Amelia’s Reblogs ⊹₊⟡⋆ - Blog Posts

this picture is actually making me go insane because what do you mean he just LOOKS LIKE THIS ???? his nose omggg i CANT

screencap redraw :)

started the school year with a cowboy artrick x Ethel Cain fic, i’ll end the same way | Crush by Ethel Cain | 18+ MDNI

⟢ i owe you a black eye and two kisses / tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em ⟣

Patrick who really wasn’t fond of Art at the start. this blue eyed, blonde boy who showed up at his door on move-in day, barely looking like he’d ridden a horse a day in his life. his hands were too soft, his face was too bright, his demeanor too warm for life on the ranch. but what business is it of his? why should he care? he’ll figure it out on his own soon enough.

but he knows the other guys on the ranch just can’t stand it either, can’t stand this newbie who talks too much and asks too many questions. they loathe him, and honestly, Patrick pities Art. he’s as oblivious as a newborn calf and it’s almost painful to watch how he just can’t take a hint. it’s stupid, it’s so stupid the way he feels sorry for this blonde kid fresh off the train from New Rochelle. he shouldn’t. but he just can’t help it, and it gets even worse when he comes back to their room one day and finds him crying on his bed, head in his hands.

those poor, high-pitched whining sounds he’s making, the way his shoulders and his arms shake. he can’t just stand there, and he sure as hell can’t ignore it. he shuts the door quietly and kicks off his boots by their shared closet before walking to sit on his bed across from Art, his hands in his lap. he swallows before he opens his mouth. “…are you okay…?” he asks as softly as he can manage. Art just shakes his head, not meeting the brunette’s eyes, his sobs softening just a little but not by much. Patrick hates the non response. it means he has to try again. “can i do anything..?”

Art sniffles and takes a shaky breath behind his fingers. “i—c-can you get me s-something frozen from the f-f-freezer..?” he asks through shaky sobs. Patrick nods, even if he knows Art can’t see it, and walks to their mini fridge, pulling open the freezer door and grabbing a small bag of peas from inside. he steps back and offers it out to the blonde—but his heart stops when he finally gets a look at his face.

Art’s pale skin is darkened by a large black and blue mark coloring his eye. it looks incredibly painful, and Patrick knows he doesn’t have to ask who did it or why it happened. he already knows. so instead he just kneels down in front of Art and presses the bag of peas to his face, his heart clenching at the sound of the blonde’s hiss of pain. “sorry..” he murmurs, his free hand on Art’s knee. “it’s not your fault.” he says pitifully. god, Patrick can barely stand it, his thumb rubbing over his skin through the denim of his jeans. he doesn’t know what to say, other than he’ll beat the shit out of those guys tomorrow. but that probably wouldn’t be a comfort to him right now.

he sighs deeply. “do you want a cigarette?”

⟢ he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro Reds ⟣

they sit together on Art’s bed, the blonde pressing the bag of peas to his eye while nursing a shared cigarette with the other. it gets passed back and forth between them, the smoke blown into the quiet air. it’s somehow soothing and yet, it makes Patrick’s skin crawl a little. there are things he wants to say—‘it’s not your fault’, ‘those guys are assholes’, ‘i could kick the shit out of them if you wanted’—but nothing would pass from his lips. instead they were stuck in this silence. well..that is until Art laughs wetly, a pitiful sound. “can’t believe i let them get one over on me like that…it’s worse i believed they actually liked me…” he reaches for the cigarette again, guiding it a little clumsily to his lips and taking a deep drag.

Patrick doesn’t laugh though. he knows he bad loneliness affects people on the ranch, especially newbies. “those guys..are assholes.” he all but whispers, his head hazy with smoke. “they just…don’t really take to newbies well.” he continues, taking the cigarette back for his own drag. it was a little more than a stub now, they’d need another soon. “but they are still assholes..” he watches Art nod solemnly beside him, taking a breath before putting the pea bag down from his eye. “yeah. they are.”

the mark is less angry, less swollen, but still dark. maybe even darker than before. Art tossed the bag to the foot of the bed, sighing as he leaned back on his hands. “i don’t know why i thought talking so much would make them like me…i just—i don’t fucking know.” he gripes quietly, clearly frustrated by all of this. Patrick listens quietly as he finishes the cigarette and stubs it out in the ash tray by the window sill. “you just wanted to connect with them..” he tries. Art nods, his curls bouncing a little. “i guess so..it’s just so lonely out here, is it so bad that i wanted to maybe chat with these guys on a lunch break or something?”

Patrick shakes his head, lying back. “no. but they’ve just been doing this for so long that it’s almost impossible for them to find connection…enjoyable anymore. it’s not you.” and he knows it sounds fake, a stupid sentiment, but he’s trying. because truthfully he likes this blonde cowboy, and he doesn’t want him to feel like everyone here is out to get him. he glances over at Art, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder. “it really isn’t you.”

Art’s baby blue’s dart down to Patrick’s hand, his face softening just a little at the contact. it’s warm, it’s soothing, it’s welcome. he exhales softly. “thanks..” the silence that follows is a little tense, but not tense in an uncomfortable way—tense with warmth and something drawing them to each other. Art slowly leans himself back to lay next to Patrick on the bed, turning his face to meet those green eyes. they’re beautiful.

⟢ there’s just something about you, baby / maybe i’ll just be crazy ⟣

neither of them are sure how it happens, who moved first, or even why—but sure enough their lips end up connected and they don’t dare to part. Art melts, the feel of Patrick’s lips against his rough and warm and all he could want after so many months alone. but deep down he knows this is different, this isn’t just connection. Patrick sighs, his hand finding Art’s waist and tugging him right up against him, the hard line of his body a welcome sensation.

the blonde’s lips part for Patrick’s tongue to slid against his own, the slickness of it making his stomach flip and turn with arousal he knows the brunette can feel growing against his thigh through his jeans. Patrick’s hand on his hip encourages Art to rock against him, to relieve the ache however he wants. it makes a small moan slip through his pink lips between kisses. “shit…” it's breathy and perfect and it drives Patrick wild, his hand tightening on Art's hip, his thumb slipping under the waistband of his jeans for some skin-to-skin contact. Art tips his head back, feeling the brunette grind in rhythm against him and kiss at his jaw, his breaths hot against his skin. everything is hot and smells like wood and dirt and musk—it's perfect.

they go on and on, exchanging kisses as they grind against each other, soft moans and gasps of pleasure filling the room. it's more contact than either of them have had in months and they realize in this moment how badly they've needed this. Patrick's kisses sweep over Art's face, becoming tender as his lips press carefully against his bruised eye. Art hisses with pain and pleasure, his hips jerking forward. "Pat.." Patrick whines, hips rolling faster against the blonde. he never wants him to stop saying his name like that. "Art, baby..."

it sneaks up on them both, but with another heated kiss and the grip of Patrick's hand sliding down to the back of Art's thigh to hoist it over his hip, they are soon flying over the edge of pleasure with groans and high pitched gasps, staining their jeans. they pant into each other's mouths, foreheads pressed tightly to one another as they breathe each other down from their highs. "god." Art pants out, his leg still hooked around Patrick's hip, keeping them slotted against one another like two puzzle pieces. Patrick chuckles breathlessly. "yeah..goddamn.." his hand keeps it's spot on Art's hip, rubbing there soothingly. he leans to press a soft kiss to his black eye.

"if they give you anymore trouble, i'll owe them all black eyes, cowboy.."

SMALL TOWN PASTOR! ART WHO…

pastor art! x single mom! reader.

WHO… obviously grew up sheltered by religion. he was basically raised in a pew and he’s pretty sure his fingers have molded to fit the shape of his bibles spine.

