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Art Donaldson - Blog Posts
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THREE’S A CROWD, art and tashi invite you to a hotel dinner that’s not really about dinner. the table’s set, lights dimmed, but their eyes stay on you. tashi’s sharp, in control; art’s quieter, unraveling. conversation slips from polite to personal fast—resentments, desires, everything unspoken laid bare. the meal stays cold. their fixation on you doesn’t. lines blur. therapist, obsession, maybe something worse. by the end, they’re not asking for help—they’re asking what you want.
no i will not be taking questions at this time ❤️
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...
the way i want to fuck him but have him keep his crew socks on . . . they accentuate his legs so well ohhh god don't let me speak
one day at a time.
if he really focused, art could still hear his dearest grandma say those words to him. one day at a time. for he must never allow for his racing thoughts to consume him with ambition. it wasn’t easy for him to keep those words in mind, because he was always so determined to be great.
it came to the point where he’d run himself dry, his sacred routine eventually burning him out. it was days like those, when he was in bed staring up at the ceiling with all the muscles in his body aching like a reminder of his incompetence, when he wished he could ask his grandma for one last hug. one last summer in her small, cozy house, no, home, one last time to be her favorite boy.
with the hot tears pricking in his eyes, he chastises himself for letting his youth pass by him so rapidly. his dorm room lingers with a scent that feels foreign, so unlike the sweet aroma of his grandma’s baking that always seemed to hang in the house much too short for art’s liking.
he had not given himself much time to grieve. after she passed, art had not allowed himself to think about her for too long because it would force him to feel and he did not have time for feeling. however, now that his body has forced him into an inability to do anything but stare at his white ceiling, he cannot help the soft sobs that break the silence. her words ring through his mind like a siren. one day at a time. if he had taken that advice, would he have been spared from this sickening guilt he feels about barely visiting her in her late stages of life? would he feel like he had loved her more wholeheartedly if he had not taken her presence for granted?
art cried himself to sleep that night, forced in a spiral of despair that he wasn’t strong enough to take himself out of. the feeling was all-encompassing and so overwhelming that his chest still burned the following morning, a reminder of how he heaved and cried and begged for life to stop passing him by.
Art Donaldson puts the “man” in “manipulation”.
Clock that
these art donaldson challenger girls will never know mike faist the way theatre kids knew mike faist
It’s an addiction
Me at 3am clicking “keep reading” on the most jaw dropping, earth shattering, pantie dropping, smutty fic when I have to be up in 3 hours
I think I speak for all of us when I say “I love slutty men.”
he's had me in a chokehold for a year now
absolutely no one:
art donaldson in that one scene of challengers:
i have been non stop thinking about challengers
ITS ONLY PRACTICE I HAVENT DRAWN IN MONTHS ANYWAYS… 🫰🫰
