my house of stone

i see people making art and telling others to use it because fundraisers with art are generally reblogged more often. i see people using colored text in order to make the post more eye catching.

palestinians on instagram are using popular audios and stitch trending reels at the beginning to make the world pay attention to them. imagine having to make something look entertaining in order to survive.

they are living under constant threat of israeli airstrikes, bombing, scarcity of food and disease. many have lost a lot in the past few months.

palestinians on tumblr are posting their pictures and the horrible conditions in which they are living. they travel long distances for internet connection only to be called a scammer by some privileged ass who cannot locate gaza on a map.

here are some verified gfms. please share the linked posts. it's the bare minimum we can do from the comforts of our home.

@amjadshiltawu: link to the post

vetted

@dima96yousef: link to the post

vetted

@tamer200333: link to the post

vetted

@ahmed8311: link to the post

vetted (#161)

@saratahrawi: link to the post

We are in urgent need of your help during these challenging times. Our family is going through difficult times and we are trying to rebuild our lives. Every donation, no matter how small, will help us greatly. If you cannot donate, please reblog and share our GoFundMe link.

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⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet.

ofc you follow him to the barn, worried at his reaction, and also because you’re worried about him being hungry, you have a biscuit slathered in butter and homemade blueberry jam for him. yeah you’re avoiding the guy but that doesn’t mean you stopped loving and caring for him any less.

“you shouldn’t skip breakfast you know.”

he doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t even spare you a moment of his time, and you deserve it. you don’t deserve good things.

“i was thinking about pastor zweig’s sermon, and i realize that i owe you an apology,” you start, “i shouldn’t have tempted you into sleeping with me and continuing to see you over the summer; it’s not fair to lucy. i know how much me being around has tormented you and how much you probably hate me, so this is my final apology and gift to you. i’m leaving friday, and i hope you find it in you to forgive me.” you state it like you were reciting a script—so devoid of the spark and emotion that typically radiates from you.

“i will never forgive you,” art responds, and a sob builds it way up your throat. he turns around and finally face you. “i will never forgive you if you leave.”

“w-what?”

he’s on you suddenly, backing you to the barn door; he glances down to make sure the door is locked. “you come into this town and seduce me and ruin my life and make me obsessed with you and your tight cunt, and you think you can just leave me? running away isn’t atonement; it’s cowardice.” you’re cowering under his hot gaze. “look at me,” he seethes.

your eyes meet his and tears spill, but he holds your chin, forcing you to keep his gaze. “i’m trying to do the right thing,” you cry, “you’re being unfair.”

he roughly slams your back into door by your shoulders. “no you listen to me!” he roars, “you are the unfair one. if you had just left me alone i wouldn’t be in this mess. i wouldn’t be-“ he stops himself. you don’t deserve to know he’s been debating selling that engagement ring back to the jeweler or that he’s been avoiding lucy’s calls for the past week. instead he slams his lips down onto yours.

his kiss is searing, and you’re crying into the kiss. but you love him you love him you love him and maybe this is your final gift to yourself and to him. so when the two of you fall down into a pile of hay and he begins undressing you, you’re surprised at his gentleness. the way he kisses you and the soft way his hands trail makes you feel loved, so you shut your eyes and pretend that you are. when he finally gets around to fucking you, you tear up at the way it feels—the last time always feels the most intimate you guess. it’s so deep it’s so tender it’s so much. you’re clinging to him like he’s your lifeline, and you realize that he was. he was the one that made you realize that you need to be good to be better. he’s holding you like, well like you’re the only one he’s ever loved. his kisses are deep, are plying, are almost begging you for—for what?

“tell me,” he demands, “tell me you love me.” the words reverberated along your throat.

oh no oh no no no

the tears from pleasure quickly turn into tears of panic. “please art, please don’t do it, please i’m-“

a particularly deep thrust comes, and you choke back a moan. “say it,” he grits out, grinding his hips down into you, “i know you want to. you owe it to me.”

you’re crying, begging him to let it go, but he keeps fucking you, and in your pleasure-idled state, it spills past your lips. “i love you,” you practically whisper. at those words, it’s like new energy embedded into art and his bullying of your poor cunt double downs. you feel your orgasm coming, but you need something from him. pulling him closer, clawing around his back, “please say it back, please art, i need it,” you moan out. his thrusts just continue at a violent pace. “please, please, please.” you’re crying, and eventually you cum and he follows, letting out a low groan as he spills into you.

he’s silent as he re-buckles his belt and put his hat back on. you’re silent as you wipe the cum off the insides of your thigh with the hem of your dress.

“i need to get back to the others,” he says, “it’s boxing day.” and you’re left alone in the mess that you made.

art returns back to the ranch the next morning. it’s just your grandma on the porch. “happy tuesday, art.”

“mornin’, ma’am,” he replies, taking his hat off and holding it in front of him. “don’t smell any breakfast today.” he’s craning his head towards the kitchen window to try and catch a glimpse of you in your baby blue apron.