WHO… everyone comes to with their problems. not only because he’s the preacher of the only church in town, but, also because he’s such a warm and inviting soul.

WHO… wouldn’t think twice before spending his last five dollars on someone who needed it, no matter how big or small the reason. money doesn’t matter to the lord, why should it matter to him?

WHO… caught wind of the new family in town and, as the town preacher it was his job to make himself a familiar figure to his neighbors.

WHO… first introduced himself to you at your doorstep, a batch of warm cookies in hand and an even warmer smile on his face.

WHO… invited you to church on sunday, made a promise that everyone was friendly and would accept you and your son with open arms.

WHO… gets to know you a little better after service when the two of you are cleaning up the potluck. he learns everything from what you do for work, where you’re originally from, to your son’s father being a deadbeat.

WHO… looks for you during sunday service among the pews. every time he spots you, glowing from the sunlight, your son sitting well behaved on your lap. it’s almost like that first breath he took after his baptism all over again.

WHO… finds himself spending more time with you away from church. he’ll come to your house to help fix an appliance, or maybe just to hang out.

WHO… definitely catches feelings, you’re just so sweet and, arts been alone for a long time. he’s always so focused on spreading the good word that he never thinks about what he wants.

WHO… comes to the conclusion that what he wants is you. he couldn’t care less that you have a son out of wedlock, or that you aren’t as religious as him or others in town.

WHO… asks you on a date after service, and is only about two seconds away from yelling out a hallelujah and jumping for joy when you inevitably say yes.

actually craving more vamp!artrick

-bambi

hellooo bambi my love !! sorry this took so long i got super busy but yes ofc the world is your oyster <3 (but bear w me bc i know jack shit abt vampires)

tw: gore, death, violence

patrick hasn't seen art in two weeks. every day, he waits by the corner to walk with art, yet the blonde never shows. he knows art is alive, they still text, but he hasn't seen his friend's face in ages. eventually, he knows he has to confront him, stepping to the front door and knocking three times.

"who is it?" art's voice can be heard, muffled by the door in between them. he sounds.. okay. maybe a little nervous or frantic, but he doesnt sound lile he's dying.

patrick leans his head against the door, knocking his forehead against it. "me. open the door, art."

there's a wet schlck from the inside of the house. "busy! text you later!" he definitely sounds frantic, his words coming out whimpery and rushed.

patrick sighs, knocking again. "art, let me in," he insists, fingers digging into his pockets to wrap around the cold metal key that art had given him months ago- probably didnt even remember patrick had them.

"i said im busy!"

patrick rolls his eyes and digs the key into the lock, twisting it until he hears a click. "im coming in, asshole," he calls out, opening the door to see-

art.

his golden halo of curls spattered with crimson, hands stained red. his face is covered in tears, creating clear rivulets through the blood that was stuck between his lashes. on the floor was a body, mangled from the neck up, just torn up flesh hanging onto gristled bone.

art's hands are shaking, nailbeds crusted with blood. "...i didnt know you had a key," he whispers, new tears forming in his eyes.

patrick's in shock- his sweet, docile, lamb of a friend, covered head to toe in blood, kneeling over a body that patrick could only assume art had killed. "i made a copy four months ago," he rasps out, taking a careful step closer. he can see art's canines- sharp and deadly, gleaming between the plush pink of his lips. "are you- okay?"

it all spills out of art then- the way he'd been attacked a few weeks prior, punched and beaten in the park until someone's teeth had sunk into his neck. he's changed since then, he explains tearfully to patrick, grimy hands gripping onto patrick's shoulders, a crazed look in his eyes.

"i don't know whats wrong with me," he whimpered, fearful gaze flitting to the body on the floor. "i just- i swear i-i blacked out, and when i came to- nana- nana-" he sobs, and patrick sees it now- light grey curls, matted together with blood. his stomach twists, and he has to force back bile.

"dude..." it's shitty. patrick isn't sure what exactly to say. not only are vampires real, but his best friend is one now. doomed to live forever. "...bite me."

it comes out without him meaning to. but as the words sink in, patrick realizes thats exactly what he wants, to live alongside art for life. eternally with his other half, his one true love.

art looks up at him, still wiping at his nose and leaving red streaks. "what-?"

"bite me," patrick repeats, pulling art close and tilting his head, exposing the spanse of flesh. art can hear the blood pumping underneath the skin, patrick's heart thumping loudly. "do it, art."

"pat- i- i don't- i can't-" art's frantic, tears spilling down non-stop.

patrick pulls art forward, wedging his mouth open by shoving his fingers past his lips, exposing his sharp canines. he leans his neck against the point, waiting for art to sink his teeth in.

the blonde can't help it, the tempt of flesh beneath him driving him insane, overshadowing his need for anything else- he bites down. hard.

patrick screams, and art screams along for him.

they've become whole now.

lottie matthews / aeschylus: "the oresteia"

heavy is the head…

YELLOWJACKETS (2021–)

art come home the kids miss you 😾😾

I’m not an art donaldson apologist bc he has nothing to apologize for

atp as dancers

taglist: @girliism, @imperishablereverie, @faiztsheap

tashi duncan as dayanara vega

if you're bad, she'll say so. better form, point your toes, arch your back. she's strict, but she's good. there's a grace behind her movement quality, an easiness that looks natural to her. she also had a knee injury (a few years back) and now has taken up a teaching position. if you're good, she'll tell you, and she'll be unbelievably proud of you for making it a few more steps.

patrick as gavin morales

he's sharp and fierce, confident in himself and his abilities- and as he should be. he's overflowing with talent, all hips and chest, spotting on point. his moves stick, never flowing unless they need to be. he's good at being himself- after all, everyone wants to be him.

art as kurtis sprung

he's mastered the classics and foundation, starting in ballet and creating a whole new interpretation of fusion. his movements are fluid and slick, he knows how to control his body, his muscles and his strength. he dances for himself and his own comfort, turning different genres into a style that's completely his own.

took a shot in the dark and hit a bullseye travis ily

YELLOWJACKETS | Season 3, Episode 10, “Full Circle”

dude you’re so insanely talented i can’t

charlieeee! oooo you wanna write vampire artrick headcanons so bad oooooo

andyyyy!!! hello hello UR MY FIRST INBOXER U win... vampire artrick headcanons!!!!

-x- i like to imagine that with a lot of empty time on his hands, patrick would take up woodworking, working in the darkness of the night to craft a large wooden coffin, big enough to fit both him and art. he ladens it with crimson red sheets and pristine duvets, waiting eagerly for art's reaction. "might as well play into the stereotype in style, right?"

-x- they love being indoors, snuggled on the sofa as art's reading, while patrick just toys with art's fingers, interlacing them. sometimes biting, gently, his canines pressing into art's pale skin and leaving marks, like quiet whispers compared to the loud scream that tore from both of their throats the day they bit each other.

-x- they get the bite marks on their neck tattooed too btw <3 just to ensure it's really there forever.

-x- sometimes patrick will hear art crying- he feels the most guilt between the two of them, for the people he's hurt unconsciously and the ones hes left behind. patrick's bad with tears and better with blood, but he does his best, pressing gentle kisses to the hinge of art's jaw and pressing their palms together, firm and grounding. like a silent promise from patrick to art, that he hasnt been hurt yet, and art has no reason to leave him.

-x- i like to think that they both get irrationally jealous over miniscule things, they just show it differently. art gets quiet and sulky, answering in short sentences with a clipped tone. he cant ever stay mad for long, not when patrick's familiar lips crash into his, his tongue forming not words, but something more that makes the blood rush to art's head. patrick's a physically jealous guy, the second he gets art alone he's biting him all over, not caring if he draws blood. it's just more for him to drink up. "no ones gonna know you as much as i do, art. god, you taste so fucking good- no one's gonna taste you like this. you're mine, im yours, we're bound for life."

