artspats

[artspats]

hey guys wanted to let u know melissa and i are getting married Tomorrow

[artspats]

sweet bloom

[artspats]

Stardoug's Alpine Adventures by bookhouse boy

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

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Mismatched parts

CW: Mentions of dissociation, passive suicidal ideation, mental health struggles, anxiety and body related discomfort.

Please read gently. If you're feeling fragile today, it's okay to scroll past. <3

Art was convinced he had died for a few seconds.

Hands braced on the sink, all his weight in the foggy marble. The bathroom was filled with steam from the scalding water. It was 4 p.m.

He had just lost the most important game of his life.

Against his best friend.

So why did he feel so devastated?

He should be happy. He should feel empathy.

When he looked into the mirror he saw himself, but it was like watching through someone else’s eyes. Like his mind had stepped out of his body, or maybe vanished entirely.

For a moment, the reflection didn't react. It wasn't a mirror, more like a bad photo – slightly fuzzy, distorted, almost out of date.

He blinked. So did the other. But it took a fraction of a second longer.

Was it him? Had it ever been him?

He wished it wasn't. He wished that was someone else.

The panic didn't take long to appear, why couldn't he breathe? The lack of oxygen, the thick air, the window shut. He was suffocating.

He reached for the faucet and turnet it on. Warm water ran again.

But this time it wasn't an accident.

He wanted the steam to surround him, to embrace him- to swallow him whole.

Not to soothe him.

To erase him.

Not comfort, not calm—just obliteration.

His eyes were unfocused. Despite the daylight, he flicked on the dim bulb hanging from a cable above the mirror.

Sweat accumulated on his temple, on the back of his neck, where a mole was hidden. It was salty, mixed with the dull water from the shower. Like a short circuit between vein and artery — lines that were never meant to meet. A faulty electrical current in warm flesh. If that happens, if the blood loses its course, the body forgets itself.

Sometimes, he felt that way too. As if he were built from incompatible parts.

Life always passed in front of his eyes, like a movie he hadn’t auditioned for. Like a film on a screen, each blink a new scene. It rarely crossed that glass. He wasn't invisible, no. It just felt like he was living someone else's life.

And from that stranger’s point of view, he didn’t like what he saw.

He was slouched over the sink. Who stands like that?

His back and bare shoulders exposed. Was that acne?

His muscles flexed slightly, as if by reflex, and small bruises shone in them with a subtle light.

It wasn't strength that was visible, but fatigue stored beneath his skin. There was no glory in those contours.

Only wear and tear...

Who would even kiss me?

Who would even hug me?

Who would even notice me?

Why would they?

So many questions.

Only one life.

And somehow, it never felt like it was mine.

[artspats]

I'm SICKLY obsessed with how you wrote ATP, I just binged all of your works and I can tell that I need more of them 😭 i love all of your works - the things that you wrote and those moodboards also!!! will be waiting for your upcoming updates 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Omg how lovely!!! Thank you so much for the support and for stopping by my blog hehe, it makes me so happy you like my work, you have no idea 🤭🫀

I’m currently working on something for when we hit 300 followers!

I’ll also continue with Moodboards and Ocassional writing for sure.

Real footage of me reading this!

Thanks once again, love youuuu 💕

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Baffling how it didn't win an Oscar.

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this something they would have zendaya and tashi duncan wearing

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SIT STILL, BE PRETTY.

Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Afab Girlfriend!Reader

fluff. sfw. kissing. flirtation. implied intimacy. ⠀ ⠀ suggestive dialogue. emotional intensity. ♡

You’d been sitting in front of the mirror for almost an hour now, too focused on what you’re doing. The light hit right through the blinds, warm and soft across your face. You also have your own light that will enhance the natural view of your face while you bend in closer, blending blush into your cheek. You were focused, quiet, and careful even. But most importantly, you are lost in your world of shimmer and pigment, dabbing on gloss with the tip of your pinky.

It’s not a new experience, actually. You’d done a hundred different looks before, always doing this before you shower. Pre-shower makeup, that’s what people call it. Now you’re practicing a new look that you’ll probably abuse until you want another look. It’s something clean. Dewy. Fresh, like you’d just come from sleep, but you still woke up like this vibes, not from three hours of swatching foundations on your forearm. Skin like glass, lashes barely curled. A soft, perfect pout, glossy and clear lips.

It’s funny how the palettes lay open like a battlefield behind you. Brushes crowded the edge of the table in neat little rows. You don’t really have the best clean table, but it’s not really worse. It’s actually tame this time since you are not doing the intense and full glam makeup.