“oh, my granddaughter left last night. something bad must’ve happened at home for her to be as spooked as she was, shoving all her things into her bag and hopping on the first plane out,” she shares, “i’ll get started on breakfast in a moment. i know how you men are when it comes to your hunger.”

art dropped his hat to the ground.

(oop)

- 🤠

COWBOY ANON THIS IS SO SERIOUS FOR MEEEEEEEEEEE

need..... need it to be radio static for months afterwards and he goes through with proposing to lucy and he's done what he always does best when something hurts him - he puts it in a box and pretends it doesn't exist. he knows it's not healthy, patrick rags on him for it, says he has so much shit pent up inside one day he'll just explode from it all. he hasn't exploded yet, so he keeps doing it.

he proposes - and it's something he's dreamed of doing and yet, the whole night is a blur. like he's on autopilot, more or less. he pastes on a smile - says what he practiced saying, and she says yes. everyone is happy - except your grandma - who's always had a knack for knowing people a little too well, peering at him curiously over her glass of wine when he helps her set the table -

"thought about invitin' her down to celebrate."

art freezes. the fork he'd been in the middle of placing clinks against the plate already set. he stares down at the table with his jaw set and doesn't say a word.

for several beats there's just silence - thick in the air. and then art swallows. straightens the knife and fork next to the plate. clears his throat. he doesn't need to ask who the 'she' in question is. there's only one 'she' that could ever make art react like that.

"what did she say?" voice cool.

your grandma rolls her eyes. for as much as she'd had her suspicions of you on your arrival - she'd grown quite fond of you. she didn't have a good relationship with your mother - she'd gone and become an unrecognizable spoiled brat - and she thought you'd be more of the same - from what she'd heard of your knack for chasin' taken men -

she didn't no the specifics on your relationship with art - but she knew there was something there. and it was something good - something that brought light to your eyes and put a spring in your step. she did condone cheatin' - she was happy for art and his impending weddin' truly. the boy deserved to be happy - but well. grandma's always had to meddle, didn't they?

"she couldn't make it." your grandma says - noticing the way art exhales - though if it's from relief or disappointment, she can't tell. "her mom's got her wrapped up in this new fella'. she's getting to know him and all that - he's very rich, accordin' to her." she huffs a laugh. "though that's about all she can tell me about em'. you'd think she'd know more about the man by now."

art now knows where your wickedness comes from, he thinks. definitely inherented from your grandmother.

he scrubs a hand down his jaw and tries to keep the box that's begging to burst open shut tight in his heart. thoughts of you back home in the big city, sat across some pompous asshole in some restaurant that's menu was probably more expensive than his wedding would be.

you're where you belong. he's where he belongs.

"shame." he says. "gotta make a call."

always runnin', your grandma thinks, watchin him go. didn't he know the things he ran from would always find a way to catch up to him?

-

it's a couple months later when the call comes. he's at home, braced over his sink, scrubbin' his teeth. harder than necessary - until his gums bleed - when his phone trills on the marble counter next to him.

it's not a familiar number - but with the wedding tomorrow - it's probably someone in his extended family wanting last minute details or something of the like -

he spits into the sink - pink mixed with the white of the paste - he'd brushed hard enough to make his whole mouth tender - swipes up his phone and answers it. "yeah?"

there's silence on the other end for awhile - he pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the screen but the call is still ongoing. he presses it back - "is someone there?"

"art."

every muscle is his body tenses - goes rigid. he'd know that voice anywhere. at night when his head is empty and it's quiet outside he can still hear the breathless way you'd said you loved him.

the only reason he doesn't drop his phone is because his hand is like a block of ice around it - he feels at once too hot and too cold. his heart stops and then picks up at the speed of a racehorse.

"art," you say again, quietly, like you're purposely keeping your voice down. "its me."

his throat works. "I know -" he exhales shakily. looks at himself in the mirror and can't discern his own expression. turns so his back is facing it, props his shoulder against the doorframe of his bathroom. "i know." he says again, can't think of what else to say - what he should be saying -

"you're getting married tomorrow." you tell him. he can't make out your tone because of how softly you're speaking.

at the mention of his wedding his eyes close. he grips the phone tightly. "yeah."

a pause. then - "are you happy? truly?"

his breath rattles in his lungs. he looks up at the light fixture and thinks what the fuck.

it's just like you - it's just like you to leave without a word and not make a peep for months after wrecking havoc on his life and his heart - only to drop yourself back in front of him right when he's trying to move on - when he's trying to put you behind him despite how fucking hard its been - it's just like you to haunt him every day and make yourself real again right now - when he's the most vulnerable he's been since the day you left.

is he happy? is he happy?

he could laugh if there was any joy in this situation at all. if hot anger didn't suddenly flood his veins and stain his cheeks red.

he wants to tell you that he is. that he's glad you left and he's never been happier in his life for tomorrow. that he can't wait to finally be free of the shackles of you and get on with his life and grow the fuck up and stop reminiscing back on those hot summer nights you'd spend tangled up in eachother -

he wants to - but he can't.

but he can't be completely honest either.

