#please give me validation i crave it

[inazuman]

can you imagine being dr ratio’s lil pet? he rarely gives praise so every time he calls you “good girl” or tells you how good you make him feel, it feels like warm sunlight over your skin. he’s so perceptive, knows exactly how to push and pull at you until you’re a mess underneath him. he puts a collar around your neck so everyone knows you belong to him, he can’t have anyone else thinking they have a chance.

[vyrtuosoart]

I'm off my meds and need all the motivation I can get to finish this

[venomouschocolate]

sorry i need to write a fucking thesis on how and why i write kristoph aged 17-24 the way that i do. and also how and why i write kristoph aged 37-42 the way that i do. i just need to talk at length about how and why i write kristoph outside of canon the way that i do. however i have become too used to being slated for enjoying things too much and so i will keep in my head until either i explode or someone shows an interest. why am i autistic and a kristoph fan can i not pick a struggle

[unqualified-therapist]

designs for an au made by @m1luxlov3st4rs ! basically both charlie and mariana are college students who are yanderes for one another :3 if you want to know any more info, check out their account!

each piece took about 2 hours :3

[crayolamarcers]

guys..

why is "pretty boy" considered an insult with so many people? Like I'd rejoice and giggle if someone called me a pretty boy, like, yea! I am a pretty boy!! Wowie wowie! That's so awesome!!! I love being called pretty :3

[vaya-writes]

The Wyvern's Bride - Part 1.9

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

Cis female human x cic male wyvern. Still SFW but conversation is getting increasingly explicit. Content warnings - discussion of monster genitalia and drugs (potions tho). 1500 words.

Previous

-

The night before the trials is a hot one, uncharacteristic of the cooling season. Sweating and uncomfortable, Adalyn is unable to sleep, tossing and turning late into the night. She likely would have struggled regardless of temperature, but it’s easier for her to pretend that the humidity is the reason behind her nerves. 

When the moon is high enough in the sky to peek through her window, she grows agitated, and stumbles downstairs to brew some tea. If it were to be a restless night she might as well enjoy it as best as she could.  

Drink in hand, she steps out the back door to her little garden and its accompanying table. It’s cramped and small, and the garden is naught but two raised beds, but it calms her all the same.  

The goat tied to her back fence stirs at her arrival, and she scowls in its direction. It had chewed through a portion of her garden when it arrived this morning, and Adalyn would be glad to be rid of it. 

Somehow, she’s not surprised when the shadow peels away from the sky, shrinking and twisting until Slate stands before her in his human form.  

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” The words are jovial, reminiscent, but his tone is subdued. 

Clad in just her night gown, without another soul in sight and only the sound of wind through the grass and leaves, she smiles at his words, referencing their first encounter. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

He gestures to the seat across from her and she nods her permission before he slumps into it and lets out a sigh. “Neither.” 

Her smile turns coy. “Cold feet?” 

��What?” 

“Pre-wedding nerves? Thinking about backing out?” 

He huffs. “No. I just can’t stop thinking over the details. The candidates. The new woman. Keeping the clan entertained while Matron tests them. The meal plan for the evening. Damn seating arrangements. How I’m going to sit through what is essentially a gang bang the night before my own wedding.” 

“You do find it strange!” she almost laughs. 

“No!” He defends himself. “I just... we’ve not had an interspecies marriage in the family since... Ancestors, the only one in the past five centuries was probably Rin’s mother. I’ve never attended an event like this. Let alone been a focal point of one.” 

She rolls her eyes. “This particular event isn’t really about you, though, is it? I’m pretty sure you only have to worry about one of those things you listed.” 

“I know, I know.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I just... can’t get out of my own head.” 

Adalyn sips her tea, and something settles within her. Perhaps seeing Slate so comparatively unnerved is grounding. “Get it out in the air then. Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

Slate shifts and looks around, as if unsure where to start.  

“You garden?” 

She’s taken aback by the mundane topic. After a beat she recovers. “Yeah. Herbs mostly. I get my produce from the market, but it’s nice to have fresh seasoning.” 

“They look like flowers.” 

She nods. “Some of them flower. But I’ve only got so much time and space. I have to be practical about what I plant.” 

His leg begins to bounce as he processes the information, before his thoughts go elsewhere. He crosses, then uncrosses his arms. “Tell me about Gwen.” 

“You know about Gwen.” 

“Tell me again.” 

She puts down the mug and leans back. “Our last candidate. Slipped through in the fourth interview. Semi-literate but mostly just chosen because of her cooking.” 

“What do you know about her?”  

Adalyn shrugs. “She didn’t say why she joined. Just that she was here of her own accord. I didn’t really pry. We haven’t had the time, either.”  

If she’s being honest, Adalyn had stopped caring. Had stopped learning about Lindel and Grace and Erah. Hadn’t bothered getting to know Gwen. In a day’s time they’d be gone - there seemed almost no point in learning more about them. And she wouldn’t admit it, not even to herself, but she felt quite bitter acting as envoy; getting to know Slate on their behalf and advising them on his culture when they hadn’t bothered to ask their own questions. 

“How do you think they’ll do in the trials?” 

