But feel free to call me Sweetie or whatever you please :)
im in a load of fandoms so please please please bare with me!!
About me!!
I’m 22!! some of the things i may reblog or post may not be safe for minors to view so MDNI :) 🧁
I have an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor! so i may post some of my art works on here ;))
this is mainly a place where i can ramble about random stuff im interested in and or read fics about, so im sorry if i don’t update much :c 🍦
Main fandoms :
Arcane!! (claggor my beloved..)
X-men! (cartoon and movies)
Mortal Kombat !!
Ghost busters !! (i love you egon..)
Creepy pasta!!
JJK !!
Death note !!
The Butchery!!
Dorohedoro!! (i’ve genuinely never met someone else in this fandom so please hmu if u are 🙏)
I am not a writer!! writing is not typically my thing, so incase you do see any of my works, just know i’m stepping out of my comfort zone and it might not be as good as anticipated :)
more then likely my work will not be suitable for younger and or immature audiences, so once again, MDNI and VIEWERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
thank you for reading!! until we meet again mis amores!! 🫶🎂
─ Lust is the worst sin of them all, you’re sure of it. A man who works on your father’s farm only makes that glaringly obvious, and you can't resist indulging.
♡ : MDNI, NSFW, 18+, smut, older man x younger woman, farmer's daughter au, no mention of y/n, reader-insert, religious guilt, heavy mention of religion, brief mention of death, virgin user, corruption of innocence (not really?? kinda??), user is a pervet lol, oral sex (m receiving), everybody is 20+.
.ᐟ.ᐟ : little drabble as i work on some other stuff <333 enjoyyyy
The church is practically empty, vacant pews filling the small place, Father standing at the front, guiding the worship.
Your hands are clasped together, head bowed, knees against the small bench before you. He’s finishing the last of it, and all you’re doing is begging for forgiveness, it seems.
The weight of the world is on your shoulders as you kneel, guilt nudging itself between your thighs, and you’re shaking your head, trying your hardest not to cry during the fucking service. You don’t know how you can become so weak–how Man can become a victim of his own flesh, how lust is just another sin that pokes its strong head out. But God, is it ever taking over you.
“You doing okay?” a quiet voice hums, and you lift your head, gazing at the older woman who is gently placing her hand against your back. She noticed the tears in your eyes, and you wiped them away embarrassedly, nodding quickly.
“Yes… thank you, I’m okay,” you say, rising from the pew, and she smiles, giving you a nod, reaching out your hand for the sign of peace. You take hers in your own, shaking gently, but you reluctantly pull out as you file out of the wooden seats.
You feel too guilty to stand in the short line, to receive the body and blood of Christ–not right now, at least, not after the thoughts you’ve been having. It would be blasphemy for you even to consider it, even to believe you’re worthy of salvation. You are far too gone, it seems, and you’re not sure any Priest or God would forgive your sins. Even the ones you haven't committed, but the ones you consider.
The walk from the church is short. You live just up the road, in a small farmhouse that backs onto an even larger plot of land. Open and wide, your father awaits your arrival inside the dingy place, prepared to give you a list of chores.
“I’m home,” you quietly call, the screendoor shutting behind you.
The air is dry and stale, the warm rays beating down on the house, an unairconditioned mess; fans oscillate in each room, desperately trying to get rid of the heat, but it’s nearly impossible. You sigh and wander into the living room.
There he is, not your father, but sin incarnate, everything you fight against.
Long limbs stretched before him as he rested on the recliner, and a glass of cold water was on the coffee table. He’s wearing what he usually wears when he helps your father with jobs on the farm: a loose button-up and jeans, something oddly attractive about the simplicity, but it’s him, the reason you started walking to church when you should’ve been doing chores.
“You gonna say hi, or watch him like a creep, darling?” your father suddenly says, a rough hand against the nape of your neck as he sneaks up behind you. He chuckles loudly, and his friend is turning his head, eyes meeting yours.