"why are you callin' me now? after all this time?"

he lets the hurt bleed through in his tone. he knows he doesn't really have any right - the way he'd treated you - how he'd fucked - made love to you and then left you there - but still. you just.... left. entirely. erased yourself from the narrative without any consideration to how it would make him feel.

he hears you shift around through the receiver - hates himself for the way he's picturing you in his mind. looking out your window up at the sky maybe, or curled up on your bed. did you look the same? had you changed any?

"its storming." you whisper. "listen."

you must hold the phone out - because he can hear it then - the steady beat of rain coming down hard on glass paine. the roll of thunder.

a pinch of worry twists his chest - the memory of you shaking in his arms, small and scared. the first time he'd seen you as the girl you were and not the confident seductress you pretended to be.

you come back on the line. he hears your breath - and he can't help it - he asks -

"are you okay?" because he has to know. the thought of you shaking in that way - he can't stomach it. his fingers throb like they're aching to run through your hair - he remembers how it felt to hold you against him. how good and right it felt despite how wrong it all was.

"I wasn't." you tell him honestly and his heart squeezes. "but then I thought of you - I thought about your arms around me. the way it felt to put my head on your chest and hear your heart. it was racing that night, you know? like a humming bird."

he breathes shallowly. looks out into his bedroom - the bed he sleep alone in that will soon be filled with his wife - lucy - another woman. his jaw ticks and he looks away.

you continue - "I don't think anyones ever been that gentle with me before in my life. not that I'm deserving of it now - but I probably deserved it when I was smaller, maybe. to be held. I'm not a good person, art - I know that. I know what we did was wrong, and I know you're a grown man - but I pursued you by myself, knowing your heart was with another. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry if I made you feel like a bad person like me. you aren't. you could never be. someone who holds someone like me like that - could never be bad." your breath is shaky and he thinks you're crying. he hates it. he hates the sound of it. it fucking hurts. it's shredding him up inside to hear it. "- you're a good person. and you deserve to be happy. I hope - I hope she makes you feel held. like you made me feel."

it's quiet. outside, thunder rolls, and he thinks of the karmic twist of fate that it would storm now. you start to say - "I love - "

but he interject. "don't." when he swallows he realizes he's swallowing back tears. "please." he doesn't know what he's begging for.

"im sorry." a beat. "congratulations, art."

“loves you the most when you’re asleep, because it’s the safest time he knows to show you he cares.”

SHUT UPPPPP.

him meeting you felt purely coincidental. you didn’t know any of his friends and he didn’t know any of yours. you had very few things in common. he is boisterous and feeds off attention; you’re a bit more reserved. you stay on the outskirts of the party, while patrick wants to be the one throwing it.

but you pique an interest in him. you challenge him in your conversations, talking about art and films and literature. he wants to impress you—maybe because he feels like he needs to, when usually his attractive smile and strong arms do the trick for him.

he researches the things you bring up to him during conversations. and he listens to the music you’re interested in.

and before he has sex with you, he can tell himself it’s all under the guise of getting in your pants, of mounting himself on top of you.

three weeks after meeting you, after a quite intimate dinner date with wine and dessert, he fucks you in his apartment. he feels giddy with pride, more so than he usually does with other women. it feels like unwrapping a gift he had been waiting for all year; he knows what’s underneath the wrapping but god, he’s so excited for it finally to be all his.

and you’re wearing white lace panties and a matching bra, all for him.

at first, he’s slow. rolling his hips into yours and sucking your sensitive, taut nipple into his mouth. making eye contact with you as he trails kisses up your throat.

but you let out a needy groan and your heels dig into the base of his spine and he can’t hold back anymore. he reaches so deep inside you like this, with your pelvis tilted. you give all of yourself to him and he takes every inch. feels the hot sleeve of your cunt around his cock. how wet he’s made you. pride again swells in his chest and he holds the back of your head to keep it from hitting the headboard because that’s easier than slowing the rabid rhythm of his hips.

“fuck—i-“ patrick’s close and so are you and he bites his tongue because he almost said something he would’ve regretted. something that may be true which scares him all the same.

he moves to pull out but you keep him inside and you tell him you want his cum. a broken whimper scratches out from his raw throat and he slumps against you.

he can’t even pretend to enjoy his wedding night. something he cherished since the very beginning of his courtship now sullied by you—by the thought of you. the shy blushing bride that lays below him makes his stomach turn, but he swallows it down and puts on a sweet smile. “no need to be shy, darlin’, it’s just your husband,” he says, rubbing on her clit softly. her soft pants throw him off. her shyness makes him sick. he wants to hear you: your loud unabashed moans and mewling, the way your hips would careen up into his touch, forcing more from him. the passive girl that lays in front of him cannot be further from you, but he loves her,,,right? so he shuts away any memory of you for now while he makes gentle, sweet love to his wife.

