Art Donaldson Fanfic - Tumblr Posts

any more thoughts on puppy art.. please. only if u want to though haha !! (please?)

ohh u guys love your darling little lapdog huh?

LAPDOG ART DONALDSON! fem!reader

▸ a drooler. nosing his head between your legs n he's already salivating. he's so cute like that. face smushed between your thighs, panting as spit pools in his mouth, nose twitching like a cute little bunny at the scent of your arousal. taking the trim of your panties between his teeth, dragging it down inch by inch. quivering because he just wants to rip them off but the last time he did that he tore your nice lacy lingerie and u didnt touch him for a week. when he eats you out he laps at your cunt like an eager puppy. comes away absolutely glistening. dripping, even. your juices n his saliva smearing his cheeks, his nose, dribbling down his chin.

▸ bigggg on humping. obviously. when you're too busy to give him attention he'll just shuffle over onto your lap and just start rubbing up against you. he's ridden out the best orgasms that way; creaming in his already-sodden boxers as slick gets all over ur thigh. he likes to do it when you're working or when you're on a call (you always punish him best that way). oftentimes you'll wake up at night to slick sheets—finding him grindin up against you, moaning and whimpering. a sleepy, boneless mess on your knee. he'll already have gotten himself off thrice before he tries to wakes you, just to be safe (you might take it away from him, after all). ▸ teething.... grown ass man teething... gnawing on your shoulder to stop himself from crying out when you let him fuck you.. nibbling your bottom lip red n raw when you kiss.. slobbering all over your mouth. during sex if you tease him he'll start to chew anxiously at the end of ur bra strap, the hem of your shorts, your panties if you keep him waiting too long. sometimes randomly takes your hand by the wrist and takes a fake chomp out of it (affectionate).

▸ not beyond jus being your lil stress relief toy. coming back home and he's been so good for you. he won his match. he's cooked dinner. but you don't have time for any of that. "oh, baby, don't give me that look. cock out, now." and he makes a little mewling noise and immediately his shorts are a crumpled puddle on the floor—raging boner popping out, all swollen n red n leaking bc hes been waiting for you for hours. ▸ sighing, telling him to sit and so he does. legs spreading wide on the couch, blinking up at u in earnest neediness. and when you sink onto his cock he makes this insane, visceral whining noise—back arcing off the seat. ▸ cockwarmer? more like cuntwarmer. you tell him don't move and don't cum. an impossible ask. he's pawing at your back, whimpering when your only response is to lean back heavier, sinking your full weight down on his poor, poor cock. n it feels soso good but he only lasts two minutes on a good day! let alone when you're switching the tv on and settling back into him like he's part of the couch. occasionally your hips jump, walls pulsing tight, choking his sensitive dick. you're grinding down into his lap and he's twitching inside of u and hot tears are prickling his eyes—fingers digging into your thighs, trembling.

▸ time ticking on.. the coil of heat in his gut winding tighter n tighter.. art's cheeks are flushed and hes wetting the back of your shirt with his silent tears. he persists, though, because he's good. he's gonna be a good boy for you. and it works! for a time, when you seem like you've almost forgotten your pussy is strangling his cock and you're only rolling your hips occasionally, sending warm thrums of pleasure through him. lulling him into a false sense of security.

▸ until all of a sudden you decide to be mean and for whatever reason you lift your hips before slamming them back down again, and his sharp gasp and slurred mewls perfectly cue the geyser that erupts from his slit.

▸ not even letting him cum inside you.. sliding off his spurting cock thats blowing cum like a volcano. hot, sticky strings arcing in the air and splattering all over the carpet, the couch cushions. his eyes glazing over, all glassy n sparkly as he crumples back in the couch, blubbering tearful apologies as his cock leaks like a faucet, staining the poor, new pillows.

▸ adores aftercare. or just your comfort in general. please rest your hand against his cheek and let him sigh and melt and nuzzle into the palm of your hand like you're taking the weight of the world off his shoulders. tug gently on his hair. scratch his scalp. let him curl up on your lap and pat him and coo sweet nothings in his ear. simple things, like "sweet baby, did so good today." or "tired puppy. took mommy so well."