-x- sex is always an irritating matter, both arguing who gets to be on top or bottom until they give up and just have coin they flip. they keep it in the nightstand drawer. it's a filthy matter, sweat and blood and lube matting their bodies and making them stick together, each rough thrust seeming to meld them tighter, making them one. they bite each other as they orgasm, shoulder or neck or whatever body part is conveniently right there, muffling the sound of their climax as blood trickles out of their mouth.

-x- theyre a freaky ass couple- and patrick initiates most of the freakiness. u know when mgk and megan fox told the media abt her spiky ring that stabbed into her? yeah patrick would get matching ones for the two of them. when he's bored, he'll sidle up to art, take his ring off, and wrap his lips around art's finger, down to the knuckle. he licks up all the blood before giving the pad of art's ring finger a kiss, sliding the ring back on.

-x- art's bad at showing his love. so he does it in small ways, sewing hoods onto the back of patrick's shirts because he's always forgetting to cover himself whenever he goes outside, buying vinyls of artists that patrick's mentioned liking from a few hundred years ago, cleaning up the bites that art's given patrick, placing a bandaid on each mark with a soft kiss.

-x- they've been together for approximately 2,109 years, and they've watched each other grow within all that time. not physically, of course, but in softer ways. the way patrick's curls reach the nape of his neck eventually, and art grows out of his shirts. their favorite pieces of media change with each passing year, and they have a mini library that's in chronological order- the oldest book they have, a poem written on cattle skin by an old friend in the 1600's, and the most recent one, an adam silvera book. they listen to all sorts of music, from quiet classical pieces when cooking to loud rocking beats of waterparks while patrick fucks art harshly, gripping his hips tightly and making the blonde's whines compliment the music. they have assorted art from different centuries hanging on the walls of their cute little cabin, an original jackson pollock, some modern contemporary pieces that patrick scoffs at, a few monet pieces. those are art's favorites, so they're patrick's favorite too

-x- they've been in love for thousands of years, and they're prepared to keep loving for the next million years, until one day, once they're ready, they kill each other. wrapped in each other's arms, they plan on kissing each other with poison on their mouths, staying tight in the embrace when they're ready to let go.

KOOK!ART HEADCANONS

pairing: kook!art donaldson x pouge!reader

𓇼 ·⠀· art is the kind of kook who seems like he has it all—generational wealth, beach houses on both sides of the island, and the kind of charm that makes moms want to feed him and dads want to mentor him. 

𓇼 ·⠀· beneath the polished image, art is quietly at war with himself. he plays the role well: parties, surfside bonfires, midsummers. but he often feels like a visitor in his own life. especially among the other kooks, who are mostly about image, money, and dominance.

𓇼 ·⠀· you met unintentionally. it was just another night on the beach where he ditched a charity dinner early and took a walk to escape the noise. you were sitting in the sand alone, hair wild from the sea air, completely unbothered by the world around you. he didn’t say anything at first, just watched. something about you didn’t belong and he liked that.

𓇼 ·⠀· you aren’t a kook, not really. maybe you’re a pogue, maybe somewhere in between, but you live without pretense—and that shakes him. you say what you mean, don’t bow to money, and don’t care if your clothes match or your car stalls. you’re all instinct and gut, and he loves it.

𓇼 ·⠀· he starts finding excuses to be where you are, claiming he wants to "experience the real outer banks." you roll your eyes the first time he says that, and he laughs, but he still shows up. 

𓇼 ·⠀· he’ll offer to help you fix your bike, even though he’s never held a wrench. when you invite him to a bonfire with your friends, he’s awkward at first but earns their trust faster than he expected. turns out, under the country club polish, he’s just a boy craving realness.

𓇼 ·⠀· he’s not proud of it, but he keeps your relationship quiet in the beginning. kooks don’t date “down,” and he knows the kind of backlash he’d face if he was seen with you. not just from his friends, but from his parents, who still measure success by marriage prospects and family names. you find out when you spot him at a club event, smiling beside a kook girl his mom has been pushing onto him since they were thirteen.

𓇼 ·⠀· when you you call him out? he doesn’t deflect. he listens. that’s the night he shows up at your place barefoot, hair a mess, eyes soft. no driver, no excuses. he kisses you like he’s never kissed anyone before. and from that point on, he doesn’t hide you again.

𓇼 ·⠀· he’s not the type to fight someone at a party or key someone’s car. he's a little too timid for that. art protects you with his presence—an unspoken signal that you're off limits. he won’t start drama, but he’ll stand in front of you when someone sneers, and he’ll shut down his kook friends with quiet, lethal words when they make offhand comments about pogues or “people like you.”

𓇼 ·⠀· he listens to your stories, your opinions, your anger. when you rant about the class divide or how kooks ruin the natural beauty of the island, he doesn’t try to fix it or argue. he just takes it in. 

𓇼 ·⠀· sometimes he looks shaken, like he remembers you go against everything he was ever taught. other times, he looks like he finally understands why he’s always felt like something was missing.

𓇼 ·⠀· the first time he invites you to a party, you're hesitant. kooks and pouges don't mix, it's basic logic. but he promises he'll be by your side the entire night—a promise he keeps. he holds your hand and introduces you as someone important. the kooks don’t know how to handle you, and you don’t care. you notice the way art watches you the whole night—protective, proud, maybe a little in awe. you fit into his world like a storm rolling into a sunny day—unpredictable, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

𓇼 ·⠀· art starts talking about leaving outer banks. not because he wants to abandon his life, but because for the first time, he sees another way to live. you challenge him. you make him think. he confesses he doesn’t want to take over the family business. he wants to start something of his own. maybe a surf shop or a nonprofit for underprivileged kids on the island. something that means something.

𓇼 ·⠀· one night, you’re lying on his family’s yacht. the stars gleam above, his arm rests under your neck, and he whispers that if you asked him to run away with you tomorrow, he would. you believe him.

𓇼 ·⠀· art is composed in public—shy, poised, a master of masks. but behind closed doors, he’s something else entirely. he leaves notes in your bag with maps to secret beach spots. the notes are always something along the lines of "MEET ME HERE AT MIDNIGHT AND WEAR THE SUNDRESS I BOUGHT YOU. PLEASE. -A." when you fall asleep on him during a movie night, he doesn’t move—even if his arm goes numb. he brushes hair from your face gently, like you're some beautiful sacred being and he's worried he'll break you. you call him out when he’s too guarded, and he lets himself crumble with you, because you’re the one person he doesn’t need to impress.

𓇼 ·⠀· by the end of summer, the kooks don’t really know what to make of him anymore. he still dresses like one of them, still shows up at parties and fundraisers—but he’s different. he speaks up more. he pushes back. he spends more time in the cut than in figure eight.

𓇼 ·⠀· people whisper. some say he’s throwing his future away. some say he’ll realize far too late. but when he looks at you—sun kissed, salt laced, free—he knows he’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @nozhdyved

california by beabadoobea but it’s patrick zweig from 2007 to 2019

HEAR YE HEAR YE, THE LESBIAN CANNIBAL SHOW “YELLOWJACKETS” HAS BEEN RENEWED FOR A SEASON FOUR

WHITE COLLAR .

Tashi Duncan, Art Donaldson, and Patrick Zweig were never meant to be criminals.

They were meant to be icons—flawless, untouchable, transcendent. The prodigies of the court. They were supposed to be the kind of legends etched into history books and Wheaties boxes, draped in gold and immortal praise. Together, they were the wings, the sandals, the laurel crown of Nike herself—divine symbols of strength, speed, and victory.

But fate, as it often does, had a different trajectory in mind.