in new york you mull over art, something you only let yourself do when you were truly alone, because as good as he was, you couldn’t piece him together. he didn’t want you to leave, wanted you to love him, but he didn’t love you. but he also wasn’t happy, at least, he didn’t say he was. worst of all, the pregnancy test on your bathroom counter was laid face down. there were another 2 minutes left on your timer. you did the calculations in your head; honestly, it could be your fiancé’s; he had you in his bed after the second meeting. for him, it was your beauty and flirtations that made him cave so quickly. for you, it was the need for someone to hold you, to show you warmth. and has done nothing but that. but you can’t shake that the baby might be a reminder of your wickedness—that you spent the summer seducing a taken man over and over again. but you also might not be pregnant. there’s only a minute left. well, it wouldn’t matter who’s baby it was; both men would potentially pass on strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, but those were recessive traits anyways. your phone timer breaks the silence. you take a deep breath in and flip the test over. well shit.

art’s honeymoon is anything but smooth sailing. while he enjoys spending the day lounging next to his wife and going on excursions, the nights together makes him sick. because no matter how much he reminds himself of his love and devotion and promise to god, he cannot shake you from him. everything about her is a constant reminder of you and how she will never be you. her mouth that recites prayers every night with him before bed cannot make it past his tip without popping off for air. her hands that she keeps clasped in his while they walk along the beach are never shameless in their roaming, never gripping or scratching into his back. her cunt that she’s kept to herself all these years—saving it for him—is tight, but unlike yours, it’s vice-like. when art sinks in, it’s a reminder that he is bound to her forever; an eternity of gentle, polite sex. the one time he began fucking into her like he would with you, she cried and begged him to stop, and of course he did; he’s her husband after all.

it’s a week after art gets back from his honeymoon, and he’s out in the fields mending the fences after the storm. he wonders if it made its way to new york and if you found comfort in your fiancé’s arms. lucy found a job as your grandma’s caretaker—a new position since your grandma took a nasty fall at the beginning of the week and broke her hip—so there is not a moment in the day where she’s not around reminding him that you are not around. he’s focused in on his work when he hears a commotion from the house.

“what a fancy envelope!” lucy marvels, looking over your grandma’s shoulders, “what’s it for?”

“it’s my granddaughter’s wedding invitation, and it looks like she bought me plane tickets for it too.”you grandma reads over the letter you attached, “i hope you’re healing, praying for your recovery every night,,,please use the second plane ticket for a guest to accompany you, i know the travel will be hard on your own.” art’s ears prick up.

“why art, why don’t you come with me? you and her were quite close while she was here,” she says, a sly glint in her eyes.

“that’s nonsense, art has to tend to the ranch while you’re away,” lucy responds, her brows furrowed.

“you’re acting like he’s the only competent ranch hand here,” patrick butts in, “let the man go. i want to know how our cowboy likes the big city. plus i need him to convince her not to marry the guy,” art freezes at his friends words, “so she can come back and marry me.” art is going to throttle him.

“you’re being ridiculous. i’ll go with granny since i’m her caretaker, and art can stay and man the ranch like he always does in her steed,” lucy says with finality, “right, art?”

and because he is a good righteous husband, he obediently nods.

your grandma thinks he’s weak.

- 🤠

(up next, your wedding 😳)

GASP NOT THE PREGNANCY........ its definitely arts baby, no doubt about it. his seed is too potent. you already have a prominent bump by the time of your wedding - and in the end, art is the one who ends up coming with your grandma, if only because her and patrick are schemers and made it that way.

aurrrrrrr he's there for the weekend and you have him and your grandma set up in a fancy hotel - you didn't expect him to come - and you're nervous as hell to see him. his eyes darting to your baby bump immediately - pupils dilating - need him and reader to have a confrontation before the wedding, the day before or even the day of - dancing around eachother until the art can't help but ask who the baby belongs to. not knowing what he wants the answer to be. and you know its arts - had done the math in your head soon after going to the doctors. two months along, nearly three - when he'd fucked you in the barn - yeah, there's no question.

but you don't get the point in confessing it. he's already married. you're about to be. what good would telling him you're having his kid do? only cause more drama and pain, and you've given him enough of that.

but you can't lie to art donaldson, either.

"its yours, art. but don't - you don't need to worry. I don't expect anything from you."

(I’ve never sent in a request before or even an idea so I pray this is articulate)

What if he finds himself attracted to a really dedicated student. She’s put her all into college and has a drive and ambition he hasn’t seen in years. He tries to screw with her by giving her a B but instead of running to him crying like he’d assumed she has a collected conversation with him about how she know he’s just trying to get in her pants and he’s shocked at how easily she called him out on his bullshit. She leaves telling him to grow up and stop trying to go after vulnerable young women or she’ll report him (not knowing that Head of the Department Tashi was one of those women.) he’s undeterred, of course, and just wants her more. But instead she switches to a different class and avoids him everytime she sees him one campus.

