Atp As Dancers

GRACE album bot drop — 1st sneak peek!

LAST GOODBYE —

after the chaotic challenges of panic, the only good outcome was meeting your boyfriend. Dodge, of course he had barriers but you manage to break them, working so hard for your relationship, you just couldn’t believe it when he told you he was traveling and had offered you to come, not offered— begged though you both had different plans. He hated to see the love between you die, meeting your separate ways. Now there you were, running til you saw your handsome cowboy, you had to say your last goodbye.

comment on any on my sneak peeks to be tagged on the bot drop!

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

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.

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.”

okay so i wanna start making bots but i need ideas bc i am STUCK. I was thinking of taking a page from @zweigish ‘s book and basing them off of an album of songs… but idk

ps should i post here when i eventually make them…?

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

the ghost of one specific homosexual cowboy regularly possesses Tumblr gays

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.

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

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