Artrick - Blog Posts
Call It Fate, Call It Karma
Happy Valentine's Day or whatever... These TOXIC GUYS))0), thanks to my little sister for showing me this stressful movie, the kissing scene and the epic game at the end with the music I can't get out of my head...
Art Donaldson puts the “man” in “manipulation”.
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.."
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.
what 1975 songs do you associate with artrick? i feel like there’s so many that are applicable…. 🎾🏓
I LOVE THIS QUESTION!!!
the first song that popped into my head was
about you because of the whole “do you think i have forgotten about you?” (and the whole song) is literally sooooo artrick coded.
i couldn’t be more in love. “and what about these feelings I've got? we got it wrong and you said you'd had enough. but what about these feelings i got? i couldn’t be more in love.” …yeah 💔
nothing revealed / everything denied. “life feels like a lie, i need something true. is there anybody out there? life feels like there’s something missing, maybe it’s you.” ☹️
anobrain. “and i was thinking ‘bout leaving again. it all depends, are we just friends?” 💔💔
that got very sad very quickly… anyway YEAH!!! THAT’S MY ANSWER!!!
the road trip
or, how they spent their last summer.
an: not reallyyyy proof read, so if you note any grammatical errors, mispellings, etc. feel free to let me know. creds to @ithemes for the border, and a special thank you to my dear friend @blastzachilles for reading most of this. you will never fail to bring me out of a well-practiced shell. i hope you enjoy, and, as always, likes, comments, critiques and reposts are very appreciated.
Despite what everyone thought of him, and his general raucous demeanor, Patrick was a good driver. Maybe it was the devil-may-care attitude that kept him from getting that clammy-handed nervousness that Art defaulted to behind a wheel, but it earned him the title of “Pre-Graduation Road Trip Driver”. He only pretended not to be insulted when everyone clapped Art on the shoulder and told him to say a prayer before getting in the passenger seat. Patrick was reckless with plenty of things, sure. Reckless with girls, reckless with his body, reckless with the amount of Four Lokos he drank the night before Ms. Anderson’s logarithm test, reckless with himself. But not Art. Never Art. It’s the only reason Art had stuck around so long, he thinks.
He was proud of himself and his little Honda, one that he’d gotten with his own money and a smile so bright it exposed the chip in one of his bottom teeth. Art had asked him about that when they’d first met, why he only ever smiled with the right side of his mouth. So he pulled down his bottom lip with his index finger, exposing that little semicircular inconvenience, the one that hissed when it met with cold. “‘S from a fight”, he’d added with a lax shrug, hoping the nonchalance wouldn’t betray the fact he was dying to tell the story. But Art couldn’t read him that well, not then at least, and nodded. Said something about being ‘more careful next time’. Art didn’t notice the sag of his shoulders, either.
It’s funny, now that they’re on this trip, commemorating their last summer together, 12 to 18 went by so fast. The woman at the gas station in Maryland had said it was sweet for two boys of their age to be so close, ‘Usually sibling rivalries only get worse around college, what with the competition for the better letter and all’. She had no way of reading why the boys had winced, Art shoving his hands into the pockets of his cargos, rocking back and forth on his heels like a guilty toddler. Patrick just said, “Not brothers”. That seemed to throw her off kilter more than that thick tension growing in the inch of space between Patrick’s hoodie sleeve and Art’s bare arm. “Sorry, sorry. You two just… seem like brothers.” They laughed in that way only two people who want to be anywhere but their current standing is, grabbed their cigarettes from off the cracked countertop, and left with the ring of the bell above the too-heavy front door.
That night, when they’d curled up on the scratchy sheets of their motel beds, which groaned beneath each movement, Art turned towards Patrick, picking at his nails and flicking the detached skin somewhere across the room. “Why’d you say that?” He asked, mumbled through concentration, like lifting his lips just a micrometer further apart was some Herculean effort. Patrick turned over, staring at the blinking orange lights of the digital clock on the nightstand. “Say what?” Art looked up then, rolled his shoulders back, the thin pillow letting out a puff where his head met it. “That we aren’t brothers”. There wasn’t offense in his eyes, stormy and addictive in all the ways that made Patrick remember he was the worse of the two, but curiosity. Well, the obvious answer was that they weren’t. Patrick grew up one place, under some surname attached to ‘dignity’, ‘family pride’. Some surname no one ever bothered to remember the proper pronunciation of. And Art? He grew up under the setting sun in mid-July, allowed to dirty his clothes because they were never expected to remain white. Somewhere where grass was allowed to grow without getting cropped down to just above the root. All-American, sweet as cherry pie, golden retriever boy with a starched collar for church and an ever-burning fire on the grill. Art grew to know what softness was, and Patrick could play parrot, replicate it with enough accuracy to be recognizable, and enough lingering signs that it was an approximation to make people hope it just got quieter with time.
