 88,’ it read, right there in the bottom right corner, clear as can be. “No that can’t be right.” I went to Starry Night. ‘Van Gogh 89.’ “That’s impossible.” I rushed to his self-portrait, ‘Van Gogh 89,’ The Potato Eaters, ‘Van Gogh 85.’ Café Terrace at Night, Almond Blossoms, Irises, ‘Van Gogh,’ ‘Van Gogh,’ ‘Van Gogh.’ 

“That’s impossible,” I repeated, feeling short of breath. 

“Why is that impossible, dear? This is the Van Gogh room, after all.” She smiled at me a beat longer and then turned back to face the Monet Room just as she was before.

I stood there speechless. Could I just have been mistaken? I would have bet my life that he never signed his name ‘Van Gogh,’ but I couldn’t very well argue with the paintings themselves. I went back to staring at the red painting. It was a kitchen scene with deep maroon cabinets, a blood red table with two matching chairs. Everything about it had a slight red glow to it, like there was a red sun hidden out of frame lighting everything up. Van Gogh’s other paintings were all so blue or yellow, sometimes brown or orange, but never red. Never to this extent, this warning sign of a painting. 

I couldn’t look away from it, examining every detail. There was a plate covered in crumbs and a knife on the table. A glass with just a sip left was sitting on the counter. The brush strokes were so minimal, so unlike his other work, they were barely even visible. If only I could have gotten closer, examined it closer. 

I felt a hand on my shoulder as I had started to take a step toward the canvas, shocked out of whatever trance I had been in. 

“The museum is closing, dear,” the security guard told me. I looked my watch and saw that it was three past eight. I had been here for hours somehow. I looked down at the blank art history assignment in my hand. I hadn’t gotten any of it filled out. I’d just have to come back tomorrow, I told myself. With one more glance at the red painting, I walked out of the Van Gogh room.

*********

The next morning, I went back to the museum just as it opened. I must have been the first patron there that day. I paid the step entry fee and headed for the Post-Impressionists. I walked past the Medieval Room, the Renaissance Room, the Enlightenment Room, only having eyes for Van Gogh and his strange red painting. I nearly ran through the museum to get to it, half worried that it wouldn’t be there and that I had dreamt it all. But then I rounded the corner through the Monet Room and there it was, almost glowing out of the frame.

“Welcome back,” the security guard from last night said, this time standing in the doorway leading to the European sculpture wing. I grinned at her, not knowing what else to say, feeling a bit embarrassed she had caught me coming back to it, and turned to face the painting again. It was still there, still very real, and still signed as Van Gogh in the bottom right corner, undated. I looked over it again, scrutinizing every inch, trying to find a clue as to how it was possible that it existed when it was so vastly different from its sister paintings surrounding it in that room. I looked over the red tabletop and over to the matching chairs and down to the red tinted wood floors. Then my eyes snapped back to the table. Where was the plate and knife? The table was cleared. I searched the painting frantically and landed on the counter. Where once there was just the cup with a sip of water left, now sat the same cup but empty and a stack of three plates and the knife.

“That’s impossible,” I mumbled to myself. Everything about this painting was impossible. Van Gogh couldn’t have painted this. It didn’t match his style. Paintings couldn’t change this way. It shouldn’t have been so red. Before, I had thought I’d made everything I knew about Van Gogh up. I’d fawned over his work since a kid but maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe I thought I had paid better attention in my art history course than I truly had. But I knew I wasn’t making this up. This painting had a life to it, a wildness. It was almost as if I could feel the warmth of the red light and smell the bread that had been eaten there and it seemed I could actually feel the crumbs if I just reached out and touched.

“Please don’t get so close to the art, dear,” the security guard gently scolded, snapping me back into the cool reality of the pristine museum and its incandescent lights. “Stand behind the red line on the floor.”

“I looked down and both my feet were firmly on the wrong side of the tape. I didn’t remember deciding to step up to it, nor did I remember actually taking that step. Everything about this painting screamed at those that passed to avert their eyes and continue on, none were welcome here. Yet when I dared to disobey its blatant warnings, it was like it whispered to me. Come, it said. Breathe me in, let me burn your eyes with my glow. Touch me to see that I’m real. Closer, closer, closer.