While from the bed, there’s this menace. Half-wrapped in your sheets, that looks like he owns the bed. Tangled up in his shirt was the mood of a man who’d been very patient for a long time. Like it’s worse than every war he’s ever been to. Like he’d rather shoot heads than sit right through it like it’s bothering him.

And the menace is reacting now- Bucky groaned, which made you roll your eyes. He was sprawled across the middle of it, long and lazy. He’s been rolling around your bed with dog tags warm against his chest, resting into a navy shirt with the sleeves pushed just past his elbows. The collar stretched loose enough to show the edge of his collarbone. One arm was thrown behind his head, the other holding his phone, trying to get through your routine. The sunlight through the blinds hit him just right, striping down his jaw, making his lashes look darker, sharper. Made his boredom look expensive. He didn’t even try to hide it.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not really. But you can feel it by the sounds he’s making. Just sighed loud enough that you were supposed to hear it, like he’s guilt-tripping you into stopping. Maybe loud enough that he hoped you’d feel bad. Or maybe too desperate for your attention.

You didn’t. Not that you don’t care, you do. He just always do this shit. So here you are, reaching for your setting powder, puffing it in your hand, and pressing it gently beneath your eyes.

Another sigh, deeper this time. God. He’s insufferable. You caught the sound of the bed shifting- his feet dragging across the sheets, his elbow hitting the pillow with a soft thump. “You done yet?” He asked like a kid who was whining because he didn’t get candy.

“Nope,” you said, without turning around.

He grumbled something that sounded like betrayal, making you smile at your reflection before giggling.

He was quiet again for a moment. Then: “It’s taking so long, baby... You said it’s going to be fast.”

“I said it would be simple.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head before you move to your other cheek, tapping soft layers of translucent powder along the high points. He let out a dramatic groan behind you, like he was being tortured.

“This is worse than what I experienced, you know?” he muttered. “You’re holding me hostage.” Such a drama queen. He’s exaggerating everything that will make him look like a little boy who deserves attention.

“You’re in my bed.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed under your breath, reaching for your brow gel.

“This doesn’t even count as makeup,” he went on, now flipping onto his stomach, chin dug into the mattress while he watched. “You’re basically not wearing anything, baby. Why are you doing it? It’s skin voodoo.”

“It’s clean girl makeup.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“It’s minimal,” you corrected.

“You’re just proving that every man thinks that this is what a no make-up or what natural make-up looks like,” you stated, basically baiting him.

He scoffed. “No, no, fuck. It just feels like an excessive experience from where I’m lying.”

“Then maybe stop watching.”

“I’m not watching,” he lied.

You caught his reflection in the mirror.

“Buck- ”

“I’m waiting,” he corrected, shifting slightly on the bed. Again. Moving as always. “Like a boyfriend who loves his girl. Patiently. Selflessly.”

“Patiently,” you repeated. “While sighing every five minutes.”

“I didn’t even sigh that time.”

“That was your fourth sigh.”

“Third,” he argued.

“Fourth,” you said, turning your head just enough to glance over your shoulder. “And besides- you promised.”

That stopped him, making him raise his eyebrow at that. Did he promise anything that he can’t remember? Is he fucked again? Did he forget someone’s birthday? Did he forget any celebration? He’s basically panicking inside.

He blinked. “What?”

“You promised me,” you said again, like it was apparent. “Said if you become whiny and insufferable again, you’d let me do your makeup.” Well, basically, a promise you forced into him.

“I didn’t mean today.”

“I did.”

He rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said, and I quote- ‘Fine, I won’t bother you again. If I do that again, I’ll let you paint my damn face.’ That sounds like you,” You said while putting quotations in the air using your fingers.

“That was hypothetical.”

“It was binding.”

“Not legally.”

“I made you snacks,” you start listing things.

“Let you do anything while you let me do my makeup.”

“There’s basically the TV where you can watch movies.”

“You have your phone.”

He let out a long, martyred sigh before shaking his head. “God, you’re evil.”

You tapped gloss across your lips.

He sat up just enough to glare at the back of your head. “You’re not even gonna argue?”

You capped your gloss and started gathering your things, fixing it to the way it was while ignoring his ass.

He groaned. “You’re gonna pout, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer because he already knew you would pout, so you just kept moving. The brushes were in their cases, the compact was closed, and the lip gloss was in the tray.

“Silent treatment,” he muttered. “Cool. Love that.” You can feel him rolling his eyes behind your back.

You gave him one look- flat, pouty, unimpressed.

He flopped back dramatically onto the bed. “Fine. Jesus. Come ruin my life.”

You raised a brow before lips forming into a smile. “Really?”

“C’mon, artist. Let’s make me hot.”

You smiled. Made your way over. Too eager, honestly. You almost run.

