Hi,
I hope you're doing well.
I'm writing to you with a heavy heart and an urgent request for help. My family is in a very danger situation due to the ongoing war, and I've launched a GoFundMe campaign to save them.
Could you please share my campaign post from my profile? Each share could be a lifeline for my family. 🙏 Feel free to share it in any other social media platform if you would like.
Our campaign has been verified ⭐️ by operation olive branch, and is entry number 26 on their spreadsheet. Also with ⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249/(212) on their spreadsheet.
From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you in advance for all of your support and kindness.
Hello, I hope you are also doing well despite the circumstances, and I hope you reach your campaign goal quickly.
For anyone who is able to donate, even the smallest amount, please do. If you are unable to, sharing this goes a long way. Their campaign has been verified and has reached €76,857 out of their €100,000 goal.
Dear Humanity,
I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my… Ahmed Alshawish needs your support for Emergency: Help Evacuate My Fa
i genuinely hate how people have to sit and write a post that stands out while boosting a fundraiser because most people won't bat an eye at the misery and inhumane conditions Palestinians are living in.
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.
🍉🍉❤️ Support My Family in Gaza: Help Us Reach Our Goal 🇵🇸🍉🍉
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.
Dear Humanity,
I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my… Ahmed Alshawish needs your support for Emergency: Help Evacuate My Fa
🍉🇵🇸🍉
Your support brings joy to our hearts and alleviates our stress and anxiety about the uncertain future. Thank you for your support and efforts. 🙏❤️
"Please reblog or donate as much as you can."
Verified by :
⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet.
⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet.
oh ranch hand!art is livid. he’s fuming as he brushes down one of the horses. you come in like a fucking hurricane, upend his life, and just leave? and why were you leaving so soon? but good riddance! he doesn’t want you around anymore reminding him how much he royally fucked up, but that thought brings a sick feeling to his stomach. he probably would never see you again and he doesn’t exactly want that either.
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.
scumbag!patrick is so near and dear to me but consider ... patrick in over his head. you guys fuck nasty sloppy style and then after you pass out in his arms, he pampers you. runs his fingers gently through your hair, cups the back of your head. kisses your cheeks, your shoulders, your back. holds you gently and thinks to himself fuck, i'm really in deep now, huh? loves you the most when you're asleep, because it's the safest time he knows to show you he cares.
“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.
you fall asleep before him and it’s then, when your breath evens out and soft snores escape your parted lips, that patrick traces his fingers over your cupids bow, your hairline. he admires your body, not in a sexual way, but just to ensure that this is real. that you are. he kisses in between your collarbones, where he feels your pulse caress his bottom lip and he’s worried about being in love because there lives an inevitable fear in patrick’s gut of knowing he’ll screw it up.
ranch hand!art is shellshocked after he hangs up the phone. he’s about to marry the woman he’s loved since his youth, and he’s feeling doubt trickle in the edges. for a split second he fantasizes about ending the sham here, running off to new york to find you, and fuck you then and there in front of your fiancé, but that fantasy dies as quickly as it came because art is a good man. he promised lucy he’d love her until death do they part, to hold her in sickness and health, and to fill her with the seeds of the children she will bear him. no matter how much you plague his being, he can’t continue like this. click! the lock on your box shuts into place and is shoved into the back of his mind.
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.
you had never heard first-hand accounts from any of these alleged girls. but by the way dr. zweig's eyes lingers on the cleavage of girls who bend over to pick up a dropped pen, or up their skirts on a particularly windy walk to the political science building--it kind of adds up.
and as the professor's TA returns your graded essay at the beginning of class, a big red B circled at the top, along with a see me after class scrawled beneath--you wonder if you're next.
now, it's not necessarily a bad thing. there was never any talk about a lack of consent. it was truly just an issue of power imbalance. of him sniffing out pretty young girls with daddy or authority issues and reeling them in with his masculinity, his green eyes and strong arms.
after class, you go to his office. and he urges you to sit in the chestnut leather chair across from his own. but you shake your head and pull your essay from your bag.
"a B?" you ask. a simple question; you needn't say more. you have never gotten anything below a perfect score in this class. it didn't make sense.
"it seems that's the grade i've given you." he's curt with you. maybe because he thinks you'll beg for him to be nice to you. you'll beg for him to affirm your intelligence. you'll beg to do anything, anything to get your grade changed.