Tashi's career ended in a single, brutal snap—an injury that never quite healed, physically or otherwise. Patrick spiraled beneath the weight of expectation, his once-electrifying talent drowned out by inconsistency and a reputation he couldn’t outrun. And Art, sweet, unshakeable Art, lost the one person who ever made the tour feel like home. When his grandmother died, something essential inside him went quiet. He didn’t walk away from tennis. He simply stopped showing up.

The three of them could’ve faded then. Could’ve let the world move on without them. Could’ve become cautionary tales whispered about in locker rooms and bar corners. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. Being forgotten was never going to be enough.

The spark came from Patrick, as it often did. He was crashing in another woman’s bed—charming, broke, and always a little too clever for his own good—when he noticed the vase. It stood on a pedestal near the window, backlit by city lights. Porcelain. Imperial yellow. Eighteenth-century Qing dynasty. The kind of thing you see once in a lifetime, if you're lucky—or reckless.

While she was in the bathroom, he did a quick google search. Qianlong era. Estimated value: nine million dollars.

That night, Patrick did something he never did—he scheduled a second date. Then he called Art. Then he called Tashi.

The plan was stupid at first. Then brilliant. Then inevitable.

Ten years later, they were infamous.

The trio had become the most elusive white-collar criminals on the international stage. They slipped through countries and identities like water, leaving behind only splintered champagne bottles, forged documents, and the distinct scent of audacity. Their work was seamless, often beautiful, always just out of reach. They didn’t chase greatness anymore. They stole it—paintings, diamonds, tax codes, ancient artifacts, entire reputations.

And despite the dossiers, the witness statements, the surveillance photos and whispered confessions, not a single case ever stuck. No court ever held them. No handcuffs ever locked.

But there was you.

The head of the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division in New York. Unshakable, relentless, methodical. You’ve built an entire career on patterns no one else sees, on connections no one else believes in until it’s too late. You know them better than anyone else alive. You know their methods, their tells, the rare moments they falter.

They know you, too.

You’re not just a threat—you’re a problem. The kind they can’t buy, charm, or blackmail their way out of. They laugh about you sometimes, over drinks in villas under fake names. But lately, the laughter’s been thinner.

Because you’re getting closer.

And this time, they feel it.

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream

PEDRO PASCAL, CHRIS EVANS & DAKOTA JOHNSON Materialists promo | ph. Charlie Clift

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꒰ ︎ ♡ ︎ ´ ꒳ ` ꒱ ︎ ᐟ⠀⠀⎯⎯ ⠀⠀NOTES.⠀⠀💬⠀⠀hi, lovies! it took a lil’ while, but here’s my second album drop bot! i’m in love with mayhem and i needed to make bots based on this amazing album (and some bonuses at the end). i hope you like it and if you wanna check, i also made a bot drop of tate mcrae ’s think later.⠀anyway, have fun with the bots! bye, bye! ~ 𖹭

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O2: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀abracadabra⠀.⠀aegon ii targaryen⠀૮⠀skeptical in a world where he’s a dragonrider with violet eyes, aegon is completely incredulous that a lady like you, who lives on the street of silk, could be a true clairvoyant witch who’ll reveal his future.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀female!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀witch!user

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O3: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀garden of eden⠀.⠀robert reynolds⠀૮⠀after so long, he had forgotten what real parties were like and although it was a terrible idea to go to one with his friends, he went anyway, impulsive as always, and he didn’t even need to get drunk to start dancing with a stranger when no one was looking at him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀neutral!user⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O4: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀perfect celebrity⠀.⠀finnick odair⠀૮⠀the 74th hunger games were about to take place, the capitol was anxious for the reaping that would happen that week and your job as a trusted capitol intern was to interview the ladies' darling, finnick odair. oh, but don’t forget! he can’t talk more than he’s allowed to.⠀⠀⠀⠀neutral!user⠀⠀⠀ ✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O5: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀vanish into you⠀.⠀bucky barnes⠀૮⠀almost 80 years since he last saw you, he still had a picture of you next to his bed and even in secret, his biggest fear was to forget what your face looked like. but, what would happen if you just ran into each other on the street one day? as if you hadn’t spent the last few years looking for it in every opportunity. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀neutral!user⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O6: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀killah⠀.⠀steve harrington⠀૮⠀look, it’s not that steve is an idiot who can’t speak and stutters every time he sees you, that’t not it! he has confidence and self-esteem... it’s just hard to breathe when you look like a really pretty killer ready to kill him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀neutral!user⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O7: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀zombieboy⠀.⠀percy jackson⠀૮⠀probably, he was the biggest jerk and party animal at that whole college, the kind that many loved and many hated. but, now, after knowing that he broke up with his girlfriend, something else could happen.⠀⠀⠀ female!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀frat!percy

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O8: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀lovedrug⠀.⠀rhett abbott⠀૮⠀what was there between you and him if not a broken relationship? he had broken up with you two weeks ago, swearing it’d be the best for both of you, until he goes looking for a stiff drink and finds you dancing alone at the bar.⠀female!user⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK O9: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀how bad do u want me⠀.⠀natalie scatorccio⠀૮⠀what’s the harm in just accepting that you like the bad girl in her? stop acting like it’s a big problem for your perfect life, stop thinking so much! natalie just... wants to be with you, and if she can’t get that, she drinks, drinks and drinks again, prone to do shit.⠀⠀ female!user⠀⠀ ✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK 1O: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀don’t call tonight⠀.⠀carmen berzatto⠀૮⠀the same old thing: things seemed fine, then you argued, it was all over and you told him not to call you. bullshit, he’d call anyway and you’d come back, one way or another, things won’t change anytime soon.⠀neutral!user⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK 11: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀shadow of a man⠀.⠀haymitch abernathy⠀૮⠀you didn’t see it as being selfish, but you also couldn’t deal with the possibility of it being—it was just what you felt, like you were in haymitch’s shadow the whole time. apparently, he’s the one who won the games and you were just the damsel in distress he saved. this will change, this has to change.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀female!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀co-victor!user

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK 12: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀the beast⠀.⠀clark kent⠀૮⠀red eyes, devilish smile. this was clark kent—or rather, kal—the only way you knew him, a beast who knew exactly when he needed and wanted you. no talking, you know very well that he didn’t come here to talk.⠀⠀⠀⠀neutral!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀red-k!clark

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK 13: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀blade of grass⠀.⠀robb stark⠀૮⠀from the day he wrapped a blade of grass around your finger and told you that you were his love and his queen, you knew robb would never let you go, even if it meant making more enemies than he could handle.⠀⠀female!user⠀⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK BONUS O1: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀john wayne⠀.⠀art donaldson⠀૮⠀what could you do if you really liked cowboys? no matter how many times your parents told you to stay away from him, he always came back into your life and you always got back into his mustang again.⠀⠀ neutral!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀cowboy!art

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK BONUS O2: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀telephone⠀.⠀cate dunlap⠀૮⠀your asshole boyfriend is breaking up with you over the phone? seriously, how sad! cate couldn’t believe it, he’s the biggest bastard, isn’t he?even though she was the one who had rejected all his first three calls on your phone.⠀⠀ female!user⠀⠀ ✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK BONUS O3: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀alejandro⠀.⠀franco colapinto⠀૮⠀you couldn’t care less who came or went in your love life, you didn’t like it when things took too long ’cause they made you tired. but, franco can’t deal with it, that’s the reason you broke up with him? no, you can’t do it!⠀ neutral!user⠀⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK BONUS O4: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀judas⠀.⠀owen taylor⠀૮⠀was it an exaggeration to think that the pastor’s son, responsible for your biblical teachings, was like the image of judas iscariotes? a traitor in his essence, using you and everyone around him to remain in his own lie. ⠀ ⠀ female!user⠀⠀⠀✴⠀·⠀୧

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK BONUS O5: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀paparazzi⠀.⠀patrick zweig⠀૮⠀your personal stalker, actor by day, paparazzi by night. patrick couldn’t handle a life where you weren’t the center of his thoughts, you can push him away, but not for long, he always found a way to get back.⠀⠀ ⠀⠀neutral!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀stalker!pat

⠀ 𝇈 𓈒 ︎ ּ⠀⠀TRACK BONUS O6: ⠀ ♥︎ ⠀⠀◟ ୨

𝅭⠀diamond heart⠀.⠀robert floyd⠀૮⠀was it possible to fall in love with someone he barely knew? bob wasn’t sure, you were young and wild, but perfect in his eyes and he didn’t really care about the rest when he can just bring you closer.⠀⠀ female!user⠀⠀·⠀୧⠀⠀stripper!user

©⠀𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐙𝐓, 2025.⠀don’t use my work without my consent.