Your eyes widen when yours meet his; sharp as usual, eyebrows strong. You blink, enamoured by the man before you, and you feel guilty for even staring at him because you know that if he heard your thoughts right now, he’d land a cold slap against the side of your cheek, and maybe you’d thank him for having the guts to touch you at all.
“She just got back from church,” your father comments, raising his eyebrows in a light nudge about your newest duty each Sunday, and his friend laughs, shrugging.
“Better than what most girls are doing her age,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of your eye, the cold glass finding his lips as he takes a long sip. You watch his lips dampen, once dry and chapped, replenished by something you wish could be you, instead.
If he gave you the chance, you’d be doing the things girls your age are doing; you’d lose your virginity to him, and you’d sleep around to get rid of the ache he only seems to give you, and you’d be a heartbroken mess, regretting the idea of letting him defile you. Still, it’s better to watch from a distance and beg for forgiveness from a man you’re not sure even exists, rather than beg for something from a man you know exists and can touch and see and love and feel. It’s easier, you tell yourself.
“He’s gonna show you something in the barn,” your father says casually, lightly patting the back of your neck. “Might wanna change, pretty white dress is gonna get dirty,” he laughs, his thumb rubbing the cotton fabric draped across your body.
“It’s fine,” his friend chimes in with a shake of his eyes, dark eyes looking across the material; it drops just above your knees, modest enough to cover your shoulders, and loose enough to hide the curve of your hips.
“Yeah… it’s fine, we’ll be quick,” you dismiss with a nervous smile, a hesitant laugh. You turn your head when the couch groans, and he extends to his full height, and you swallow hard, regretting saying ‘yes’. You’d say yes to about anything.
“Come on, sweet thing,” he says, waving towards the back door, though he briefly pauses to drink the last few drops of water; his head tips back, long neck on display, his Adam’s apple prominent, sweat collecting by the collar of his shirt, veins pumping with blood.
You follow him, throwing on your dad’s oversized jacket that hangs on the back of the couch, dipping outside of the screen door, trailing behind him like a lost puppy. You stare at the back of his head, blinking slowly, reminding yourself why you’ve started writing in your journal again.
“How was your morning?” he asks, turning his head to slow down and match your pace, and you quickly catch up, walking alongside him.
“It was okay,” you nod and shrug, stuffing your hands deep into the pockets of the jacket, fiddling with the lighter and closed pocket knife that idly float around. You’re holding your breath, and you only realize it when you’re at the barn doors and let it out.
“God treating you well?” he asks, half-sarcastic, and you don’t answer; you’re focused on his biceps straining through his shirt as he slides the door open. That answers his questions–you can’t say that aloud.
The two of you step inside the vacant space. It’s empty, a few spare bales of hay, the roof cracked, the wood splintering. It was an older barn on the property, mostly abandoned after a new one was built; the new one was larger and more up-to-date, and you didn’t like it compared to this one. This one still lingered thick with memories, and you occasionally checked in on it, swiftly opening the doors in the night, glaring a flashlight into the space, praying you’d see your mother there. She never was, and she hasn't been. It’s been years since she passed.
“Your father is tearing this down, you know,” he comments as he walks further into the space, boots clicking against the wooden floor, and you step in, unfazed by the comment. You’re not sure when your father last considered your feelings.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” you scoff, wandering around a little bit, not used to the barn in the sunlight. It drools in through the cracks, casting warm rays on your skin, and it catches his eye.
He watches from the corner of his eye as he walks towards the stray hay bales, and you’re standing in the centre, drowning in the oversized jacket. He shakes his head, turns around, leans over the large pieces, and sighs quietly.
“You wanna help me?” he calls over his shoulder, more a command than a question, and you quickly head over to him, joining his side, watching over him; large, rough hands gripping the edges of the smaller bale, tugging it. His forearms look strong, and you’re tempted to touch them.
“Is anything budging? Check, sweetheart,” he groans out, nodding, and you shift on your feet, looking at where the bale meets the wooden planes of the wall, and not much is happening. He’d probably need the usual machinery your father uses for jobs like this, though he’s been more stubborn lately, and asking would lead to conflict.