"i'm just wondering why." you shrug. "and i'm also wondering why i needed to come here to see you."
patrick again is insistent on you sitting down. you finally do.
"because your quality of work has decreased to a B level." a swallow. a straightening of a stack of papers. "is everything alright? are you struggling?"
how fucking dare he.
"no. im fine. in fact, i would say i grasped these topics more than any other section of the course."
patrick takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. "it's possible you were too cocky about it. that you didn't delve as deeply as you should've and that rendered your understanding of the information as largely inadequate."
"even coming from a perfectionist like me," you start. "a B is not 'largely inadequate'.
"i think for you it is."
you stand up. frankly, he's being disrespectful.
"listen," you adjust your bag on your shoulder. "i know the game you're playing. we've all heard the rumors. i know that i'm an A student and that this--" you wave the paper. "is A-level work."
"i don't follow."
so he's acting stupid.
you lean forward. there he goes again with the wandering eyes.
"i know this is your schtick. to get girls to sit on your lap and beg for better grades or extensions or whatever it is they want from you. and i know it usually is easy for you to get whatever you want. but i'm insulted that you think of your best student as a means to get laid--and i'd tread lightly. i can easily go to the head of the department, or the dean."
patrick furrows his brows. "i have no idea what you're referencing." he clicks his pen. "and you're smart. you know you can't go to them without proof. and from what you're telling me about these 'rumors'"--he uses air quotations. "they are all based in speculation. and they are just that--rumors."
you slam the door.
and you do go to the head of the department. not to report professor zweig, but to request a class change. you tell her that it would work better for your schedule to be in an earlier section.
she emails you back quickly.
I can switch you to a 9:00 AM lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. We have a new professor of political science starting this coming Monday.
Best,
Tashi Duncan-Donaldson, PhD
you smile at the response.
and that night, in an attempt to cool off from the day's abnormal events, as well as the immense stress of midterms--you go out.
you go alone, which is unlike you. you also go to a bar further from campus. you're more interested in keeping yourself company. maybe flirting with no strings attached.
and maybe patrick was wrong to assume you would fuck him--but he wasn't wrong about his belief that you're attracted to older men.
and as you stir your cocktail, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and salt and pepper blond hair sits next to you. he smells like peppermint gum and whisky.
"a pretty young girl sitting all by herself? everything okay?"
you roll your eyes playfully.
"real original."
"well--the second part of my question still stands." he tilts his head back to finish his drink. the ice clinks against the glass and you notice he has no wedding band.
"i'm alright. just needed to be alone and decompress."
the man puts his hands up. "hey--I can leave you alone if you want."
you shake your head. "we can be alone together."
"sure we can." his eyes flicker to your lips. you notice how strong his arms look. his posture is perfect. he's soft-spoken but confident. and he's so fucking hot.
"i'm art by the way." he extends his hand and you shake it, but neither of you pull away.
and it's easy to sit in silence. to break it only once every few minutes to say whatever's on your mind. he's a good listener; he tilts his head and nods and makes piercing eye contact--the kind that makes you coy.
you down a few more drinks and so does he. you start to talk more, and you move closer and closer to each other. you're in a booth in the back corner, so nobody can quite see--not that anyone's looking.
so it doesn't faze either of you when you end up on art's lap and he's feeling you up like he's a fucking teenager again. his rough fingers roll your nipples and he's never heard prettier moans. he tells you that against your ear.
you pull him into you. your tongue is more forceful than you thought possible as you push it into his mouth. but his is stronger, and he licks inside you. he's sloppy and drunk and desperate and your hands fumble with his belt.
the bathroom. he gestures to the door and you follow him.
and he doesn't fuck you. not the traditional way, at least. but he pulls your legs over his broad shoulders and he eats your pussy until his hair is ruined by how hard you tug on it. until your lips are bitten and his are soaked in your cum. his fingers are too and he pushes them into his mouth and then into yours.
you yank him forward by his belt. it's his turn. but he shakes his head and points to his watch. it's nearly one, and he has to go. on a thin paper towel, he scribbles his number.
"for next time."
and you think about him a lot that weekend. you don't know the correct etiquette to text or call him, so you don't. not yet. but you program his name into your phone. art. you don't know his last name.
on monday you're still thinking of him as you sit in the front row of your political science class. you want to make a good first impression on your professor. it's 9:02 and you tap your foot against the ground because they're late.
and then the doors swing open and a blur with a briefcase strides over to the grand desk at the front of the room.