I checked my watch after stepping behind the tape again and already four hours had passed. I didn’t understand how it could pull me in so thoroughly and so seamlessly, but it frightened me some and intrigued me even more so. With my still blank assignment folded in my pocket, I sped out of the museum and away from that painting.

*********

All through the night I could hardly sleep, and when I did, I was surrounded by nothing but blinding red. I thought by leaving it behind it would sever whatever grasp it had on me, but I was wrong. That painting felt like it belonged to me or I to it and the museum was cruelly keeping us apart.

Once more, I promised myself. I would go back to the Van Gogh Room once more, and then I would have to forget that painting no matter what I would see. Besides, I reasoned, I still had to finish my assignment.

I stayed up until opening time, seeing as I wasn’t going to sleep much anyway, and got dressed in a pair of light wash jeans and a green sweater. Walking to the museum, I debated silently what level of crazy I had gone. It certainly had to be high since I thought a 130-year-old painting had changed overnight. I continued this debate all the way through the cold building until I reached the painting. I stopped in the middle of the room.

“Back again?” the security guard questioned, but I couldn’t acknowledge her. This time the painting had a single glass filled to the brim with milk directly in the center of the floor. I ran up to the painting after a moment of stunned gawking. The security guard seemed cautious of me, her hand on the walkie attached to her belt, surely afraid I was going to try to ruin or steal the work. 

There was no way I could have made this up. That cup of milk was nowhere in the painting before. With the other things, the name, the plates, the cup of water, the style, I was able to nearly convince myself I was just losing it. That was much more logical than anything else. There was no possible way things could move in a painting this way. I must have just been misremembering. But not this. 

As I stepped up to the tape on the floor, I could see the cup had little droplets of condensation on it. That glass of milk was still cold. It had to have been poured recently. I watched the condensation glisten in the red light and could have sworn it was slowly sliding to the floor.

Touch it, it whispered in my ear. Aren’t you thirsty? I poured it just for you.

“I can’t,” I whispered back, “she’s watching.” I could see the guard’s eyes locked on me in my peripheral. She seemed wary of me, of the freak obsessed with the ugliest Van Gogh painting in the room. Then she whipped around to the sculpture room as if she sensed mischief and mishandling of her precious collection. 

“Sir, please don’t touch the art.” Laughter from what sounded like a gaggle of teenage boys answered her. “Stop that, you can’t do that,” she shouted and ran after them.

Now, it told me. Grab it now, you know you can. I reached out for the glass and as soon as my hand reached the cool wet cup, I felt a sensation like I was being yanked by every nerve ending through the densest spiderweb. Then suddenly I was drenched in red. In front of me were the red cabinets, the red table with the matching red chairs, and I was holding the glass of cold milk. I looked to my left and saw a window made of red frosted glass. I couldn’t see out of it but I felt the bright hot sun shining directly into it. 

Everything was almost real. It was there, sure, I could even touch it and it felt like the wood or like the glass it was pretending to be made of, but it all had an ethereal aura to it. It was like stepping into a photorealistic painting, one that you know isn’t the real thing but you can’t quite pinpoint what is off about it.

“Impossible,” I mumbled to myself.

“You say that a lot.” I could have given myself whiplash with how fast I turned around, sloshing milk everywhere. On the wall that was behind me was a large, framed painting of a museum interior. To the left of it, in the corner, sat a small man at an easel. “Yet here you stand.”

He had a Dutch lilt in his voice, but just a hint of one. It seemed like all the air left my body at once and I found it hard to get any of it back. He had on simple clothes; a wrinkled blue button down and tan trousers, both made of linen or a light cotton. His cheek bones were pronounced, his nose a stark line, his brow bone strong. His beard and hair were as orange as the paintings of him, though both were longer and shaggier, his hair covering his ear.

“You’re him,” I gasped. “You’re Van Gogh.”

“It would seem so.”

“How?”

“Well, you see, I was born of Anna and Theodous Van Gogh—”

“No, I mean how are you here? How am I here? You died over 130 years ago.”