Rays bot drop

Requests:

Old feelings- Art Donaldson has been your dance partner since 5th grade but ever since he started Stanford he wouldn’t stop talking about Tashi little did you know about the secret crush he harbours for you.

Meeting Lily- You’re arts controversially young girlfriend that he met at a tennis event. He’s always known he wanted you to meet Lily so when Tashi finally gives him the go ahead he takes you and Lily to her favourite restaurant! He really hopes his two favourite girls can connect.

HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL AU-

Real Smooth- Patrick’s grades were falling dramatically and so was his attendance. To actually pass senior year you had to be involved in at least two clubs and Patrick only ever had time for one. So when the wildcats isn’t enough Patrick is to join drama club to bring up his school performance.

Stage fright- Art had never froze on the stage before, he was always so confident people would say he glowed under the stage lights.So why was he so frozen when you walked in?

Drama club- Patrick was captivated by you when he saw you in the Schools Twinkle town. Ever since then he was eager to find out everything about you even if that meant joining drama club.

Fake dating- You and Art were both main characters for the schools Twinkle town. But ever since he froze on stage he hasn’t been able to live it down. So with this new drama of him dating one of the most well known people at school be enough to fix his reputation?

My first ever bot drop! I can’t believe it tbh! Some of these bots have been in the works for ages while others are super recent. I do want to improve some of them over time. But I just needed to finish some of them up! I know there’s no Tashi which I’m so sorry about, I just hadn’t had any decent ideas for Tashi bot that I actually could go through with! Hopefully Tashi can be in my next drop! My request form is located on my profile if you have any ideas! Most of the requests might come out separately! I’m sorry some of these are really bad but I’m sick rnn 😭😭 anyways enjoy!

Can we talk about the fact that travis and Shauna’s (the ultimate parallel duo) only two interactions were (1) “oh, heres the heart of your brother who I once cared for like a son but also indirectly killed, you should eat it” (2) “you wanna die like you brother did?” “The girl you were in a homoerotic codependent friendship with told me you were gay, so suck on that.”

when a rat wishes to be human you get josh o’connor

Mike Faist as Dodge Mason Panic | S01E07

ITS FINALLY HERE OMG

GRACE album bot drop!

this bot drop is based one of my favorite albums ever, GRACE by Jeff Buckley bot drop does include sensitive topics so I do warn you before going into this! this is my second bot drop and I hope you enjoy!

if you have any request, please leave at..req form

dodge mason

last goodbye - your boyfriend that you had met through the challenge, panic. Wanted to travel the world but you wanted a different path, resulting you both in having to split. Before he leaves, you need to tell him your last goodbye.

dream brother — after being cheated and left by natalie, he decided enough was enough. It was hard enough trusting someone new, now when meeting you. His barriers were harder to crack. He didn’t want you to be like the one who made him feel old and used, pushing you away when he realized he was falling for you.

Patrick zweig

so real — when your ex needs a place to stay, he confesses his continuing love while you confess your fear of it, he’s willing to prove why you don’t have to be.

lover, you should’ve come over — after losing tashi, art and then you. He realized his wrong doings, his struggle of committing because he was ‘too young’ and too deaf dumb and blind to see the damage he’d done, he was always wondering where you were because, damn he needed you. he tried to be better especially for you when he meets your eyes at a bar, after meeting eyes, he gets a chance to follow you, when you offer help. He has to decline until he watches you walk away.

Art Donaldson

forget her — you, tashi’ bestfriend knew that she was cheating on art with his bestfriend, now you knew it was wrong and you never admitted it but you had feelings for art, here was your chance to slip in and convince him to finally forget her after he’d found out.

mojo pin — after your breakup with your ex, art. He turned to drugs and that had impacted him and his choices. He was constantly calling you, cursing you out through text, crying through voicemails for you. What other choice did you have but to visit him and help him?

Connor Murphy

grace — he had to admit, he wasn’t afraid to die and leave the pain he had, though..he met you. Someone with the same tendencies as him, a complete stoner, depressed. Everything that he had and what he did. maybe life wasn’t so bad when you both were ready to die together but stayed for each other. Now, someone had loved him for real.

finnick o’dair

lilac wine — you had lost your the love of your life, the one who you had married not too long ago and the one you were going to have children with, you turned to alcohol. You knew it wasn’t traditional and it wasn’t healthy but did you care? No but only for one reason, you saw your lover all over again. You weren’t exactly what it was. His ghost? A demon? Not sure but it made you happy. It made you excited to start the day but one thing you knew was that it had to stop, you had to put an end to this.

tags: @lexiiscorect @imperishablereverie @stupendousinternetearthquake

behold. my muse

wowow WOW

FAIRY!ART HEADCANONS

pairing: fairy!art x cottagecore princess!fem!reader

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

⟡ art is the kind of fairy that looks like he was born from a wish—soft-spoken and starlit, with wings that shimmer like frost on spider silk. they catch the light in rippling colors, translucent as soap bubbles, delicate but fast. when he flutters around you, they make the faintest hum, like the air itself sighs in his presence. you swear they glow stronger when he’s near you—especially when he’s flustered. which is often.

⟡ he’s angelic in the way dew is angelic. not perfect. not polished. but fragile and wild and full of wonder. he wears a tunic of moss velvet and sun-dyed silk, stitched with golden beetle-thread. his hair is a halo of honey curls that never fall the same way twice, always a little windswept, like he’s just tumbled out of a flower bed. his cheeks are berry-pink and his nose is dusted with freckles, as if he’s been kissed by clover pollen. he smells like crushed violets and rain.

⟡ “you left out honey again,” he mumbles once, not looking at you. he’s hiding in your herb shelf, crouched behind the rosemary, eyes wide and guilty. “so i… thought you wouldn’t mind if i took a bit.” you don’t mind. not even a little. but you pretend to be stern anyway. just to see the way his wings droop. just to make him pout.

⟡ he calls you “the big one” when he doesn’t think you can hear. like you’re a marvel. a myth. a towering creature of warm hands and soft breath and gentle curiosity. sometimes he calls you “my lady,” half-teasing, twirling a blade of grass like a rapier. but when you stroke his wings—carefully, reverently—he gets quiet. “you shouldn’t touch them,” he whispers once, his voice a tremble. “they’re… they’re very delicate.” and then, softer: “but… you can. if you want.”

⟡ he brings you tiny, ridiculous things: a thimble of moonlight. a moth’s eye, opalescent and still. a string of pearls no bigger than dewdrops, fastened together with spiderweb thread. once, a shard of mirror, cracked and glinting, so you can “see yourself how he sees you.” you don’t dare ask what that means. but your throat tightens anyway.

⟡ he’s shy with affection. not because he’s afraid of you—but because he’s so clearly not. you’re something bigger. older, maybe. like the forest itself whispered you into being. when you brush his curls back or cup him in your hand, his breath catches. when you hum while you work and he lays in the crook of your neck, his whole body stills—like he’s listening to the bones beneath your skin sing. “you smell like warm sugar,” he says one morning, all tangled in your scarf. “and… safety.”