This is where I struggle continuing the idea- what if to blow off steam and forget about the whole thing she goes to a college bar. She meets someone a little older but he’s nice and seems like a total munch. So they head back to his house and hook up and oops- it’s literally the new professor she just transferred to so she wouldn’t be in this exact situation. Professor Art Donaldson.

IDK I just feel like this would be such a messy and fun situation but this idea in my head will no go further past Art and I’m curious how you think this could go.

cw: scumbag patrick??? perhaps

the rumors about dr. zweig are like a game of telephone; they're plentiful, but they get skewed along the way. at some point, the gossip muttered into students' ears was a true statement. but then everything got so convoluted and nobody is seriously going to believe that professor patrick zweig is secretly a porn star. i mean, jesus. so it has the same effect as crying wolf. patrick has had scandals. he has had many missteps in his career due to his own inability to control himself and his urges. but all the tall tales about him are so ubiquitous that it belittles the credibility of each and every story.

but it seems like each year, patrick lusts over a student of his. that's the most widely believed rumor. each year, a bright young little thing piques his interest. causes a tent in his pants. and each year, he'll try to find away to lure her in. maybe through requesting a meeting during office hours, maybe by riling her up so much during a class discussion that she inevitably snaps, and he needs to see her directly after class for a chat.

"what d'ya think daddy? do i look like your little angel?"

it's no surprise that when he takes you out to dinner that night, you're in that same set with a new accessory: his cum dripping from your pussy.

STOP. like actually.

god yeah he loves it, you've never looked more heavenly decorated in white lace. flashes of calling you mrs. donaldson flick through his mind, the vision of prematurely sneaking out of your reception to go consummate the marriage in the presidential suite. it will be nothing more than a fantasy, of course, as he's already promised to someone else, a very public relationship at that. you'll only ever be lily's junior tennis coach to the world. you let him indulge in the fantasy, eyes burning a hole into every inch of your silky skin and the fabric that adorns it. the detailing grips your tight little body, contrasting against the glow of your complexion and barely concealing anything as you twirl on your feet for him. you have the remarkable changing room to yourselves, every inch lined with rose velvet and plush clouds. the nda-bound shopkeepers are pretending to keep busy as they shuffle around on the shop floor, trying as hard as possible to give you privacy. it doesn't matter if they're in the room or not, everyone ceases to exist when art's hands roam your body.

you tiptoe slotting in between his spread thighs, standing tall and proud before him. he cranes his neck up through the length of your body until he meets your eyes. you're the perfect piece of art, his piece of art. a piece of him and his riches existing all over you. your hair perfectly blown out, skin freshly lasered, nails meticulously manicured with an "A" and "D" on each ring finger. art's strong hands grip the back of your smooth thighs, right under where your asscheeks sit. he yanks you closer into him, his chin sitting at your jewelled navel as he stares up at you, "so," he presses his lips to your belly button. "so sexy."

your eyes twinkle into down into his as you fold your knees to straddle his hips, "do i look like your little angel?"

"better," he says. his thumbs squeeze into the cushion of your hips, forcing you down to feel how rock hard he is, "dirtier." "can i please get it?" your voice is small and candied. you gently rock yourself over him, just ever-so slightly and press your plump lips to the corner of his mouth.

you're sweet, gentle, slow with him. smooth like butter as you map his face and neck with delicate kisses, fluttering your eyelashes like a little butterfly.

you kitten lick the spot underneath his jaw, inviting a groan to leave his throat. you take it a step further, fingers trailing down his wide, strong chest until they find his thick, waiting cock. you're palming over his trousers so softly like you're touching him for the first time.

it makes him want to fucking cum in his pants how polite and well-mannered you are. the little pleases and thank yous, how grateful you are for the difference he's made to your life. how you return the favour every day by dripping like maple syrup around his gorgeous dick, squeezing him empty in everlasting gratitude. "do you like your new car?" he'll ask as he drills into you, your polished feet hooked around the back of his broad shoulders, the length of him pounding into your guts, "uh-huh, y-yes, thank you, thank you, th-"

you're unaware that prior to entering he's asked the shopkeepers to box up anything that catches your eye. so, when he confirms, voice low, rolling your soaking pussy on the fabric covering his throbbing cock,

"you can have whatever you want, honey."

you feel doves swarming your core, fluttering all the way down to your pretty clenching hole that is pleading for his dick to fill you. you're so so thankful. god, how well he treats you. how you've never heard a no from him. how he takes care of you like a man should.

your tender moans invite him to unzip his trousers and you take the work off his hands by pulling them down slightly till they sit beneath you. art's strong thighs tense at the sensation of your delicate hands stroking him.