"sorry everyone--i'm frazzled. it's my first day as you all know--" he writes his name in messy letters on the chalkboard.
he smiles at the class. it falters when he sees you.
it's bad enough that you hooked up with your professor. it's worse when you read the name on the board.
sugardaddy!art taking you lingerie shopping... leaned back in a plush chair, legs spread, just watching you fawn over delicate lace and silk. you pick out a few pieces to try and he swears his cock has never been harder than when he sees you step out of the changing room in a little white lace number-- the cups are sheer so he can see your perked nipples through the fabric and the underwear barely covers anything. you bound over to him, the biggest grin on your face.
"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.
the scream i scrumpt when i saw your response to my ranch hand art ask i—
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
I love the lore here….. serial homewrecker but it's because she feels so deeply unloved in her own home. and it's never gotten out of hand like how it did this newest time - in hindsight it probably wasn't a good idea to seduce your father's boss - your father's very married boss - but you didn't expect to actually fall in love. you never had before - it was all just sex. for fun. for your own validation. it wasn't right - but you didn't care - it made you feel good and their wives never found out. his wife wasn't supposed to find out - and she definitely wasn't supposed to divorce him and cause him to go bankrupt and therefore lead to your dad being fired and his life ruined.
you weren't shocked your parents sent you away, wiped their hands of you - but it did have that certain sting. just another time they didn't care about you - saw you as a problem instead of a person, a daughter, someone who was crying out for attention and maybe some love - no. you got shipped off to your bible thumping hick grandma in a last ditch effort to instill a sense of goodness in you.
the problem was - it was and wasn't working.
it wasn't because of art donaldson - just another taken man you wanted for yourself, just a taste - for many reasons. a fuck you to your parents, because even out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, you've found a way to make waves. but also because the man is beautiful, genuinely. he's a good person - and you don't even count the cheating against him, because, to you, men are animals before they're human - and he didn't really have much of a choice when it came to fucking you. old habits die hard - and they continue to live in the way you seduce the do - gooding christian man into your bed, once, and then once again, in your grandma's bathroom. the familiar feeling of triumph in tempting a man into giving into his base desires fills you the same way his cock fills your cunt - the fact that he's so loving to his sweetheart, so set on her and gone for her just making you squeeze your pussy around him all the harder when he pushes inside. she doesn't get this. what you do. she doesn't get this side of him, none of the girls before you did - they didn't get his rough hands and bruising marks and degrading words - they didn't get fucked bent over a hard sink and pounded into so relentlessly you lost your voice. all of that innate passion was just yours. just for you. and you revelled in it.
until you didn't.
because sending you out here - it didn't work. but it did work, also.
because out here, in such a small town - you're forced to pitch in. woken up at 7am every morning to help your grandma with breakfast - something you'd grumbled and huffed about at first but now filled you with a sense of pride when art came through the door at 8am sharp and bit into the french toast you'd made and moaned at how good it tasted.
a sense of community you've never felt before when you go down to the market every weekend and people recognize and remember you from church and they greet you warmly, pat you on the shoulder and hold your hand and give you discounts on the apples you're meant to buy as long as you bring over a slice of that apple pie.
a sense of duty with the way you get attached to the many animals around the farm and begin to like taking care of them - feeding the chickens their seed and the horses their hay -
a sense of selflessness with the way you see how hard the sun beats down on art during the day and can't help bring him out a cool glass of peach tea - self made. the flush on your face real and genuine when he wipes the sweat from his brow and smiles breathlessly at you, his “thanks.” deep and like a balm across your skin. the butterflies in your tummy real and not fake when you watch him swallow and see his Adam's apple bob, the sweat sliding down his forearms making his tan skin gleam. you've never been a shy or demure girl - you've felt this man's cum sliding down your thighs more than once - and yet him enjoying a glass of tea you'd made especially for him to cool off on a hot summers day? it has you walking back to the house like a schoolgirl with a crush.
a sense of longing with the way you see how he acts with his girlfriend - you've never given much thought to the other woman. but you find your heart pinching when you look too long now, when you see the way art noses into her hair with an arm slung over her shoulder - a bitterness deep within you you've never had to stare in the face so starkly before.
why can't that be me, you think? why am I so unlovable?
