Latest Posts by faiztsheap - Page 2
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?
🆂🆃🅰🆁🆅🅰🆃🅸🅾🅽 ⚰
From the heart of unimaginable suffering, I want to sincerely thank everyone who has supported my family 🙏🏻
Right now, famine is hitting us harder than ever, my heart cries whenever I go to the market to buy any basic necessities! The prices are crazy, and most days my children survive on just bread Hunger and thirst are destroying us, and cooking on fire increases our suffering unbearably! Severe eye and chest sensitivity, in addition to constant stomach pain due to the type of food and the way it is cooked.
All this while we flee from one place to another in fear of bombing, bullets, and imminent danger! I cannot describe what I feel, but it is a feeling beyond exhaustion!
Despite the exhaustion, your support gives us strength and I hope you will not let us down
If you can donate, please do so, or at least help us by sharing, so we can reach those who can
Your kindness truly keeps us going
>> Our campaign is vetted by gazavetters list at Momen & his family
Gaza is full of oppression #The worst is yet to come #Genocide #A resilient people
all i really have is the art donaldson tag on tumblr, luca guadagnino movies, and my vape
also lily’s bracelet and her scar on her left and art is on her left…
challengers (2024) dir. luca guadagnino
josh o'connor and mike faist behind the scenes of challengers (2024) dir. luca guadagnino
Jesus fucking Christ.
ethel x arttashi… i’m shaking
CHALLENGERS (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino
Fuckin' snake! Honestly, I'm proud of you. I'd be doing the same thing.
La Chimera (2023) dir. Alice Rohrwacher
banana incident of 2024
always thinking about the banana incident
everything you love will lead you back to you
you would be correct.
and if i said patrick zweig is a taco bell bowl and art donaldson is a chipotle bowl.....?
just posted an edit !!! it’s on tiktok @faiztheap !!
she really went ‘what’s the quickest way to get him off before practice’ and then started talking about art… i’m just saying…
THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE
CHALLENGERS (2024) dir. luca guadagnino
this is me planning an edit in my head when a song comes on
i love listening to MUSIC!!!!!! and imagining things happening