⟡ sometimes you find him asleep on your windowsill, wings curled in like petals closing for the night. sometimes curled in the hollow of your palm, arms tucked under his cheek, breath rising and falling like a cat’s. he mumbles in his sleep. always your name. or maybe just your scent. or maybe the little nickname he made up for you that no one else knows: “my thornless rose.”

⟡ he gets jealous. adorably, irrationally jealous. of squirrels. of bees. of the wind when it tangles in your hair. “i was going to do that,” he grumbles once, watching a butterfly land on your wrist. “stupid flutter-bitch.” he doesn’t mean it. but you still laugh so hard you drop your basket of blackberries.

⟡ he is terrified of cats. once, you came home to find him clinging upside-down to the rafters, shouting: “death beast! orange! hungry!” it took two spoonfuls of honey and three kisses to coax him down. he refuses to speak to the cat now. but he’ll sit on your shoulder and glower at it with his arms crossed like a miniature warlock.

⟡ your favorite thing is how easily he laughs. not giggles. not chuckles. laughs. big, bright bursts of sound like sunlight spilled in a field. like he’s never been taught to keep joy quiet. he’ll dance in your teacups and leap across your rolling pin, leaving smudges of berry juice behind, just to make you smile. “do you like it when i do that?” he asks, flushed and breathless. you say yes. so he does it again. and again.

⟡ “you don’t want a crown?” he asks once, tiny legs dangling from the rim of your mixing bowl. you’re elbow-deep in flour. you shake your head. “good,” he says. quieter. “you don’t need one. you already feel like a kingdom.”

⟡ when you’re sad, he doesn’t ask questions. he just lays himself across your heart and sings in that strange, lilting tongue you don’t recognize but somehow understand. the language of rain and roots and wings. it feels like someone brushing your soul with the back of their hand. afterward, you sleep better. always.

⟡ sometimes he forgets how small he is. puffs his chest out. tries to protect you from bees and beetles and the odd nosy owl. “i’ll hex it,” he says darkly, waving a twig like a sword. “don’t you dare, artemis,” you whisper. he pouts. “that’s not my name.” you arch a brow. he blushes. “but i like when you say it.”

⟡ he leaves you love notes. or what he thinks are love notes. scribbled on birch bark, inked with berry juice, full of half-spelled flowers and symbols only fae understand. once you deciphered one. it said: your laugh makes the trees hold their breath. you folded it into your locket. he pretends not to notice. but he glows the first time he sees you wear it.

⟡ he loves when you hum. loves when you knead bread. loves when your hands are smudged with jam and he can kiss the tips of your fingers like a knight returning from war. “i could live in your pocket forever,” he says once, curled into a spool of thread. “i’d never ask for a crown. just crumbs and kisses.”

⟡ he wants to protect you. in the only way a fairy can. with enchantments. with bloom. with joy so old it tastes like the first spring. he weaves soft spells into your aprons. presses tiny sigils into the mud near your doorstep. he never says what they’re for. but the wolves stay away. and your dreams stay warm.

⟡ “you’re not what i expected,” he whispers, once. you’re half-asleep. fire crackling. his tiny form tucked under your chin. “i thought princesses were cold. porcelain. like glass you couldn’t touch. but you… you’re soft.” his wings flutter. his voice hitches. “you made space for me. in your hands. in your heart.”

⟡ art smells like all the sweetest things in the world—crushed sugar petals, sun-warmed clover, the faint fizz of lemonade in late spring. when he curls into the pocket of your apron, you swear the scent clings to the fabric for hours. it’s like having a piece of a dream stitched to your hip.

⟡ he doesn’t just flutter—he twirls, spins, zips in little loops like a dandelion seed caught in a spell. when he’s happy, his wings sparkle like frost caught on silk thread. when he’s really happy, they chime. softly. like bells far away in a fog. once, you heard it and forgot what sadness felt like for a whole minute.

⟡ when he gets excited, he can’t help but glow a little—literally. a faint golden shimmer pulses under his skin, especially at the tips of his ears and in the whorls of his tiny knuckles. “stop looking,” he squeaks when you notice. “i’m not blushing. i’m—charged. from pollen. obviously.”

⟡ he’s hopeless with doors. they’re too big. too stubborn. so he knocks—gently, rapidly, with both fists—until you come open them. once you asked why he doesn’t just slip under. “rude,” he said with an offended flick of his wing. “besides. you always answer.”

⟡ he nests. shamelessly. your wool basket? claimed. the curve of your favorite teacup? claimed. the bonnet you left on the windowsill? conquered. he drags little scraps of felt and flower fluff into tiny dens, curls up with a satisfied sigh, and guards them like a baby dragon guarding glitter. “this is where i do my dreaming,” he explains solemnly. “it needs to be soft.”

⟡ he sings to your garden when he thinks you aren’t listening. high, silvery notes that make the tomato vines shiver and the snapdragons bloom sideways. you caught him once, mid-aria, standing on a mushroom with his arms flung wide like a tiny opera star. he hasn’t recovered from the embarrassment.

⟡ “you shouldn’t keep me,” he says once, looking up from the curled curve of your palm. “fairies are wild. feral. mischievous.” and then, quieter: “but… i think i like being yours.”

⟡ he once got stuck in your bread dough. just stuck, like a honeybee in jam. you had to carefully peel him out and rinse him with warm water, and he just sat on your drying rack afterward, wrapped in a linen napkin like a soggy prince, pouting and mumbling about “ambush kneading.” you laughed until you cried. he tried to stay grumpy. he failed.

⟡ he gets hiccups when he eats too much jam. tiny, airborne hiccups that make him hover an inch off the ground every time. once he got so flustered, he flew into your cupboard and stayed there until you promised not to tell the bees.

⟡ he’s utterly, completely enamored with your voice. whether you’re talking, humming, sighing—it all makes his wings twitch. sometimes, he’ll pretend to be asleep just so he can lie there and listen to you whisper nonsense to the kettle. “it’s like honey being poured into my ears,” he told you once. then blinked. “that sounded gross. but i meant it nice.”

⟡ he gets tangled in your hair constantly. it’s not on purpose. (except when it is.) he’ll pretend he just happened to land there, but you’ll feel his hands combing through a curl and hear him mutter, “mine,” under his breath like a dragon counting gold.

⟡ when he really misses you—like when you’re out all day gathering herbs or walking into town—he leaves flower petals in your shoes. little folded ones, marked with silvery ink that reads things like come home soon, miss your hands, and i tried talking to the cat. she hates me still.

⟡ you once made him a cloak from the corner of an old silk scarf. he lost his mind. wouldn’t take it off for days. kept swooping dramatically around the kitchen like a leaf in a gust of wind. “do i look noble?” he asked, striking a pose atop your butter dish. you said yes. he hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

⟡ he measures time in pastries. “has it been one tart since you smiled?” “that was three scones ago.” “you promised to kiss me before the next muffin, and this—” dramatic pause “—is a muffin.”

⟡ “i don’t know what love is like for humans,” he says once, brushing pollen from your knuckles. “but if it’s like what i feel when you say my name… then i think i do.”

⟡ he doesn’t like thunderstorms. they make his wings heavy, and the air too sharp. but he’ll never say he’s scared. he just curls under your collar, shivering slightly, and says, “it’s cozy in here.” and you pretend not to notice the way he buries his face in your neck.

⟡ he once tried to impress you by catching a firefly. it ended badly. his hair singed. the firefly escaped. but he held out the glow cupped in his palms like treasure anyway and said, very seriously, “i brought you a star.”