because the truth of the matter is - the one you've always avoided - is that men can fuck you all they want, and have it mean nothing. they can stick their dick in whoever and not have their hearts beat any faster.
it's who they marry that they love.
you get the face shoved into the mattress - but they - the wives, the girlfriends - they get the presents from tiffany's they'll never take off, they get the slow rub of the thumb against their wrist, they get to be held all throughout the night, they get the sweet words, they get the tender love making - the warmth of arms wrapped around them -
you were a fool for thinking you ever mattered.
it's this realization that makes you pull away from art - his words during sex stop feeling good when you know he means them - the hate in the way he fucks you starts to make you want to cry instead of moan. when he holds you down and calls you a pathetic fucking slut and a evil whore who'd been sent to soak his cock in sin - you feel like weeping and begging for forgiveness - his self hatred doesn't feel like a victory anymore - you want him to want you because he - because he likes you - and the realization is the worst one you've ever had.
when he leaves you dripping his cum for the last time you're just grateful you can hold off the tears until he leaves - curled up on your mattress with your heart feeling like it's cracking in two - because it's never hurt this bad before.
you're in love and it's the worst thing that's ever happened to you.
hand clapped over your mouth as the sobs threaten to break your ribs with how hard they leave your shaking body. you can't stop thinking of how alone you really are, of how you've never felt warm, not outside of the sex you've stolen for yourself, not once. you've never felt held by anyone - not until art - the way he holds you sometimes during and after sex - and you can feel how good he is - how even though you're a wicked, wicked girl - and you're ruining his life because that's all you know how to do, he can't stay mean for long - has to kiss your feverish skin and tuck your hair behind your ear and make sure he didn't bang you up too bad - his cross necklace swaying in front of you.
and you used to love the feeling of it against your body when he moved inside you - but lately you just wanna rip it off with your teeth - because you hate yourself the most but you hate him too.
hate him for not just keepin’ his promise to his sweetheart - hate him for smiling at you in his kind way, when he'd just had his fist in your hair the night before - dragging you on and off his cock. hate him for the way he bites your shoulder when he cums - moaning low and broken. hate the way he grips you like he wishes he could meld you both together - hate the way he trails soft kisses down your body. hate how tender he is in those moments before the self hatred hits and he stiffens and pulls away and can't even look at you, can't even look at you even though he'd just been burried balls deep - hate him for making you feel like you're something he's ashamed of.
but you can't hate him for real. not really. not for long.
you love him too much.
which is why you pull away, in the end. the summers coming to an end soon anyway, and you'll leave your grandma's ranch and you'll go back to the city and all this towns people and the feelings it made you feel will be just small memories. and you'll be back in your empty house with your parents who don't care about you with friends who don't even know your middle name and you won't have to be awake at 7am, you don't need to cook or bake for anyone, you won't have any baby goats to hold in your lap as you feed them warm milk from a bottle, you won't get to help a baby horse stand on its shaky legs for the first time, you won't get to help your grandma with the dishes after dinner. there won't be any boys with wheat blonde hair and summer freckled skin and dimples in his smile - who radiated warmth, and had big calloused hands and who's kisses tasted like the peach tea you always made him. he'll be married soon. by next summer, you reckon. you won't be anything but a regret to him.
it's just three more weeks out here - surely you can avoid him long enough until you had to go home. three more weeks and then you could go back to being the selfish, rotten girl you'd always been and let this caring, fragile, scared little girl you were startin’ to become go - like petals in the wind.
he should be glad anyway. glad you're not throwing yourself at him anymore, tempting him into corners to sin. dropping to your knees in front of him and lending him your warm, wet little mouth. showing him flashes of your panties, driving him crazy until he snapped and had a hand around your arm, dragging you off to some secluded place so he could yank down your skirt and panties and push inside that sinfully plush cunt - beat inside you until his frustration seeped out of his balls and flooded you with his cum - didn't have to worry about feeling that sense of shame, as he looked away from you after making sure you were alright, buckling himself back up and walking away.
he could go back to loving on his future wife and devoting himself to her completely.
you'd be as unnoticeable as a farm mouse from now on. as meek as one too.
neither of you could account for the storm that would roll in - it didn't storm that often out here - of which you were glad - because you were deathly afraid of storms.
ever since you saw the wizard of oz and how her house got swept away - you'd been terrified of storms and what could come from them. and storms were so much worse out here in the country then they were in the city.
the storm comes when your grandma is out of town for a few days - you'd grown close enough now that she trusted you to hold the house down for a couple days while she was gone - a fact that warmed you despite how you wanted to pretend it didn't.
art was there - but you'd done good on avoiding him - it was always you who provoked him anyway, and despite the furitive glances he'd shot you now and then - he hadn't approached you.
it started with a light drizzle - that didn't worry you. you even brought art his tea, on schedule - and it wasn't until he squinted up at the dark clouds rolling in and said, “looks like it's gonna come down hard -” that you started to feel that pitch of anxiety in your chest.