▸ "fuck— m'sorry. m'sorry, m'sorry—" "hey, shh, darling. aw, don't cry. mommy's got you. how bout you curl up on momma's lap, kay?" "..mkay."

you’re mine, but i was never yours

art donaldson x reader

You sit across from Art, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face, accentuating the features you once found irresistible. His gaze drifts absently over the restaurant, lost in a world you can’t reach. His silence weighs heavy on you, a constant reminder of something unspoken, something you’ve felt for far too long but never wanted to admit.

No matter what he says, Tashi will always hold his heart. She always has.

They met years ago at Stanford, long before you arrived, before you ever knew what it felt like to be caught in the orbit of someone like Art. By the time you showed up in his life, their bond was already forged—unshakable. She was dating Patrick, Art's best friend, but that never seemed to matter. There was always something between them, something no one else could touch, not even you.

When you met Art, you were drawn to him immediately. His kindness, his charm, the way he made the world seem just a little brighter when he walked into a room. It wasn’t just about his looks, though they certainly didn’t hurt—there was something magnetic about him, something that pulled you in before you even realized it was happening.

And when he showed interest in you, it felt like a dream. He was everything you’d hoped for, and for a time, you believed it was real. But that belief was fragile, thin as glass, and beneath it lay a truth you couldn’t ignore: you would always be second to Tashi, the girl who never quite became his but who would forever own a part of him.

Tonight, that truth feels heavier than ever.

You’ve spent the entire evening in silence, watching him drift in and out of conversations, his thoughts miles away. You try to swallow the rising frustration, the familiar ache of feeling invisible, but eventually, the words slip out.

"I'm right here, you know. You haven’t said a word to me all night."

Your voice breaks the stillness between you, and for a second, it’s like you’ve jolted him back to reality. He blinks, his eyes focusing on you, and a crease forms on his forehead—confusion, maybe guilt. It’s hard to tell.

"Sorry, princess… just lost in thought."

The term of endearment lands softly, a remnant of the affection that used to pass so easily between you. It feels hollow now, like he’s reaching for something that’s no longer there, something you both know he can't give.

You sigh, dropping your gaze to the table, tracing the rim of your wine glass with your finger. “It’s always Tashi, isn’t it?” you murmur, the question so quiet it feels like a confession. You never meant to say it, not out loud. But now that the words are there, you can’t take them back.

Art shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t rush to reassure you with comforting lies. Instead, he leans back, running a hand through his hair, his eyes darkening with something you can’t quite read. Regret, maybe. Or resignation.

"Tashi and I... it’s complicated," he finally says, his voice low.

You scoff softly, the bitterness you’ve tried to keep at bay seeping into your tone. "Complicated? She’s with Patrick, Art. She’s always been with Patrick."

He nods, staring at the flickering flame of the candle between you. "Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t change what we had... what we never had." His voice trails off, and you hear the weight of years of longing in those last words.

What we never had.

That’s it, isn’t it? It’s the possibility of something more that lingers between them, the unfulfilled promise that has kept Tashi tethered to him, and by extension, kept you tethered to this endless feeling of inadequacy.

For so long, you tried to be enough. You tried to make him see that he didn’t need to hold on to whatever fantasy he had of Tashi, that what you shared could be real if he’d just let it. But sitting here now, watching him, you realize that nothing you’ve done has changed the way he feels. You will always be competing with the ghost of what could have been.

"I can’t keep doing this," you say softly, more to yourself than to him. You feel the words settle in your chest, solidifying into something that feels like a decision.

Art looks up at you then, really looks at you, as if realizing for the first time what you’re saying. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—panic, maybe, or just the fear of losing you. But he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t stop you. He just sits there, silent.

You push your chair back and stand, feeling the weight of the past few years lift off your shoulders. It’s not the relief you thought it would be, but it’s something.