“Well, that can’t be.” He looked around aimlessly, visibly confused and concerned.

“How did you get here?”

“This is my home. I live here.” As he said this I suddenly noticed all the little signs of a life here. On the floor against the wall to my left was a down feather bed topped with a thin blanket and pillow. There were a couple pairs of pants and shirts scattered around it. The place was warm and cozy but not in the way a home is, in the way a pillow fort is. The way in which it only feels safe because it is within something bigger, a place to hide away from the big scary outside world lingering just on the other side of the thin sheet. “Where else would I be?”

“In France. In a grave.”

He looked at me with his brows beginning to fold inwards. “Why do you keep speaking that way? Clearly, I’m not dead.” He gestured to his person and tried to hide his fear behind a chuckle.

“But you shot yourself. In 1890, in France, you shot yourself in the stomach,” I insisted. He looked at me, alarmed. “Do you not remember?”

Suddenly his face slackened from the anger that was beginning to grow there. The confusion was still present but he looked more sad than angry now. Slowly, he began, “I remember hearing a gunshot.” His body was still and stiff but his eyes roamed all over the floor. “Yes, I remember hearing the gun,” he repeated. “There was blood, I believe. No, I know there was blood. I had to throw out my favorite shirt.” It was clear his mind was racing faster than his shock could keep up with. “but it couldn’t have been my own blood. I didn’t die. I’m here, I’m breathing. And look, there’s no scar—” He lifted his shirt and froze. In his torso towards the bottom left nearing his hip bone was the faintest dimpling of skin. After all those years there was no trace of discoloration, but it was there nonetheless without a doubt.

As we were both looking at it on his bare midsection, his chest began to heave. I looked up to his face and it was riddled with panic and confusion. I didn’t know what to do if he were to start to come undone. I was already internally unraveling enough for the both of us.

“What are you painting?” I asked to try to distract him.

“What?” He dropped his shirt and looked up at me with his brows furrowed deeply.

“What are you painting?” I repeated. I hoped it would work. Artists always seemed very eager to discuss themselves. He looked back at the canvas in front of his seat and instantly began to calm himself.

“Sunflowers,” he said and turned the easel my way. “They always seem to like those best.”

“They?” I asked, curious what he was talking about or if he was just as mad as everyone said.

“Whoever takes my paintings each night. And I suppose those people out there.” He pointed to the museum scene on the wall. “They’re always standing in front of them the longest, or that landscape I did.”

“Starry Night,” I said distractedly, now looking at the canvas on the wall. When I looked closer, I could see all the paintings that were in the Van Gogh room back in the museum. Starry Night, the Sunflowers, The Potato Eaters. All there, just the way they looked in the museum. 

“Is that what they call it? Bit unoriginal,” he scoffed.

“Wait, someone takes your paintings each night?” I asked, looking away from the painting and back at him. “Who does?”

“I’m not sure. Every day I paint something and when I wake the next day it’s gone. Sometimes I would try to stay up all night so I could catch them, but I’d blink or look away for a moment and then it’d be gone. I even tried hiding them once, but that didn’t work either. They return some of them. Those I just paint over again because otherwise they won’t bring me any new canvases until they like the ones they’ve given me. They never return the sunflowers, though.”

That must be why there were so many, I thought. It always seemed as though every major museum in the world had one of his sunflower paintings. Someone must have known he was here. They came with food and supplies and in exchange took his paintings to sell and display and made their fortune.

“And you sign them all?” I asked, hearing an edge of irritation in my voice.

“Of course,” he said.

“But not as Vincent, as Van Gogh.”

“Yes.” There was a sadness in his answer that he was trying to hide by looking away from me.

“But you used to,” I prodded. “Sign them as Vincent, that is.”

“Yes,” he said again, the sadness becoming more apparent. I could tell he wouldn’t go on without my coaxing, but that he wanted to.

“Why’d you change?”

“None of them call me Vincent,” he said, gesturing towards the museum painting again. “Though I suppose not many ever did. Only close friends, and I didn’t have many of those and they never write or visit anymore. And Theo.”

“Your brother.” He looked up at me shocked that I knew of him. I continued, “We read some of your letters to him in class.”