She shrugs, the sense of calm spreading. “I can’t control what happens in the first test. Grace should pass. The others could scrape by. Then there’s the catering. I imagine they can stick to the meal plan, but there’re going to be gaps in their timing and their team work. It was the right move choosing so few courses. While your family will get their dinner, I have no idea how the Matron will grade them. All I can do is make sure your family gets fed, and that the women don’t fail too spectacularly.” She frowns. “You got my deliveries?” 

“Yes. The recipes have been amended and the casks are ready for opening.” 

“There’s also that one,” Adalyn jerks her chin to the goat. “A gift to your Elder Gabbro. I don’t know if it should be served alive or not, but it’s from the best breeder in the valley. Meat is supposed to be ridiculously tender.” 

“Huh,” Slate murmurs. “Aren’t you full of surprises.” 

“I intend to please.” 

He stares at the garden menace thoughtfully. “I’ll ensure it’s delivered.” 

“Anyway, as for your third test, I’m afraid I can’t offer any insight. I’ve no idea how the women will do.” 

“That I can help with. I spent all morning at the fire making potions to help. Sedatives made from drider venom – do not ask me how I acquired that. Pain killers and medicines. I even traded for naga saliva – it can make an excellent aphrodisiac. And every combination between.” 

Adalyn hides a smile at the wyvern’s exposition. She’s not sure if it’s enthusiasm for his craft or nerves over the situation, but listening to Slate ramble is almost cute. 

He stops abruptly, catching himself mid thought. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bore you.” 

She gives him one of her genuine smiles. “Not at all. I asked you to speak, remember?” 

“Oh. Uh,” he runs his hand through his hair, able to look anywhere but at her face. “Right.” 

She takes pity on him, and speaks to spare his nerves. “I’ll make sure the ladies know their options.” 

Relief crosses his features and the pair sit in silence again.  

A thought occurs to her. “You know, I never asked. How is the last trial judged, anyway?” 

He looks a bit sheepish. “It’s probably the simplest. Any participants who make it to sunrise, fully conscious and without withdrawing consent, pass.” 

She frowns. “That doesn’t sound difficult.” 

He pursues his lips. “Sure. If you pace yourself with a single partner. Or a human one.” 

“I’ll concede that multiple partners would be tiring,” she matches his expression. “But does going into rut really make you that insatiable?”  

  He looks away to grumble. “That and our hemis.” 

“And your what?” 

He frowns. “You know. My-” he gestures to his crotch. 

It’s too late in the evening for Adalyn to bother being polite, and she’s too tired not to mince words. “Your monster cock?” 

He splutters, and she wished she’d shared her drink with him just to see him spit. 

He takes a moment to recover. “Fine. Yes. My monster cocks.” Hand over his eyes, he sighs. 

“...plural?”  

There’s a moment of silence, before he lowers his hand, brow furrowed at her. “Yes, plural?” 

The quiet is strained this time, and Slate watches Adalyn process the information before his eyes widen. “You mean, you didn’t know?” 

“Why would I know?!” 

Adalyn is desperately trying to make heads from tails of the new revelation, hands steepled before her face, when Slate tips back his head to laugh.  

Her shock dissipates at the sound, and something in her warms. It’s the first time she’s heard him laugh, unrestrained.  

“I guess this was one of the cultural differences we were meant to iron out,” he says, slightly breathless.  

Adalyn lets out a sigh and puts her face in her hands, before shaking with her own quiet laughter. “Yeah, I guess it was.” 

They fall into a companionable quiet once the laughter lulls into snickers, and eventually subsides into silence. Lost in their thoughts the pair sit, until the sounds of stirring from a neighbouring house bring them back to the present.  

Adalyn stands. “You should get some sleep.” 

“So should you.” 

“Yeah.” 

After a beat Slate stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Subdued once more, she gives him a small smile. “I’ll see you then.” 

-

Next

END OF PART 1 !!!!! Like, I'm writing more immediately, but it's time for a new arc baybeee. Let me feel your hype :D

[melonnade]

life hack: I’ve been stuck in an oc writing slump where I just can’t make the words come out. the plot is kind of stagnating, I don’t know what to do. then I decided to take two of my ocs from another universe and give them a fandom commentary youtube channel. all the other oc universes are canonically real published books in their world. I’ve just been writing transcripts of their fake youtube videos in google docs and the plot is going so much faster now

[kingsofgaytham]

i have finished my ofmd rewatch and yes i'm happy i did it cause my love for this show and its cast grew even more since i noticed so many tiny details or background subplots i missed the first time, the whole cravat exchange between Stede and Ed...but now my heart breaks even more for them, especially poor Edward, manipulated by Izzy and pushed to his limits where he once again puts on the persona he detests but this time he's also mourning the life he already envisioned in his head with Stede :((((

their reunion is gonna be so emotional and i hope by the end of season 2 we get to see Ed embrace his true desires (like soft, silk clothes and eating marmalade at the sunrise with his dumb boyfriend) and i'm excited for Stede to finally experience mutual love, not an empty spectacle put on for the society even tho he really needs to work on his thinking and communication skills cause this whole drama could've been avoided if he told Ed he wants to fix things with his family first ANYWAY i'm sure s2 will make me cry and laugh and scream and i can't wait 💜

[ghostbellies]

my dream is to feed Rook and make him so fat he's out of breath just by sitting on his giant booty. "mmph..I am a bit..bloated.."