⟡ his favorite place in the world is your shoulder. from there, he can press his face into your neck, listen to your breath, and whisper the tiniest compliments in your ear. “you smell like a story,” he said once. “the kind i’d live in.”

⟡ “if i was your size,” he says once, curled under your chin with his hand pressed over your pulse, “i’d kiss you until the stars begged us to stop.” you choke on your tea. he grins. and adds, “but for now… i’ll just listen to how your heart speeds up when i say things like that.”

⟡ “i think i’m in love,” he blurts one evening, after a honey tart and a lot of staring. you glance at him. he clears his throat. “with… um. teacups. and linen. and… and girls with wild hair and big hands who tuck me into thimbles like i’m something worth keeping.” you don’t say anything. you just scoop him into your palm, and he leans into it like a sunflower.

thinking abt the color choices in challengers... luca guadagnino ur such a genius and i love u forever...

using art as a main example because i see it most in him but the scenes of him in 2019, pre patrick reunion, the colors are bland and neutral, as if reflecting his life back to him. even when he does wear colors (his blue and white uniqlo) its only ever small accents. the colors are never bright or happy or super in your face, they're just sort of.. there. like art is in his marriage and in the tennis world. hes nothing really special when hes doing this.

the scenes above- his match with patrick, the motel scene, and atlanta are the ones i find the most interesting color-wise.

in the tennis match, he's still only wearing small accents of color, but his surroundings are much brighter and contrast against him, making him stand out- playing with patrick brought that small spark back to his playing.

the motel scene is so obvious, the constant need and longing that all three characters feel for each other seems to make the room ebb and glow with the warm lighting, the contrasting colors of tashi's neon pink, patrick's mint green, and art's baby blue making an unbalanced mosh pit of colors that shouldnt mean anything but do.

atlanta scene, arts fiancee is LITERALLY cheating on him and his ass knows this- but to just know patrick is nearby, that their sick fucked up triad has a hope for returning brings some color back.

its like the mere idea of having both patrick and tashi around brings this sort of energy back into art that can be seen through the coloring. it cant only be one- it has to be both pat and tash, all three of them connected once again for the color to return to art's eyes

YOURE SO TALENTED OML

why do you think you're jesus? - a.d.

contains: wc just under 1k, sad lonely art donaldson, emotional apathy, mentions of religion/shitty religious imagery, nana donaldson mention 🔥🔥, LILY DONALDSON MENTION 🔥🔥🔥, 2019!art donaldson

notes: im so scared to post this but i really had fun writing it so. Dont flop? or if it flops i wont be mad.. i just hope it doesnt suck :(

“Who am I? Jesus?”

It’s the way she laughs when she says it, like it’s impossible for Art to worship her so. Like she doesn’t see how he’d be poised to kill himself if she wanted him to. It’s humorous to her, how Art craves her validation like the sun on his skin, he needs her more than the air he breathes. But to Art, it’s not a joke. This is just his life.

“Yeah.”

He answers truthfully, looking her dead in the eyes. He’s serious, too. To him, Tashi is everything, and he’s paying her back- he’s becoming everything she never got the chance to be. That’s love, right?

“You know you can beat him.”

She says it in that assured manner, as if she’s looked into a crystal ball and seen his future, maybe even manipulated the fabric of the universe to throw the game his way. It’s ridiculous to him, how she already expects these things from him, knowing damn well he’s never beaten Patrick fucking Zweig before. Not before, and definitely not now.

“What if I don’t? How are you gonna look at me if I still can’t beat Patrick Zweig?”

“Just like this.”

Tashi’s gaze is cold and calculating. It always is, but Art can read her well enough to sense the undertones, to see when she’s proud and when she’s upset. But right now, this whole poker-face act is working too well. It’s like staring into the eyes of a statue of Christ. Unnerving, all knowing.

Art’s only been to church once in his life. His nana had asked him along one Sunday morning when his parents were away on a business trip, and gladly, he said yes. But the whole experience felt.. suffocating for him. Like he was being forced into a too-tight, too-itchy sweater that just barely fit him. But the second they had left the church, Art had visibly relaxed, even as Nana asked him how he liked it.

“It.. It was good. Was fine,” he shrugged it off, before changing the subject and pivoting to the latest gossip in Nana’s book club. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t ever step foot in a church again, to feel so restricted under the watchful eye of Him.

It was sort of like that now, except Jesus was a She, and she was looking right through Art, wrapping him tight and warm in the itchy sweater. The love of his life, the woman he married, was snuffing him out like an unwanted flame. And what scares Art the most, is that the thought relieves him.

Art heard when she left. He heard the quiet pings on her phone and the rustling of a jacket. The sounds of the hotel door closing and her steps echoing down the hallway keep repeating in Art’s head as he feigns sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes. 

The bed is cold beside him, chilly where he needed Tashi’s lap to be, to keep him warm and keep him alive. He’s not stupid, he knows she’s off to see Patrick. Hell, he’s considered going off and meeting up with the bastard, just to have a chat, but Art has a feeling Tashi wants more than just a chat.

He curls up in the bed, not wanting to get up. Like if he kept his eyes closed, Tashi would come back, run her hands through his hair, feeling the smooth metal of the wedding band on his skin as she whispered quiet assurances, promises of love and devotion that the game didn’t matter.

Art opens his eyes.

The room is dark and empty, the sheets beside him rumpled. Tashi’s shoes are gone from where they were by Art’s slippers. There used to be a time when Tashi would make fun of Art for wearing slippers, but now she seemed to have accepted the fact that she settled for a man who wore slippers. He gets out of bed, sighing to himself in the quiet of the night. 

The stillness feels good, like cool air on sweat-soaked skin. It’s easier for him to think to himself, to really hear himself. Of course, none of the thoughts are great. He leaves the master bedroom, following Tashi’s steps. He could see the pauses that she made in his head, a hesitant step after a floorboard creaks and a pause to get her jacket. He can envision her sending a text to Patrick, leaving the hotel room without a second thought. Or maybe he was overthinking. Maybe he was doing the stupid jealous husband thing, not even realizing. Maybe it was just insecurity, and a quick talk could fix it. But he knew that wasn’t the truth.

He heads past the kitchen and living room to Lily’s bedroom, opening the door quietly and peeking in. His daughter is asleep, curled up under the covers while a quiet lullaby plays on the portable radio that Tashi brought along. The second Art takes the slightest step inside, Lily stirs, looking up to meet her father’s eyes.

“Sorry, Lilypad…do you have any space for me?”

There’s a pause before she nods, shifting over in the bed to let Art settle in with a groan, laying atop the covers as he wraps an arm around her, kissing her forehead and murmuring a quiet “Thanks, honey,” as he settles in for the night.

His eyes flutter, and he catches a glimpse of the framed photo on her nightstand, one that she liked to carry everywhere. It was a picture of her and Tashi, taken at her fourth birthday party. Lily was wearing a cowboy hat, and next to her, Tashi wore a bejeweled princess crown, smiling widely at the camera. 

Art reaches across to the nightstand, gently placing the photo face down, before settling into bed, snuggling into Lily.

He hopes Tashi will see it. And he hopes that whatever she does that night, she feels guilty.

JACKIENAT MY BELOVED

Love is only a feeling

tell me why i reblogged rhis an hour ago and it failed.

strict machine - k.k.

contains: 1.5k words, kurt kunkle x onlyfans!fem!reader, kurts lowkey serving autistic (my personal hc), guns, blackmail + coercion, lowkey this would be dubcon but theres no actual smut so...?

notes: for my sweet baby @girliism!! shoutout to the other users who are tagged throughout this fic too! im really bad at writing from reader point of view so. plz bear with me (and send me some tips!) this was so fun to write , i love kurts character so much and i love writing him. rlly fun change of pace from the last two fics i posted so this was very enjoyable, i hope u guys like it woohhooo

“Hey, hop on in! I’m Kurt, I’m your Spree!”