“but it'll pass over quick right?” you'd asked, wringing your hands.
he looked back at you like he wished he could tell you differently but knew very well what the case was. he was chewin on some wheat and plucked it from between his lips to say - “it might.” a pause, “but it probably wont.”
ah. well. fuck.
you'd scuttled away, hoping the gear in your eyes hadn't been apparent.
the thunder came in next. loud and unapologetic. it shook the very walls of the house - and you couldn't stop your heart from racing in panic. every boom making you jump and worry about the roof collapsing.
it was dramatic, you knew. but you couldn't help it. couldn't help the way your body trembled with every loud clash. the childish way you wanted to hide from the flashes of lightning.
you were managing as fine as you were able, you thought - until the power went out. the light flickered above you like some horror movie moment, and then you were awash in darkness completely.
no, no, no, no, no, no.
you didn't even think.
rational thought fled your brain - your body acting on instinct as you dashed to the front door and flung open the door. you paused at the doorstep, half frozen in fear at the way the rain poured down and whipped past you with the wind, hitting your skin like icy wet bullets.
you ducked your head and forced yourself forward - closing the door behind you. you were immediately drenched with the rain, your nightgown sticking to your body uncomfortably as you ran to the place where you knew he'd be - the barn - he'd be checking on the animals - making sure they were okay - that was supposed to be your job, but you were so out of your head with fear of the storm the thought hadn't even crossed your mind, but you knew it'd cross his - it was just the kind of person he was - helpful, kind, good -
you had to use all your strength - which wasn't alot - to push open the barn door just enough to slip inside - dripping wet and shivering.
it closed behind you with a bang and there he was. right where you knew he would be.
art was calming down a horse, his hand at her snout gently - petting her soothingly and murmuring something you couldn't hear. the horse was huffing softly, swayed by his presence. her eyes were brown and calm.
you felt much like a spooked horse yourself.
another clash of thunder had you near jumping out of your skin, a squeal slipping past your lips.
your hands slapped over your ears and you hunched down to your knees. all you could think about was the storm getting worse - making a big tornado that would tear down everything and sweep you, the barn, the house away - like you were nothing.
you didn't even hear art approach - or hear him calling your name - so lost in your own fear that you didn't know he was there until you felt his warm hands on your shoulders. even still, you didn't open your eyes or unfold from your stance - almost curled into a ball - protecting yourself.
art had never seen you like this - you were a shakin’ ball. like one of those rollie pollies that curled up when you pulled up their rock.
since the very first day he saw you and every day since - you'd been much like the storm ragin’ outside. all consuming and loud and demanding attention. he'd felt the need to take refuge from you multiple times himself, lest he got swept up in your cyclone.
found himself swept up many times, anyway.
but nothing about you was bold or brash or loud now. no, in front of him was a tremblin’ little girl. scared and shakin’ worse than the animals were.
he was so unused to it - he hovered for a moment, unsure if this was just another ploy of yours. another wicked game.
but then another boom rang from outside and you flinched and damnit - the soft part of art - the caretaker in him, couldn't help but reach out to you, as in need as you were in this moment.
hesitantly, he ran his palms over your tremblin’ shoulders. hissed at the feeling of your skin.
