Just Posted An Edit !!! It’s On Tiktok @faiztheap !!

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.

literally them

the ghost of one specific homosexual cowboy regularly possesses Tumblr gays

ethel x arttashi… i’m shaking

Thinking thoughts

CHALLENGERS (2024) dir. luca guadagnino

also lily’s bracelet and her scar on her left and art is on her left…

challengers (2024) dir. luca guadagnino

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.