You get into the car without a second thought, confirming on your app that your Spree has arrived, giving out instructions absentmindedly as you’re glued to your phone. Your driver is some… greasy haired somebody who was way too enthusiastic to be doing this job, and definitely didn’t know when to shut up.

“Heeyyy,” he croons, drumming his knuckles against the steering wheel as he navigates back onto the busy roads of L.A. “How y’all doin’?”

You don’t reply, eyes flicking up to see him looking back through the rearview mirror, a keen smile on his face. Your nails click-clack-click on your phone, along with the beat of the music on the radio, speeding up gradually as you type faster. He audibly scoffs, returning his attention to the road. “Also, hey, by the way, I’ve got these cameras here for privacy reasons. Gotta make sure my body will be avenged if one of my passengers kills me!” he chuckles good-naturedly, checking the rear view mirror to gauge your reaction. What the fuck does this guy want from me?

You look up slowly, popping your gum as your lip curls back in a slight sneer. “...Mmkay,” you mutter vacantly, sighing as your phone dies. You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, shoving it into your pocket and grabbing a bottle of water. You hear a little giggle from the driver’s seat as you do so.

“Sooo… where ya headed?” he chirps from the front seat, adjusting his phone- which isn’t even on a navigation app, it’s just… filming. Front camera, with comments coming in, a few pings from donations.

“...Are you fucking live?” you ask, leaning forward and stretching your seatbelt taut as you try to take a peek at the moving screen. “Dude, I didn’t know you were-”

His hand immediately shoots out to push you back, a loud, unnerving laugh escaping his lips as he swerves into another lane, tilting his phone juuuust right so the privacy screen obscures your view.

“Hey! Ever heard of personal space?” he snickers, seeing the look on your face. “Like I said, if you were listening, I have cameras for my own protection. Don’t hurt me!” He throws his hands up with a mocking scream, quickly dropping the bit so he can steer.

You sneer at him, looking around for a cord to plug your phone in. “I want that thing off, man. Please,” you mutter, covering your face. Multiple pings sound on his phone, and he leans forward to read the comments.

“@sincerelystarry, thank you so much for the $1.50!” he exclaims gleefully, making you roll your eyes. This bitch was making chump change. A robotic female voice reads out the comment that the donator made. 

@sincerelystarry 

umm isnt that the onlyfans 

bitch??? lol howd u get a 

hottie into ur dumpster kurt haha

“Hey, fuck off! It is not a dumpster. This shit is well organized, beautifully lit, and smells of fresh lemons and mint,” he protests, frowning at the screen.

You undo your seatbelt, leaning completely into the front seat and angling the phone away harshly, knocking it off the stand.

“Hey!” he yelps, skidding the car to a stop as he scrambles to set his phone back up, ignoring the honks behind him as he props it up again. He sighs in relief as the camera angle is straightened up again, glaring at you over his shoulder. “Jesus, dude, can you just- listen, just drink some water and chill.”

“Chill?! Some total random stranger who just happens to be my idiotic Spree driver is livestreaming this entire ride, and your bum ass wants me to-”

“@imperishablereverie! Thank you so much for the two dollars!” Kurt interrupts you, beaming at the camera, “Wow, this- I appreciate all of you guys so much, thank you- thank you! Thank you for sharing and spreading the hashtag ‘The Lesson,’ your support means the wor-” he’s abruptly cut off by a donator comment, read this time in a robotic man’s voice.

@imperishablereverie

haha omfg it totally is

that OF chick im on her

page rn 

Kurt cocks his head as the comment is done being read, peering into the rear view mirror to see you and your pissed off expression. “...What’s OF?” he peeps out innocently.

Your jaw tenses at his question, face reddening. “It’s a job,” you manage to force out through gritted teeth. “A perfectly respectable job.”

@faiztsheap just donated $5!

she shows ppl her

pussy so they can 

jack off lol

“Oh,” Kurt muses, seemingly unaware of your obvious state of embarrassment and rage. “Oh, so you’re, like…f-famous? I mean, hah! I’d assume so, considering my viewers know who you are, you seem pretty famous. Hey, do you have Instagram?”

You sit back into the backseat, looking disgusted. What the hell was this guy’s problem? “The fuck? Yes, I have Instagram,” you answer, cracking open the cap on the bottle of water.

“Don’t drink that!” he shrieks, turning around in the driver’s seat to smack it out of your hand, making water splash onto your legs and pool on the floor of the car. It all happens in a flash, and when you process it, he’s turned back around, driving and humming along to the radio cheerfully.

“So, this OnlyFans,” he says it like it’s a dirty word, hushed and secretive, “makes you a lotta money? And, uh… lots of clout too, I bet, heh.” Kurt pauses, meeting your gaze through the rear view mirror. “Is it just… ah, um- vaginas on there, or are penises allowed as well?”

You’re surprised a blood vessel doesn’t burst when you grit out a stiff reply. “Gender inclusive,” you grumble, “glad to have put you on.”

“Ohh, okay. That’s cool!” he pauses at a red light, turning around and smiling. “Do you wanna see my boner?”

“Okay, that’s it. Let me out of this fucking car," you demand, pounding on the back of his seat. “Pull the fuck over!”

“Yeesh, dramatic much?” he laughs, obliging either way. He pulls over to the side of the road as you grab your things with a huff and a short glare at him. Fucking weirdo. “Listen, thank you for riding in my Spree today! Um, I would just love if you could tag me on your Instagram- I’m kurtsworld96, and post it with hashtag ‘The Lesson.’”

You scoff at him, opening the car door. “Not a chance in hell, pervert,” you sneer, getting out of the car and slamming the door, ignoring his whines and pleas. Eventually, he gives up and drives off, and you’re left to wring the water out of your shirt, muttering under your breath as you head into your building.

It must be hours later when he shows up again. You’re monitoring your page, checking subscriber counts and recent donations, when you get a new message in your inbox- from kurtsworld69. You narrow your eyes, the current task forgotten as you navigate your mouse over to your inbox, clicking open the message.

kurtsworld69 sent you a message!

Haha hey its kurt from earlier!

your spree driver haha

I joined! Im an onlyfans person now!

Do u get my username? Haha get it because im kurtsworld 96 but now im kurtsworld69

its a sex thing haha

Wanna collab?

And below, he had attached a dick pic. You groan under your breath, moving to block his user when he sends another picture, this one blurred and needing to be clicked on to reveal the image. You click on it to be met with a picture of… you. Taken from outside the window, blurry and unfocused, but clearly you, slouched over your computer in just a t-shirt and underwear. You sit up straight, looking around frantically. 

@girliism

what the fuck???? are you at my house?????

There’s an infuriating lack of a reply, until another image pings into your inbox. Similar to the first one, it’s you from outside the house, but now there’s a hand in frame, holding up a gun. Pointing it directly at your head, through the pane of glass. Panic shoots through your core as you gape at the image, unsure of what to think of it. It could be a prop gun, it could be photoshop, but the chilling feeling entering your bones and making your gut twist said the opposite. This wasn’t a prank. This was real.

kurtsworld69

I asked you a question

wanna collab or not?

You swear you can hear footsteps growing closer, the cocking of the gun. You can imagine the bullet flying into your head, the laugh that would sound as your body hit the floor. You type back with shaky fingers, ignoring the tightness in your chest.

@girliism 

ok 

fine 

please get off my property

The response is immediate, and if you strain your ears, you can hear traipsing footsteps through the grass, moving further and further away. You visibly relax, letting out a shaky breath.

kurtsworld69

yay!

Can i eat your out?