What I had hoped would be an explanation to help calm his concern turned out to only make things worse. He looked at me utterly scandalized. “You have read my letters? How did you get ahold of them? Those were private, for Theo, not you.”

“They’ve been published in books,” I defended. “You’re famous. People tend to try to profit off of others’ fame in every way they can.”

He went still and looked at me warily, the fury transitioning into confusion again but still ever present. “Famous? I’m not famous.” He sounded almost insulted, guarded, like I was the playground bully mocking him and his dreams of being an artist. Quickly, I began to try to convince him, afraid he would throw me back through the painting and into the cold museum. I couldn’t give him up yet. Even if this was all some strange dream that I’d have to wake up from eventually, I wasn’t done yet.

“You’re one of the most famous painters ever. Up there with DaVinci and Vermeer.”

“You’re lying,” he said through clenched teeth. “No one likes my paintings. Maybe some of the people find the sunflowers to be mildly interesting, the night scene as well, but no one else. No one but you, perhaps.”

“Me?”

“I’ve seen you out there. Always alone. You linger more than the others.”

I was stunned that he saw me, that he’d noticed me. I hadn’t frequented this museum often, unwilling to pay the steep admittance fee. When I had come before, it was always for an assignment. I would come on Thursday evenings when it was pay-what-you-want for the last two hours of the day, so I never had time to explore. I always longed to stand in the 19th century Europe wing for hours uninterrupted. It was always like I could feel it trying to pull me in. Was it him? Was he what I was feeling this whole time? Nearly four years I had come here and never suspected he was in here, alone, trapped in a world of his passions and pains.

“Did you leave that glass of milk for me?”

He inhaled deeply and after a pause, quietly said “Yes,” not quite a whisper but not a full register either. He looked away as if he were suddenly shy.

“Why?’

He paused again and I waited for an answer, refusing to break first or to look away from him.

“You came back.”

I was confused. I didn’t understand him and didn’t know how to respond. In my silence, he finally looked up at me. His green eyes were shining and they were heartbreakingly beautiful. Peering into them was like seeing every tear he had ever shed, every sleepless night he ever had, every beautiful scenery he had painted. I wondered how many of those tears we shed in the same night, how many sleepless hours we were unknowingly spending together. Looking into those green eyes of his I felt as though perhaps neither of us were as alone as everyone thought.

“No one ever comes back,” he went on. “Well, no one but that guard lady, but she never looks. You came back. Twice. And you came back to look for hours at a time and you actually saw.” His voice started to get thick and his hands were trembling slightly. “That first time you stood there for so long. You looked like you were going to reach out for me until the guard stopped you and you left. I haven’t known heartbreak like that in so long. I was devastated because I just knew that would be the last time I would see you. I couldn’t afford to lose my other ear as well.” We both gave a short, wet laugh at this, tears now streaming down both our cheeks. “But then you were there again, just after sunrise the next day. I tried to tell you to reach out again but I didn’t think you heard me, or worse, that you didn’t want to hear me. So, I resolved to try harder should you come again, just once more. If you didn’t hear me then I’d leave you be. But it worked. You’re hear, though I am not sure why you’d want to be.”

I looked down at this man, his head hung, his bright orange hair curtaining his face. If he stood, I don’t think he’d be any taller than I was. His frame was thin, his cheeks sallow, the bags of his eyes dark. We’d learned in class that he had a rough life, riddled with insanity and tragedy and some of it spent in an asylum, but I don’t think I fully believed it until this moment, or at least didn’t fully understand it. I thought, my life has been filled with tragedy and insanity too but I didn’t cut my ear off or become a master painter. They must have been exaggerating. But he looked so breakable. This man whose paintings sold for millions and was known across the world and loved by so many had no clue of his importance.

“Vincent,” I said gently, still sniffling some and holding my hand out to him. “Come with me.”

He looked up at my hand and then at me. “What? Where? I can’t leave.”

I gestured my hand to him again and said, “Trust me.” After a moment, he cautiously took my hand and I led him through the painting. There was that same pull and spiderweb feeling as before and then we were standing in the Van Gogh room. It was midday by this point and the museum had filled with other patrons and school children. No one seemed to notice us step out of the red painting.