"Th...thank you, Esteemed Friend but...i am very. very. full."

look, making Rook out of breath isn't hard the boy has asthmarrrrr...

however, getting enough munches to fill him up? that's gonna be a task! Good luck!

[yourmanicpixidreangirl]

[mildlylesbian]

Been tossing around the idea that after Grian escaped the Watchers they tried to force another player to be Grian, because they couldn’t find him and stuff.

I don’t know how well this would actually work, or if this player that the Watchers tried to turn into Grian would be Pearl or an original character, but thought I’d put it out there in case I or anyone else decides to throw a fanfic together.

[dirt-str1der]

I appreciate how rgg studios tried very hard to develop ryoma and izous relationship in the last 30 seconds of his life and zoomed in onto izous bloody hand lying limp in ryomas not just once

but twice

[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.’

[inkandarsenic]

Like an arrow straight and true

Every fiber of my soul points to you

The sun and stars are outshone

For you are a beauty like none other

The light of your grace and power,

Though delicate, is filled with quiet strength

Oh moon of my life

Know that though this mortal shell may sleep

My soul is always awake for you

- Selene

Your face as you sleep is peaceful

There is quiet joy as I pass over you

I can almost convince myself

That you are waiting for me

Your eternal slumber is my gift from Zeus

A moment in time

Frozen for all eternity

Oh my sun and stars

Though I have cursed you to remain forever

The moon itself declares my love for you

- Endymion

[watcher-of-light-n-darkness]

hello writeblr, how do you keep the motivation going? I have a few ideas I wanna try writing out but I’m not sure how my motivation can last past the first few chapters of writing.

(Context: I have multi-chaptered fics with world building in the drafts that probably will never see the end of their story, not to mention, exist on a platform outside of said drafts)

[adventuringblind]

He Must Be Lucky!

Max Verstappen x Reader

Genre: fluff and crack

Summary: Max gets wasted and can't remember that the reader is his wife. It's endearing how much he simps bith sober and drunk.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, a wild party (at least for Max), Max being down bad

Notes: This one is for @amajixi! I hope you like it! Does anybody wanna send me asks and talk about drivers with me? Give me your most feral thoughts because I'm genuinely curious... please >_< (I even turned my anonymous asks back on please just send me things).

Side note: my fics haven't been getting much traction as they usually do. Is it something on my end? Have y'all disappeared on me? I know I shouldn't care, but y'all are the only ones that validate my writing T_T

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

Max has a track record of partying hard. It's who he is, and she lives him for it. There isn't any kind of gripe of hang-up, just Max having fun and doing dumb shit that makes her laugh.

Lando is throwing a - well - a party. There was an excuse for it in the invitation, but she's too buzzed to remember it.

The echoing sound of Max's laughter ricochets off the walls. Daniel is with him, probably getting them into more trouble, but she knows Daniel will look after him. At least until he's trashed and can't get off the floor.

Alex brings her another shot glass. She has no idea what's in it, but Alex is letting loose, and she'll be damned if she doesn't partake.

He raises the shot glass in a toast. "To whatever this party is!" He cheers. They clink their glasses together and down the shots. She gags at whatever was in it.

"The fuck was that, Alex?!" She sputters.

He gives her a blank look. Really thinking hard about what he gave her. "I've got no idea."

The hours seem to tick by. The people are slowly dissipating, leaving the safety of this weird little bubble they've created.

She's lightly buzzed still, having danced off the majority of the shots Alex had her doing. The couch is her new best friend, and Lando had brought her a blanket at some point in the last twenty minutes.

A weight on the other end of the sofa catches her attention. Max, with complete adoration in his blue eyes, is staring at her. "Wow," he slurs. "You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen."

She laughs at his drunken thoughts. "You're not too bad looking yourself, babe."

The smile on his face is almost childish. It's big enough to almost fall off. His cheeks tinged a darker red with the blush adding to the alcohol flush.

"Go on a date with me? Please?" He tries to pout, but it ends up looking awkward mixed with the grin.

She flashes the ring at him. "Sorry, I'm spoken for." Alex and Lando are giggling from where they are watching this interaction unfold.

Max looks like a wounded puppy. Eye's glossing over like her might cry. "He must be such a lucky guy. You're just so perfect!"

"Awe, love, you wanna know a secret?" She leans in to whisper into Max's ear. "You married me."

If Max could hand you the world on a silver platter, he might have tried in this moment. The Dutch is vibrating in pure, unadulterated joy. Like a child who just got the ice-cream they were so desperately craving.

"Holy shit! I'm the lucky guy!"

Max smothers himself against your body. Eventually falling asleep, mumbling about how she's so amazing, and how he loves her so much. It's endearing to here his drunk affections laid bare for everyone to see.

It's the lullaby that calms her to a restful state. Fingers tangling with the softness of his hair. "You're not the only one who's lucky. I guess I'm pretty lucky, too."