“No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head, biting your lip while glancing back at him.
He curses under his breath, grunting as he releases the hay, stepping back with his hands on his hips, one hand lifting to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He turns to look at you, and you swallow hard, trying to ignore the impulses you’ve been praying to go away.
“That’s fine,” he sighs, panting slightly from the summer heat. “Probably gonna need to get your daddy or something,” he shakes his head, rolling his eyes out of exhaustion. He’s frustrated, and you’d do just about anything to relieve him.
“I know… I can get him, if you want,” you shrug, trying your best to help, and he’s turning around, leaning against the bale.
“No, no, it’s fine, sweetheart, don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, and you slowly walk towards him, and he’s looking down at you, curiously, like he’s anticipating your next move.
“I can, it’s no problem,” you repeat yourself, and he’s reaching, lightly pushing your shoulder.
“You’re a sweet thing, but I’m fine,” he reassures you, his jaw clenching when he knows that you caught those wandering eyes. They dipped down, bypassing the hem of your dress.
“I’d do anything for you,” you mumble, tilting your head to the side, and yeah, God must be in this room, because no one else could ever give you the strength to say something like that.
You see his posture change; his shoulders stiffen, and he sits up a bit more, his head following the tilt of yours.
“Come here,” he says quietly, with a light wave of his hand, and you slowly step forward, and there’s zero hesitation as his hands slide beneath your jacket, resting on your hips, the fabric of your dress the only barrier.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” he asks, lifting a hand, two fingers gently patting your temple, and you turn your face in embarrassment. He’s smiling at just how shy you are.
“So much,” you admit, realizing God might’ve given you the courage to do something, and you’re currently applying it to the worst thing ever. You’re trying to pinch yourself, but you also don’t want to.
“Tell me,” he says, using his fingers to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and your eyes meet his. You’re biting your tongue, knowing you’d scare the shit out of him if you said what you thought about.
You swallow back the words you want to say; I want to beg for more, and I want you to deny it to me because I don’t deserve much, but I need this.
“I like you,” you whisper, and he’s chuckling at your response. You sound like a schoolgirl admitting her crush on her classmate, not a grown woman confessing her burning desire for this man she shouldn’t be caught with.
“Yeah, and how much do you like me?” he teases, tipping his head back, biting his own lip. He’s challenging you, expecting you to bat your eyelashes like you don’t know what the fuck to do with a man.
You don’t know what you’d do with a man, not at all, but you have an idea, and you begin to indulge in it, sinking to your knees, your dress getting dirty, just like your father said it would.
“Hey… hey, baby,” he says quietly, looking around the empty barn, and then back at the figure before him; you’re on your knees, all sweet and soft, despite being neither of those things.
You’ve been angry and rough your entire life; he doesn’t know you, and it seems like nobody does.
“No, no, I want this, I do,” you plead, a hand reaching, grasping at the denim on his thighs, and his eyes widen at your eagerness. You’ve always been so quiet.
He’s hesitant, reaching down, threading his fingers through your hair, and you close your eyes, mouth agape. You’re getting off on it, and he knows it; he can tell.
You open your eyes, and he’s looking down at you, watching your shaky hands reach out to find the buckle of his leather belt. His eyes darken at your persistence, how swiftly you unbuckle it. You are defying every thought he had about you, and you want it that way.
“Angel, this is a lot,” he whispers, gently shaking your head and massaging your scalp as if he’s calming you down, even though you don't need it.
“I know, I’m a lot,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, shifting on your knees on the dirty floor, and adjusting your white dress with your free hand. You’ve always been too much. The world reminds you.
He swallows hard, his belt falling open, and your eyes widen at the sight; his jeans hanging lower on his hips, and you can see his tanned stomach now, the faint trail of hair that disappears into his boxers.
The zipper is loud in the empty barn, and you carefully tug it down after flicking the button open, and he’s groaning a little. He’s taking in your movements; shaky, like you’re more curious than anything else.
“Take it slow,” he whispers, and you glance up at him, nodding a little at his soft command.