his tennis-worn hands ease you up by the ass, using fingers to hook the lovely lace to the side, exposing your slick, desperate cunt. your hips start to circle his red, heavy tip and you sink slowly until he's nestled in your tight hole, drowning in hot molten caramel,

"mmmm, thank you mr. donaldson." fuck, fuck, fuck. he's going to explode. he sometimes can't believe it. a grown man at the height of his career, completely crumbling by you innocently and respectfully titling him mr. donaldson.

and you're so fucking tight and warm, his cock completely stuffing your divine syrupy walls as you ride him. you mumble sweet whispers of appreciation into his ear, tongue swirling his earlobe, "so good to me. treat me so well. luckiest girl in the world."

art is drunk off the smell of toasted marshmallows and warm vanilla from nuzzling into your neck and smothering you with his hot open mouth. he's kissing and sucking every exposed inch of you as your eyes glaze over with stars, being fucked so perfectly by one of the best tennis players the world has seen. your life couldn't be sweeter. girls your age dream of this.

"you're so fucking wet," he breathes as your pussy creates lewd, sloppy sounds. he then bucks his hips up into you with a muscled arm tucked around your waist. he doesn't want you to exert any energy or a strand of hair to go out of place, you look too pretty.

dizzy. fuzzy. hot lava. he presses his lips to yours with a tight grip to the back of your head to support your body as he completely pounds his weight up into you. the slaps against your ass are so fucking sinful, filling the changing room and mingling with your intermittent drawn-out, hazy whimpers. his tongue edges into your mouth, silencing your moans.

it's hard, fast, desperate. your tits bouncing and eyes glazing over with white hot pleasure as the coil within begins to unravel. his peak hits you both by surprise, the result of your cunt squeezing him for dear life as you tip over the edge. he groans from his chest into your mouth with hot, satin ropes of milky cum spurting up into you.

yeah, he'll be buying you the whole fucking shop.

literally my muse, thinking about how you watch him ride his horse around grandma’s ranch and herd the cattle literally drooling over his strong thighs as they clench a bit around the horse when it gets a bit spooked, how stern he sounds talking to it and to the other ranch hands as they try to get the cattle to a different grazing pasture. thinking about how you want the hands gripping on that horse’s rein to be gripped around your neck, that stern timbre to resonate in your ear telling you to be good to stop squirming about. but it’s your first day here and you know he’s not the biggest fan of you watching your little fit on your grandma’s front porch as you lugged your suitcases up by yourself huffing and puffing that no one’s doing your beck and call. you know he thinks you’re a brat, you heard him say so to your grandma (well, you heard him laugh in agreement at her statement), but you want to be his brat. of course your wants are dashed the moment you see a little blonde thing come at lunchtime in a beat-up truck in a modest white sundress (how virginal, you mused over your sweet tea) with a packed lunch tied up in a cute gingham fabric. with a sweet smile she hands it to art and gives him the shyest lil peck to the hoot and holler of the other farmhands. “that’s lucy,” your grandma says from behind you, “they’ve been going steady since they were toddlers, he’s even told me he’s thinking of marrying her soon,” she pauses to give you a stern look, “so don’t go getting any ideas now, we all know where that got you last time.” you don’t even try to look remorseful at your obvious ogling of that gorgeous man, but the sting from the memory of how you got here in the first place made you wince.

“i know, grandma, not going to repeat the same mistake twice. plus, not really into cowboys.” you don’t take your eyes off art and lucy.

“just married ones,” she replies blithely before wandering back into the house.

and she’s right,,,well not completely. growing up in the old rich new england scene means you know what’s waiting for you at the end of the aisle is whatever chad brad or richard the second who graduated summa cum laude from princeton your dad picked out for you, but honestly you craved love—the feeling of being loved, something that you’ve never even gotten a taste of in all 20-smth years of your life, so when you see a man be loving and kind to someone you can’t help but feel gravitated to him because if he has the capacity to love her, why can’t he also show that love to you?

this is how you found yourself weaving your web of flirtation, of under the skirt peeks of your glistening cunt, of lingering glances, and sweet perverse convincing around art. weaving closer and closer until he found himself in your bedroom—honestly originally there to fix the squeaky leg of your bed—rolling his hips into you, holding back the moan that threatens to pass his lips in case your grandma hears, and you’re looking up at him so sweetly so starry-eyed and so soft he swore you could’ve been an angel, and when you softly ran your hand through his hair, cupping his head to force him to look you in the eyes he came. he lazily kissed you as he came down murmuring your name. as he went to stroke your hair, he froze. his eyes stilled on the flash of the silver purity ring on his finger, the name of his beloved engraved into it, and he feels sick to his stomach. you had never seen a man dress so quickly before, and as you drew yourself up off the bed after he left you smiled. you absolutely had to have more. you knew he could give you more.

aka citygirl!reader has a weird thing about married/loverboy men in which she gets turned on seeing them be loving and kind and wants that for herself but through the power of infidelity and she can’t help that ranch hand!art is the ideal loverboy (just not for her, but she can change him)