“But only,” he added, as you climbed onto the mattress, “if you do it from here.”

His hands caught your hips and guided you right into his lap. It made you yelp and jump a little. You straddled him, knees digging into the soft comforter, thighs bracketing his. He was warm beneath you, solid. You could feel his muscles in his body. His shirt bunched up against your calves.

You reached for the sponge again.

“This part wasn’t in the promise,” you said, a little argumentative.

“This is my condition,” he said, smug. He’s smirking with a glint of playfulness in his eyes. “It’s strategic. Don’t let them use you without getting something in return.”

“Strategic for what?”

He looked pointedly down at where you were sitting. “Morale.” Oh yeah, morale. Going to make him enjoy it instead of suffering, got it.

You rolled your eyes. Pressed the sponge against his cheek.

The primer was cold on his skin. He flinched slightly, but didn’t stop you, even though he’s not used to this feeling. You worked slowly, gently tapping across his cheekbones, forehead, and nose bridge. He was watching you again. His eyes were mostly focused on your face. Closely. Those little reactions. The way you scrunch your nose a little. The way you bite your lips. The way you pout. The way you stare at him.

“You’re really doing this,” he muttered.

“Mhm.”

“Even the eye stuff?” He asks, voice deep and annoyed, but letting you do your stuff.

“All of it.”

“You gonna make me pretty?”

“You already are.” Of course, you’ll say that, he’s a handsome, pretty man.

His mouth twitched. He looked away.

You smiled and chuckled.

The foundation went on light and smooth. You blended with practiced strokes, leaning in close every so often to angle your brush just right. You really like his skin. Surprisingly, it’s soft. His breathing slowed. Your chest brushed his more than once. His hands stayed on your hips.

You set everything in place. Added a flush of blush, just enough to make him look like he’s just naturally blushing. Highlighted his nose. Shimmer caught the light just beneath his eyes.

Then you reached for the gloss, and there was this reaction again. He narrowed his eyes before shaking his head.

“No.” He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head like the very idea was offensive, like he couldn’t believe you suggested that to him. To him. But his hands stayed firm on your hips like he’s not against from the idea you presented seconds ago.

“Yes.” You smiled, tilted your head, all innocent, sweet, twirling the gloss wand between your fingers like a weapon you knew he’d eventually surrender to. You pout while you wait for his answer.

“Don’t.” His voice dipped, quieter now, but not serious. Not angry. Just giving you the idea that he doesn’t like it. His thumb brushed your waist like he didn’t actually want you to stop.

“You’ll look good.” You leaned in, trying to persuade him. You were close enough that he could feel your breath, and your gloss-slick mouth tilted just enough to mock him.

“Please?” It slipped out like a tease, all soft and feels like a crocodile tears and unfair.

“I look good already.” He said it flat, smug, unbothered. Confident that he doesn’t need it, like it's not part of the look. But his gaze? His gaze lingered on your mouth when he said it, like he wanted you to prove it.

“Let me finish,” you whispered, and swiped it across his mouth- slow, gentle, sweet. Not too girly. Just enough to make it plumpy.

His lips parted slightly. Your breath caught.

He was soft. Warm. Glossy.

And then he kissed you.

Or tried to.

He leaned in with that slow, lazy confidence of someone who thought sitting still for long made him a winner like he earned that shit. It’s like a reward system for him. It made you lean back, eyes narrowing, finger pressed gently to his lips.

“Oh,” you murmured. “You think you earned that?” voice laced with playfulness.

He blinked. “I know I did.”

“You were groaning the whole time.”

“I was being emotionally supportive.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You said it was face voodoo.”

“And yet I endured it,” he said, catching your waist like he was about to speak. He’s caressing it a little, up and down, before squeezing each side. “For you. For beauty. For whatever the hell you did to my eyelids.”

“Shimmer.”

“Exactly. I shimmered. That deserves a prize.”

You smiled, letting your hand slide up, fingers toying with the chain around his neck until they closed over his dog tag. You tugged it, slowly, pulling it so he’ll be more closer to you, his chest pressing against you. Face inches close to your lips to touch. His breath hitched- not much, just enough.

“You want your prize,” you said.

“I do,” he murmured. His voice was low. Soft. Warm at the edges. “Something like kissing.”

You hummed, lips barely brushing his, not entirely kissing, more like a peck. But both of you know that it’s not a kiss in your vocabulary. “And what if it smudges the gloss?”

“Then you fix it,” he said. “While still in my lap.”

You laughed and kissed him.