Then again, what really made someone a brother? If it was just the DNA, then that meant nothing. Patrick knew just what it was to be related to someone, and not have them be family. To love someone, but never like them. And wasn’t Art doing better then? Art had seen Patrick laugh, cry, trip over an untied shoelace and fall face first into a puddle. He helped him up after snorting a little, rarely one to fully laugh, like the sound was some kind of finite resource. And Patrick had seen the worst of Art, from his slobbery first kiss, the one where he bit the girl’s lip too hard and she’d pulled away bleeding, to the one summer he’d dyed his hair black. He fancied himself a philosopher at the time, something about ‘reflecting his inner darkness’. Even if Art claimed it to be there, that Patrick had grown so accustomed to seeing it he hardly recognized it as being bad anymore, he could never quite pick through his own admiration to find it. So that night, stereotypically, Art dug out his grandfather’s old pocket knife, the one from one of the World Wars, and cut a line across their right palms, Art’s just a bit straighter than Patrick’s. When they pressed their hands together, wincing at the pressure against the weeping gashes, they didn’t shake their hands, like the men they were growing into. Just held them there, flat palm to flat palm, dripping into the non-descript, darkly colored carpet, just looking. Brothers now. Art wrapped his hand in toilet paper, flicked off the rickety lamp with stained, formerly white lampshade, and went to bed. Patrick just watched himself bleed for the night, and then watched Art sleeping.
It was harder now to drive, with the pulsating behind his hand, like a miniature heart had grown there, occurring with each day spent driving. But they’d arrived in Colorado a night or so ago, spent yesterday making good of those cigarettes by a lake they didn’t bother to check the name of. Two girls had come by, never shared their names, and the boys didn’t share theirs. They all just passed cigarettes back and forth like they were secrets in their own right, like they weren’t all sharing saliva, like they didn’t recognize the sunkenness in each others’ eyes as matching the sunkenness in their own brains. Patrick thinks sometimes that he’s got cinder blocks tied to his feet, one’s he can’t see, and that’s why it’s so exhausting taking that first step out of bed each morning. He wondered then, if he walked out where the water swallowed up his lower half, and he tilted his head back to greet the invisible face of God, with eyes of stars and flashing plane lights, stretching his arms out like he’d catch the breeze in his embrace, if he’d sink to the bottom. When the girls left, and Art had passed out against the trunk of a tree, he’d tried. He was only slightly disappointed to find that it wasn’t all that deep. Art woke up when the press of Patrick’s wet boxers touched his thigh, and he didn’t seem mad. He smiled, actually, with the left side of his mouth exposing moonlit teeth. Patrick wanted to ask what there was to smile at, but realized maybe it was just him. He doesn’t know why he kissed him, or who started it first, but Art slinked off afterwards into the backseat of the car, leaving Patrick to curl his hands into the dirt until he knew how to carry his own weight again. They didn’t talk about it the next day, or the day after.
After Colorado, they’d gone to Nevada. Something about Art ‘needing the ocean’. They’d found an empty little dock to perch on, Art sitting at the edge to allow the soft, mid-ocean waves to lap at his skin like a dog. The ocean had always reminded Patrick of Art. He thinks it’s the stillness among the chaos that bears the resemblance. Patrick had always loved the ocean, some of his fondest childhood memories spent jumping over the incoming crash of water on the shore. If he had to forget everything, he hopes he’d fall in love with the ocean all over again. He’s sitting behind Art, but only by a bit, bare, crossed feet in line with his hips. “I was reading something the other day. Did you know Patrick means noble?” He huffs, watches the way Art’s back dimples and ripples with muscle, the way that his hair looks a richer gold in this light. His hair looks like the sun. Or maybe, the sun looks like it. “I don’t know about that.” He replied after a breath. He wanted to tease back, say that Art meant… well, art, but he realized that there’s not one way to define what art is. People argue on it all the time, and he’s not intelligent enough to be the one to define it. But it’s usually beautiful, even where it’s ugly. It usually evokes something. And Art’s all unscathed besides where he tore a patch of skin off his knee, wet and pink with the newly exposed layer awoken before its time. He’d fallen off a rock while trying to get a picture of the sunset. He deleted it afterwards, anyway. The colors weren’t right. Art was holding a bottle of something, unopened and dark, the condensation dripping in and out of the divots created by the spaces between his fingers. He sits back on his elbows, squinting under the glare of the sun, and in it he thinks he can see disapproval. He flicks his shades over his eyes. “Hey, Art?” Art doesn’t turn his head over his shoulder to meet Patrick’s eyes, just hums a little, shoulders moving with it. He’s staring at something. Thinking, maybe. He usually is. “Do you think, you know, after you go to Stanford, we’ll still be friends?” Art lifts his head, softens like he’s fourteen again, and Art, who fancies himself a philosopher to this day replies, “I think we’ll always know each other”.
Patrick heard something, maybe fate’s, breath hitch, as if something had clicked into place. Something had been decided for them, and for the most part, they were none the wiser. Patrick grins that right-mouthed smile of his, rests his back against the splintered wood of the dock, hands crossed behind his head. For now, he can only hope that decision is something good.