“jesus - your ice cold.” his heart clenched - worry flooding him. you'd get a fever like this. he glanced over his shoulder - but all the blankets were in use by the farm animals. there had to be some inside - but he didn't want to leave you like this. he turned back to you, you were suddenly so small to him - he'd felt power over you before, sure. in those moments when he lost himself to his anger and his desire and couldn't resist pressin’ you down and - he stopped that thought. not the time.
still, he felt protective then. in control. very much like you needed him right now in this moment. it wasn't lost on him that you'd ran out into the very storm you feared, just to seek him out.
had you known he'd be here, in the barn? you always seemed to know where he was. ready with your iced peach tea, and tantalizing smile.
the fact that you'd known and you'd come to him - it made something in his chest twist. warm to you.
he gathered you closer - like you were a baby fawn he was coaxing - “c'mere. we gotta get you warm, baby.”
the endearment slipped out - as easy and as natural as honey. he didn't let himself stop to think about it either, he just stood up with you in his arms and retreated to the latter that went up to the hayloft.
he adjusted you against him as he looked up - “wrap your arms around me.” he patted your ass to get you movin’. “koala style.”
you shivered against him, but he bounced you a little in his arms and you eventually listened to him - your arms and legs coming to wrap around him hesitantly. your hands were damp and cold against the back of his neck - and he hissed. you were so cold.
he climbed the latter and got you to the top of the loft where layer and layers of warm hay was spread out. he lowered you both to the soft ground and settled himself. one of his arms went around your back, the other coming up to cup the back of your head. his fingers sifted through your wet strands, massaging your scalp, trying to coax some warmth back into your body. he rubbed his hand up and down your trembling back.
he tried not to think about how your lips were touching his throat - how he could feel your nipples against his chest - piercing through your sheer nightgown. your body wrapped around his as you clung to him desperately.
he tried. but like he so often did around you, he failed.
he'd just never seen you this way. so vulnerable. it hit him them how young you really were. you acted so much older - your personality bigger than your body. it was easy to forget you were barely in your 20s, younger than him.
but he felt it now - in the way you shivered against him. in the way you curled into his warmth like he was your protector and you needed him.
you were just a girl, he thought. and that struck him right in the chest.
he hushed you as you whimpered when another thunder clap rolled out - not so different from the way he'd been cooing to the scared barn animals before you came in. soft and cajoling. the hand cupping the back of your head pressed you closer.
“it's alright.” he told you, and found himself pressing his lips to your damp head. “you're okay. I've got you. not gonna let anything bad happen.”
he felt the way you shuddered against him, burrowing just a little bit deeper.
his hand at your back slid down to your thigh, slipped under the soaked material - skimmed up your chilled skin, warm against your tremblin’ ribs and skating back around to your back, up and down tracing the knobs of your spine.
he'd never touched you this tenderly - not even during sex. never took the time to just feel your body and catalog how you felt.
but he was now. he couldn't help it.
you were so fuckin’ soft. soft and small in his arms. you fit so well against him. his chin restin’ right at the top of your head.
you really were just a girl.
he didn't know why this thought rattled him so much.
he'd spent so much time thinking you were the devil incarnate, he thought. sent from the devil to tempt him to sin, to lead him astray - this big bad succubus who hadn't a soul or even a heart.
he was fuckin’ stupid.
of course you had a soul and a heart.
he could feel the very muscle beating through your chest like a humming birds wings as you pressed ever closer.
you were just a girl and he was just a man - you weren't here to lead him anywhere he wasn't already willing to go.
his eyes burned - his cross necklace felt like a brand against his skin. he was such a weak excuse for a man.
he should be goin’ home. should have been home hours ago - should have rung up his sweetheart by now and see how she was holdin up during the storm. offer to come over to hold her if she was scared.
but he hadn't done any of those things - and you hadn't even been around to tempt him - he was pretty damn sure you were avoiding him, actually - and yet here he was stayin’ later than he should, because he was worried about you instead of his girlfriend.
here he was holding you like you were his girl - and god help him, but it felt so fucking right.
he squeezed you tighter to him as the storm rolled on - pressed his cheek to your drying hair - and closed his eyes.
“you're okay.” he said again. but it was a lie. nothing was okay, and it never would be again.
always think about inexperienced reader not realizing patrick’s falling in love with her. they are hooking up and he is always with her and breaks it off with everyone else and does subtle things to show his loyalty to her without actually saying it. when her friends ask her about it she’s like patrick???? in love with me???? no way??? this is what he does with everyone??? he dosnt know how to communicate and she dosnt pick up the signs
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.
screaming crying throwing up etc. poor sweet artie just wishes everything could go back to normal. misses ur sweet smiling face. poor thing is just so tired……
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.
and patrick decides he wants to come back two days before art was going to pop the question.
stormborns
romaincrisis
areudirty
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
titsay