You don’t bother taking his jeans off yet; you lean forward instead, nudging your nose against the faint bulge, and he’s tipping his head back. You inhale, panting softly, a small hand resting on his thick thigh–you can’t believe yourself, but you’ve never been more proud.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, patting the crown of your head before grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging you back, and you lean back. He sees the dazed, lustful look in your eyes. It’s almost heartbreaking.
You grip his jeans now, pulling them down just enough until they’re hanging low on his hips, giving you access to slide your hand into the front of his boxers. Warm and hard when your hand wraps around him, and you’ve never felt more flattered; a man finds you attractive, for once, it seems. Now, you feel guilty.
You carefully take him into your hand, and your eyes glance up at him; he’s watching you, rubbing your head lightly, his thumb gliding forward, rubbing your hairline.
“I don’t want to corrupt you, baby,” he says, shaking his head, but the way he throbs in your hand makes it impossible to deny him.
“I want you to,” you nod, eager knees shifting forward, and you duck your head, bowing it like you would in the pews. Your tongue sticks out, a warm stripe along his shaft, and he breathes out shakily, gripping your hair tighter.
You’re tasting him, and you’re realizing why this is forbidden–you love it, and you shouldn't.t
A few licks lead you to the tip of him, and you carefully cover it with your mouth, and he’s groaning at the feeling of your mouth around him, warm and soft, and he feels just as guilty right now. But your eyes, pleading, begging. He can’t say no.
You hold him at the base, though you drop your hand, sliding it to grip his thighs. You claw your fingers into the flesh slightly, eyes falling shut as you take more of him into your mouth. It’s sinful how easily he glides on your tongue, how quickly you adapt to the size of him. Your shielded eyes weren’t used to this, seeing nude men, but you’re sure he’s bigger than most, and your throat is telling you that. You gag.
He’s moaning now, nodding, listening to the space fill with the light sounds of your gags and chokes. Your struggle is evident, but he knows how determined you are. Fingers are digging into his legs, and he uses his hand to brush back strands of your hair, getting a better look at your face, glistening in sweat, flushed.
“That’s it, angel,” he breathes out, grunting, resisting the urge to buck forward. You’re already struggling as it is, and if he were to use your mouth as if he owned it, it would only make things harder.
He’s patient with your curiosity; your tongue tensing, drool dripping down your chin, eyes watering. You want to take a breath, but his disappointment overshadows your desire to exist, so you continue, nodding your head, and he watches you with simple awe. Still, he can’t stop watching.
“Gonna cum in your mouth,” he mumbles, giving into his own urges, and he brings your head closer to him. It earns a gag from you again, a choke that barely gets out of your throat, and he’s tipping his head back.
He pulls back slightly, letting himself slide out of your mouth, but it’s instinct; you let your tongue hang out, saliva glistening on it as it pools at the tip, and he releases onto it. Warm and sticky, desperation dripping out of him and leaking onto you. You close your mouth, licking your lips, head bowed in shame.
Despite him being pulled out, you still feel the veins on your tongue, the light prodding against the back of your throat, and the ache at the corner of your mouth where he purposely stretched you more than you could take. You’d take and take if you could.
“Good girl,” he whispers, still rubbing your head as he leans back into the bales, staring down at those innocent eyes looking back up at him.
You swallow, feeling it slide down your throat, ashamed of how you purposely held it in your mouth for a beat longer, savouring the taste and warmth that’s so him.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he breathes out and retracts his hands like he was scared of hurting you, and your eyebrows furrow. You wipe your mouth and lean back.
“No, I liked it,” you admit, your voice hoarse, and you cough. His eyes are softening.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he mumbles quietly, his hand sliding down to gently cup your face, a rough thumb rubbing along your cheekbone.
─ Lust is the worst sin of them all, you’re sure of it. A man who works on your father’s farm only makes that glaringly obvious, and you can't resist indulging.
♡ : MDNI, NSFW, 18+, smut, older man x younger woman, farmer's daughter au, no mention of y/n, reader-insert, religious guilt, heavy mention of religion, brief mention of death, virgin user, corruption of innocence (not really?? kinda??), user is a pervet lol, oral sex (m receiving), everybody is 20+.