(the way i have sixty billion ideas for ranch hand!art, and i would love to share but i am also shy and scared my ideas aren’t particularly good—and he takes a mean turn LMAO—but if i work up the courage to send more, could i sign off as 🤠 if she’s not already taken)

the way i blushed seeing that my ask betwitched you 😳 but also it was a bat signal bc hear me out. ranch hand!art trying to avoid you at all costs around the ranch because he can’t stop imagining how tight and warm you were and the way you looked at him and he wants to vomit every time he kisses lucy because she doesn’t deserve this but he LOVES her and he knows if he doesn’t do it again and repents it’ll be ok and he’ll get to put that shiny engagement ring on her dainty ring finger by the end of the summer. and it’s been easy to avoid you lately, you’ve never been a fan of the outdoors in the heat with the bugs and the scent of the livestock, and he threw himself into any job around the ranch that did NOT involve being near or in the house. and he was beginning to get back into the swing of things… 

until you appear at sunday service arm in arm with your grandmother smiling sweetly down at her. he freezes in his conversation with lucy’s parents. you in a demure light blue sundress, hair tied back in a bow, and the most angelic look in your eyes. he feels sick—unsure if it’s because of his fear you’ll look his way and give it all away or if it’s because you’ve not yet shone your gaze upon him. your grandma locks her eyes on art and beelines to him with you in tow, “oh hello dear, lovely morning isn’t it?” he stiffly nods; you have not yet said anything or even looked at him.

“you’re the new girl in town right?” lucy chimes in, “nice to finally meet you! i’m art’s girlfriend, lucy.” she sticks her hand out.

“nice to meet you, lucy! glad to meet at least another person my age besides art,” you respond.

“oh i hope he’s been nice to you,” lucy replies, “has he been helpful getting you settled in?”

the shy look that you take on makes art’s heart stutter. “he’s been very helpful, and i’m glad i’ve gotten to know him better this past week.” finally you look up at him, and his heart jumps to his throat. the coy flash in your eyes were only caught by him, and it did it’s job. flashes of the afternoon he spent with you and oh god is he getting hard? he needs to get out of this. “lucy, we should take our seats,” he says as he gently places his hand on her waist. 

she quirks a brow at him before turning her attention back to you. “well, if you ever need a friend in town, please feel free to come over for dinner at mine’s! art and i host dinner for all our friends every sunday night, and you definitely are welcome. i’m a little tired of having to deal with art and pat’s antics all by my lonesome.”

you eagerly reply and art sees the final nail in his coffin.

tl:dr you do attend sunday night dinner at lucy’s only to excuse yourself during the board game portion of the eve and ofc art follows and fucks you in the bathroom because he just can’t help himself. also i’m imagining lucy really wanting to be reader’s friend and art being like “no !! she’s only here for the summer !! and she’s a bad influence !! sex !! drugs !!” and lucy hits him with a lil “love thy neighbor” rant and he wants to d i e

you on the other hand?? obsessed with art even more like this man loves his gf sosososo much. the gentle forehead kisses, carrying things for her, serving her dessert first? god you need it now even more than ever.and tbh the more lucy gets closer to you and divulges all the amazing things about art you become more obsessed with him and the more you pursue him and the more he fucks you 🤭 

but he keeps getting meaner and meaner because he’s getting more and more experienced but also because you keep making it worse and worse for him and it’s all your fault that his life might be ruined bc you’re such a filthy filthy whore with the tightest cunt and you’re crying because no!! he’s supposed to be loving not mean but also it’s hot and the guilt that eats him up afterwards bc he was raised not to make girls cry so ofc the aftercare goes hard and that makes your delusions even more strong and oh my god i love my delusional citygirl!reader who forces ranch hand!art into this toxic cycle

and her being more of a brat as they continue bc the more mean he gets the more guilty he gets and the more guilty he gets the more loving and kind he is afterwards (also doesn’t hurt that he’s scared shitless you’ll tell lucy so ofc he doesn’t want you to cry and ofc he cares about you)

🤠

HOOOOO BOY. buckle up.

RANCHHAND!ART X READER

yes <33 it fucking scares him how little interest he has in other girls. and then he thinks about it more and it's not even a little. it's none. all he cares about is you. all he thinks about is you too.

patrick is infamous for having at least five or six situationships at a time--if you could even call them that. he is good at shutting his feelings off. hooking up with girls and not caring if anything happens after that. in fact, he prefers that nothing happens. but girls, their feelings get hurt and they want more. they want dates, a text, calls after class.

and then patrick meets up with you. a pretty, smart girl from his class. he loves how in your own world you are. the first day of class you sat there, listening to music and doodling in your notebook as you waited for class to start. you softly hummed the tune of your music, probably because you thought you were the only one in the lecture hall.

but there patrick was, and he noticed you and didn't stop noticing you. and then he started sitting right next to you. didn't even leave a seat in between. got you to share your earbuds with him and you even let him play some of his music sometimes.

but you'd always just--leave. you never asked for patrick's number, but one day he asked for yours and you looked surprised. you gave it to him.

he texted you and you kept texting because he kept answering you faster and faster. and then he started to call you and you'd answer.

your friends started asking you who you were always on the phone with.