It was soft, glossy, and a little breathless, like sugar, heat, and all the tension you pretended wasn’t there. His hands slid under the hem of your shirt, not high, not rushed- just enough to feel. Just enough to hold you there. His hands flatten there, and he’s feeling you like he’s been waiting for this the whole day.

When you finally pulled back, you were flushed. He was glowing.

“I hate you,” you whispered, a smile curling at your lips.

His eyes sparkled.

“You really love me,” he said.

And you do.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫��𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[artspats]

brightest star

[artspats]

Yippeeee congrats on 200 I also just want to say how much I love your blog, all your blurbs and mood boards are like a breath of fresh air 😋.

I’m gonna request art sister!x Patrick where Patrick barges in arts sisters house as per usual and realizes that nobody homes. But just as he’s about to leave he over hears arts sister in her room talking with her friend on the phone about how hot she thinks Patrick is. I wanna know how he would react ykkkkk

Thank you so much my loveee, how sweet and nice of you 💕 This was so fun and cute to write, I hope you like it! 🤭

It was supposed to be a quick stop.

Art forgot his wallet at home, and asked Patrick if he could go back and grab it since his coach was already waiting for him.

But just as he was about to leave, he heard it.

Laughter.

He froze, hand hovering above the door handle. The house was quiet otherwise. No clatter in the kitchen. No car in the driveway. Just soft murmur of your room upstairs and your laugh, the kind that always made something flutter in his chest.

-

You were finishing the shopping list that mom asked you to do. Mary was on speaker because, there was no one home and you could say whatever you wanted!

Or so you thought.

“So, you kissed Patrick?”

His mouth parted. He needed to hear more, so he went upstairs quietly.

“He kissed me!”

True.

“But you didn’t shove him away!”

“It was very fast, okay?”

You laughed, he could hear the way your face must've looked- sheepish, nervous, flustered. His blood rushed warm to his ears.

He stepped quiet. Real quiet. Back pressed to the hallway like a secret agent on a ultra secret mission. His bag still slung over one shoulder.

“Please, tell me he’s a good kisser.”

“You have no idea.”

He grinned. Of course he did- full smug and proud.

“Wait, can you describe him again? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Well, his curly hair is intact, although he cut it shorter recently, looks good because I didn’t like when it covered his ears”

Patrick's hand touched his ear without thinking it.

“What?”

“He has big ears. Very cute.”

He almost snorted.

“Okay... but what else? Be more specific!”

“Green eyes, he has beautiful lips, he is much taller than Art—”

“What?!”

“Yes! He has big hands... long fingers... broad shoulders..."

His smirk was now a full-blown shit-eating grin. Could anyone blame him? He was going to explode. Fuck Art's wallet at this point!

"Great ass...”

He ran both hands down his warm face. This was pure gold.

“Stop drooling!”

You placed an x in the last box of the tiktak you were playing by yourself, right on the edge of the page. Crossing the 3 x diagonal—you had won.

“The morning after the kiss, mom told us to take the microwave upstairs and... he kissed me again, he even... grabbed my—"

He didn't need to hear the word. Your whisper said enough, let alone the way you giggled after, all nervous and giddy, kicking your feet on the mattress like they did in cartoons.

And then...

“WOAH WOAH”

Mary gasped, still reeling. And so was Patrick.

You flopped back on the bed, one hand over your face, squealing into you palm.

"I KNOW. It was—it was insane."

"God, you make him sound so soft. I'd doubt that we're talking about a tennis player"

"Mary, it's just—ugh—" you wiggled your fingers dramatically, "he's SO hot."

He stepped back quietly, still glowing with mischief.

Maybe he'd pretend he hadn't heard a thing.

Maybe he'd just tease you later— at the right moment.

[artspats]

Patrick as a dad who jokes about getting married, the same way he always does, teasing, deflecting. But this time, he’s not really joking. Not anymore.

Patrick as a dad who instinctively places his hands on his hips now, like he's been doing this forever. And his little frown makes you laugh every time.

Patrick as a dad who once thought about leaving. For a split second, when it all felt too big, too scary, too uncertain. But then, he held his baby boy, he saw the same bump on his nose. His bump. (Yes, that made him cry.)

Patrick as a dad who sleeps with one hand on the crib, because the baby wouldn't let go of his finger.

Patrick as a dad who loves squeezing his baby’s cheeks just to watch him gurgle and giggle and flash that gummy smile. Might be his favorite thing in the world.

Patrick as a dad who says the baby has your eyes. Even when the baby's asleep, he counts every single lash- because he bets it's the same number as yours.

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happy father's day !! ♡

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what am I, jesus?

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omg yes I need this

during these fucked up times, i really wish we were at the restaurant.

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ehem

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Shiori Tsuda and her phone charms in All About Lily Chou Chou