I looked back at Vincent. He was staring at the scene with a slack jaw and busy eyes. Groups of people of all ages, races, genders were making their rounds, exclaiming their joy of seeing the Dutch painter’s work in the flesh and pointing out their favorites. His grip on my hand tightened.

“This is impossible,” he said, his tears beginning again, still not dry from before.

“I’m starting to believe anything is possible. But I know your talent is a certainty.” I squeezed his hand back and watched as he took it all in.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then, with one more glance, he began to walk back towards the red painting. I tugged on his hand to stop him.

“Stay,” I sad quickly.

“What?”

“I said stay. Stay out here with me. Don’t go back in there. Don’t let them keep exploiting you like that. Stay here and see the world, I’ll show it to you.”

He gave me a wan but genuine smile. “This is real?” he asked, gesturing to the room around us. “This is what my work does? They appreciate it? It makes them happy?”

I looked around the room and nodded. Of course, it did, how could it not?

“Then I cannot stop. I must go back home.” He squeezed my hand once more so I’d look back in his eyes and believe him.

“Won’t you be lonely in there, by yourself again?” He looked back to the painting for a moment.

“Promise me you’ll come back. If you come back, if I know you are seeing my work, I will have no reason to feel alone in there.”

I grabbed him swiftly and hugged him as tight as I could. He hugged me back just as fiercely immediately. 

“I promise. Of course, I’ll be back, Vincent.” He squeezed once more and then let go. Smiling at me through his scruffy beard, he turned and walked right back into the red painting. Suddenly I looked away, as though I wasn’t allowed to watch. My eyes landed on the security guard and she winked at me before strolling into the sculpture wing.

*********

I came back two weeks later. I’d wanted to come back sooner but I’d spent most of my remaining paycheck on my last visits and had to wait until I had a free Thursday evening. I went straight to the Van Gogh Room, not even sparing a glance or a thought for the masterpieces I was speeding by. When I reached it, there was a new addition. Right beside the red painting was a small portrait of a young woman. The placard titled it The Friend. I looked back over to the painting again and it was like looking into a mirror. Then I saw, there at the bottom, it was signed ‘Vincent.’

[dankusner]

Waxed Canvas Jacket 2024,

There aren’t many jackets that can carry you through three seasons, but a waxed canvas jacket makes it look easy.

In the fall and spring, the heavy-duty cotton is just light enough for transitional strolls, but as soon as the gnarly winds and rain pick up, that wax coating springs into action, creating a barrier that helps keep you dry and warm.

(Pleasingly, the typically large armholes on the sleeve also leave room for a chunky knit or light down puffer underneath, on truly frigid days.) .

It’s this versatility—alongside the jacket’s rugged good looks, and the fact you can always re-wax it—that almost immediately earns them hand-me-down status.

It’s been this way for a while.

Waxed cotton was developed in the early 1800s in Scotland, when one manufacturer messed around with adding some oil to their strongest cotton, discovering it created a waterproof yet still breathable material.

Sailors and fishermen loved them, then the Royals caught on, then the rest of the world did—including James Bond.

Cut forward to last year, and when the President met with the British Prime Minister, he was given one specific gift: a personalized waxed cotton jacket.

If that feels like a lot to keep track of, fear not.

Below, you’ll find the best examples of waxed canvas jackets available today, from Barbour to Valstar.

See you out there, slick.

The Best Waxed Canvas Jacket Overall:

Barbour Bedale Waxed Cotton Jacket, $415 The Best Budget Waxed Canvas Jacket: J.Crew 1983 Heritage Barn Jacket, $198 The Best Upgrade Waxed Canvas Jacket: Belstaff Trailmaster Waxed-Cotton Jacket, $595 The Best Waxed Canvas Jacket for Fashion Guys: Sunflower Waxed Leisure Jacket, $610 The Best Waxed Canvas Jacket for Hard Labor: Filson Tin Cloth Field Jacket, $465 The Best Waxed Canvas Jacket for Fabric Nerds: Man-tle R0D3 Black Wax Jacket, $1300

Best Waxed Canvas Jacket Overall: Barbour Bedale Waxed Cotton Jacket

Barbour

Bedale Waxed Cotton Jacket

Unimpeachable pedigree

All key design details are there Barbour allows you to ship your jacket back to their HQ for a re-wax

Cons

Not as insulated as some others (though sizing up to fit a chunky knit under should help there) Shorter length might not be everyone’s choice

Let's keep it a buck—when you’re talking waxed jackets, almost all roads lead back to Barbour.