"patrick. a guy in one of my classes."

"is it patrick zweig?" your friend looked flabbergasted.

"yeah, why?"

"he's known for being quite the--slut."

you told her that you didn't believe that. you'd never even kissed him yet.

but then your friends told you the stories. none of them had hooked up with him, but it seemed like everyone was one or two degrees away from a girl who had. and every story had the same ending--and then he never spoke to her again.

after hearing this, you separate yourself. you still call and text but you tell yourself it isn't a big deal. you can just have fun and call it quits. except you've barely lost your virginity. you're not equipped for this.

patrick begs you to come out with him one night. you do your makeup and don't wear your glasses for once and you wear a nice top.

you don't even make it to the club; patrick tackles you into his backseat and one thing leads to another and you're scratching your nails down his back and thinking--fuck. this is how they get so attached.

at this point patrick has stopped talking to every other girl. mostly without even realizing it. he just--forgot about them.

and you start distancing yourself. one day you don't even sit by patrick. it almost makes him tear up.

he texts you that night and asks

Are you mad at me?

No, why?

You didn't sit by me in class

Oh, I'm sorry

Can i come over?

you say yes.

and your roommates yell that patrick is here and he brought you a present. a bouquet of roses with baby's breath. you blush and thank him. he eats you out on your baby pink sheets and begs you to cum for him. he wants you to just fucking let go. but it's hard for you to trust him.

weeks of him inviting you out, meeting his friends. him asking to meet yours. more flowers, he buys your favorite snacks. he drives you to class and holds your hand on the way to tennis practice.

your friends ask if you're dating him.

"no, no. we aren't. he's not into that."

they look at you, confused.

"did he say that to you?"

"no, but it's implied. with his past."

one of them sits down across from you. "it's pretty clear he loves you. this isn't apart of a scheme--like im telling you--"

your other friend interjects. "it's always him hitting a girl up at a party or something and then they fuck maybe once or twice and then he just stops talking to them. never flowers and hand holding."

"oh--i mean. we'll see."

and patrick thinks you're his girlfriend. that's what he tells art, anyway. and art congratulates him. asks patrick when he asked you to be official.

"what do you mean?"

and of course months later when things start getting better you start getting better is when patrick waltzes in with his apologies. and art is sooo conflicted because he missed patrick his best friend his. boyfriend. but he’s still so angry w him….

soooo ‘i hate you for what you did and i miss you like a little kid’ by miss phoebe…

he just misses the part of you both that was so happy and carefree. he wonders what it says about you both that now that patrick is gone, that part of you and him has been chipped away. a cracked, eroded rock. discarded. but art works so hard to build you back up. he takes you out on more dates. art museums and picnics. fancy restaurants so you can have an excuse to get all dolled up. tells you to get whatever you want. and art makes you so fucking happy. you’re so in love with him it hurts. but you had that with patrick too—except you suppose it was all one-sided.

you’ve noticed art has been struggling too. he’s just not wanting to talk to you about it. wants to be strong and what he deems as manly. so he doesn’t want to cry in front of you. but you wake up sometimes in the middle of the night to hear him sniffling.

you just rub his back and let him be the little spoon. you don’t make a big deal because you know that will only make it worse.

but as the months go by and spring comes along, you’re both feeling better. art is doing really well at tennis this season. and you’re loving watching him play. you’ve somehow managed to avoid patrick completely, which in the long run, has made everything easier. a complete severance.

until it’s mid may and you and art are watching a movie on the couch. the sun still hasn’t set and the windows are open and you hear a knock at the door.

art peeks and sees its patrick. he goes outside. doesn’t let you see him and pins him against his shitty garage door. he punches him in the jaw.

and patrick doesn’t even do anything about it. just rubs the spot and says:

“i’m sorry artie. i made a mistake. fuck—i miss you guys.”

and art figures you’ll be curious. you’ll come out soon to see where he went.

“she just started feeling better. we had no fucking answers. nothing.”

but patrick, like he always does, finds his place. weasels his way in and apologizes to you while art watches through the screen door.

patrick gets on his knees in front of you while you’re sitting on the couch. takes your hands and kisses them.

“i’m sorry. i miss you so fucking much.” he pauses. he’s never said this to art. to anybody. “i love you.”

you’re so mad and you’re sniffling but patrick has tears in his eyes too. you hug him and he kisses your forehead and art should be ecstatic—this is everything he’s dreamt of for almost six months.

but his jaw hurts. he realizes he’s been clenching his teeth. he’s jealous. he’s been used to having you all to himself. he even bought you a ring, hid it in a stupid safe he bought and shoved in his closet.