As you turn to leave, Art speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant to hurt you."

You pause, your hand resting on the back of the chair, and glance over your shoulder. "I know. But I can’t keep pretending like I’m okay. Okay with this. Okay with being second to the girl who doesn’t love you.The girl who never loved you."

And with that, you walk away, leaving him behind with the same silence that’s been hanging between you for far too long.

Outside, the air is cool, and as you step into the night, you take a deep breath, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. You loved him, once. Maybe you still do. But love isn’t always enough, not when you’re competing with someone who will always be just out of reach.

Tashi will always hold his heart. But tonight, you’re letting yours go.

late night rambles

art donaldson x reader

The alarm blinked, casting a soft red glow across the room: 3:00 AM. You and Art were wide awake, tangled in the kind of conversation that only comes at impossible hours of the night, when the world feels like it’s theirs alone. The air was thick with summer warmth, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the distant hum of crickets. They were sprawled out on the floor of Art’s bedroom, tennis rackets leaning haphazardly against the wall—relics of a day spent practicing under the sun.

“I’m not even tired,” Art mused, his voice low but clear, breaking the comfortable silence. “Hard to be in your company. You make me feel... I don’t know, energised.” He chuckled, nervously running his fingers through his messy curls. “Is that cringey? That’s cringey, right?”

You laughed softly, rolling onto their side to face him. “A little. But it’s okay. I’ll allow it.”

They’d been friends for seven years—since that first summer at tennis camp when they were just kids, bonded over their shared love for the game and a mutual disdain for the camp’s cafeteria food. Now, at 17, everything was the same, yet different. The conversations were still effortless, but beneath the surface was something heavier, unspoken. A shift they both felt but neither would dare mention.

Art glanced sideways, watching the way you absentmindedly fiddled with a thread on the hem of your shirt, your eyes focused somewhere between the floor and the stars you couldn’t see. “Remember when we’d stay up this late, just talking about which player we’d want to be? I always picked Federer. You were obsessed with Sharapova.” He grinned.

“I still am. She’s a queen,” You replied, your smile stretching wide, though your voice carried a teasing edge.

There was a pause, one that wasn’t uncomfortable, but loaded with memories. Art shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow. “You know,” he began, suddenly serious, “I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but... you’re my favorite person.”

You felt a warmth rise in your chest, like a balloon inflating slowly, filling the space between them. You wanted to say something back, something witty, or maybe something just as sentimental. But instead, you swallowed it down and rolled your eyes. “Okay, now that’s definitely cringey.”

Art laughed, but it was softer this time, a bit more vulnerable. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but it’s true.”

You could feel the weight of the moment settling around them, the unspoken confessions tucked away in the spaces between their words. For all the ease they had with each other, there was a new kind of tension, a nervous energy that felt both thrilling and terrifying. Like standing on the edge of something they weren’t quite ready to name.

“So... what happens when we grow up?” You asked, breaking the silence.

Art blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what happens when tennis isn’t the thing holding us together anymore? When life gets in the way? I don’t know, I guess I’m just wondering if this—” You gestured between each other, “—stays the same.”

Art hesitated, the question sinking in. He sat up fully now, legs crossed in front of him. “I think we’ll always have this,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’ll change, but I think it’ll be... better. Like, deeper or something. You know?”

You nodded slowly, your heart beating just a little faster. You weren’t sure if they believed him, but you wanted to. So, so badly.

“Besides,” Art added with a grin, trying to lighten the mood, “if nothing else, I’ll just stalk you at every tennis match. You’ll be winning Wimbledon and I’ll be in the crowd, holding a You Go Sharapova 2.0 sign.”

You laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. “Yeah, and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

“Rude,” Art teased, but there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something raw and real, a quiet hope that maybe things didn’t have to change as much as they feared.

The alarm blinked again: 3:15 AM. Time kept moving forward, but for them, it felt like they were suspended in something timeless. Neither was ready to say goodnight, not yet. Instead, they basked in their contentment.