This British brand has helped people dodging raindrops in style for over 130 years, and the crown jewel of their lineup is the waxed Bedale.

Shorter than the Beaufort and Border varieties, it’s that much easier to chase around the city in (and drive, and cycle in.)

Made from medium-weight 6oz waxed cotton, it’s fully interactive—meaning you can zip in a thermal liner, or snap on a hood when things get wetter.

But people really love the permanent details:

The corduroy collar, a brass two-way ring-pull zip (easy to use, even with gloves on) , a studded Stormfly front (for added wind-and-rain protection), plus two giant pockets for stuff and two cozy, moleskin-lined smaller pockets for chilly fingers.

If you’re in a rush to choose, this is the jacket with the Royal seal of approval—and one you’ll wear for so many seasons, people will recognize you by it in the street. Plus, you can always ship it back to Barbour HQ to be re-waxed.

Best Budget Waxed Canvas Jacket: J.Crew Limited-Edition Waxed 1983 Heritage Barn Jacket

J.Crew

Limited-Edition Waxed 1983 Heritage Barn Jacket

Pros

A nostalgic piece brought back from the archives

Adjustable button tabs at the wrists ensure wind and moisture don’t sneak in

Cons

Blackwatch plaid won’t be for everyone, but single color versions exist

Waxed cotton isn’t always as shiny as Barbour makes theirs out to be.

Just look at J.Crew’s barn coat, back on the scene this fall after debuting in 1983 as part of the brand’s first ever collection.

(It’s not often that our best budget pick is also a design classic.) Every J.Crew barn jacket has a lovely mid-thigh length and more pockets than you’d expect, but this

handsome, limited-edition Blackwatch plaid version subtly stands out a little from the classic beige and grey barn coats.

Beyond the handsome finish, it’s also fully lined, with ample pockets, button closures, and adjustable wrist tabs to keep you dry.

And that Blackwatch outer?

Straight from Scotland’s legendary Halley Stevensons factory

Best Upgrade Waxed Canvas Jacket: Belstaff Trailmaster Waxed-Cotton Jacket

Belstaff

Trailmaster Waxed-Cotton Jacket

Pros

Four-pocket design is practical and secure Belted collar with a snap latch provides extra protection against wind

Cons

Structured fit may feel a bit restrictive for those used to looser coats

After Barbour, the next name in waxed jackets is always Belstaff.

And the Trailmaster—worn by everyone from Steve McQueen to Che Guevara since arriving in 1948—is the star in their line-up.

Designed for fending off the elements even as your motorbike straight towards them, the Trailmaster features Belstaff’s signature four-pocket design—two on the chest, two on the hips—each with snap closures to keep your stuff safe and sound.

The waist belt helps you dial in the fit, offering comfort and shaping that can handle whatever the road throws at you.

And that belted collar?

It's got a snap latch to shield you from the wind.

This jacket is tough, durable, and looks killer with boots and a pair of slim jeans. Honestly, meet your winter second skin.

Best Waxed Jacket for Fashion Guys: Sunflower Waxed Leisure Jacket

Sunflower

Waxed Leisure Jacket

Pros

The color is an easy addition to any jacket rotation

Cons

Because the lining is 100% nylon, you’ll want to layer when it’s cold

After founding NN07 (yes, of Carmy fame) Ulrik Pedersen gave himself a new place space to play by starting Sunflower, and it’s fast becoming the go-to source for understated menswear classics that won’t make your wallet weep.

There’s an emphasis on age-old production techniques,top-notch fabrics, and technical innovation, and you can see it all in their take on the waxed jacket.

[schwenpa]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Herschel Sunflower 🌻 Field Backpack.