.ᐟ.ᐟ : little drabble as i work on some other stuff <333 enjoyyyy
The church is practically empty, vacant pews filling the small place, Father standing at the front, guiding the worship.
Your hands are clasped together, head bowed, knees against the small bench before you. He’s finishing the last of it, and all you’re doing is begging for forgiveness, it seems.
The weight of the world is on your shoulders as you kneel, guilt nudging itself between your thighs, and you’re shaking your head, trying your hardest not to cry during the fucking service. You don’t know how you can become so weak–how Man can become a victim of his own flesh, how lust is just another sin that pokes its strong head out. But God, is it ever taking over you.
“You doing okay?” a quiet voice hums, and you lift your head, gazing at the older woman who is gently placing her hand against your back. She noticed the tears in your eyes, and you wiped them away embarrassedly, nodding quickly.
“Yes… thank you, I’m okay,” you say, rising from the pew, and she smiles, giving you a nod, reaching out your hand for the sign of peace. You take hers in your own, shaking gently, but you reluctantly pull out as you file out of the wooden seats.
You feel too guilty to stand in the short line, to receive the body and blood of Christ–not right now, at least, not after the thoughts you’ve been having. It would be blasphemy for you even to consider it, even to believe you’re worthy of salvation. You are far too gone, it seems, and you’re not sure any Priest or God would forgive your sins. Even the ones you haven't committed, but the ones you consider.
The walk from the church is short. You live just up the road, in a small farmhouse that backs onto an even larger plot of land. Open and wide, your father awaits your arrival inside the dingy place, prepared to give you a list of chores.
“I’m home,” you quietly call, the screendoor shutting behind you.
The air is dry and stale, the warm rays beating down on the house, an unairconditioned mess; fans oscillate in each room, desperately trying to get rid of the heat, but it’s nearly impossible. You sigh and wander into the living room.
There he is, not your father, but sin incarnate, everything you fight against.
Long limbs stretched before him as he rested on the recliner, and a glass of cold water was on the coffee table. He’s wearing what he usually wears when he helps your father with jobs on the farm: a loose button-up and jeans, something oddly attractive about the simplicity, but it’s him, the reason you started walking to church when you should’ve been doing chores.
“You gonna say hi, or watch him like a creep, darling?” your father suddenly says, a rough hand against the nape of your neck as he sneaks up behind you. He chuckles loudly, and his friend is turning his head, eyes meeting yours.
Your eyes widen when yours meet his; sharp as usual, eyebrows strong. You blink, enamoured by the man before you, and you feel guilty for even staring at him because you know that if he heard your thoughts right now, he’d land a cold slap against the side of your cheek, and maybe you’d thank him for having the guts to touch you at all.
“She just got back from church,” your father comments, raising his eyebrows in a light nudge about your newest duty each Sunday, and his friend laughs, shrugging.
“Better than what most girls are doing her age,” he says, glancing at you out of the corner of your eye, the cold glass finding his lips as he takes a long sip. You watch his lips dampen, once dry and chapped, replenished by something you wish could be you, instead.
If he gave you the chance, you’d be doing the things girls your age are doing; you’d lose your virginity to him, and you’d sleep around to get rid of the ache he only seems to give you, and you’d be a heartbroken mess, regretting the idea of letting him defile you. Still, it’s better to watch from a distance and beg for forgiveness from a man you’re not sure even exists, rather than beg for something from a man you know exists and can touch and see and love and feel. It’s easier, you tell yourself.
“He’s gonna show you something in the barn,” your father says casually, lightly patting the back of your neck. “Might wanna change, pretty white dress is gonna get dirty,” he laughs, his thumb rubbing the cotton fabric draped across your body.
“It’s fine,” his friend chimes in with a shake of his eyes, dark eyes looking across the material; it drops just above your knees, modest enough to cover your shoulders, and loose enough to hide the curve of your hips.
“Yeah… it’s fine, we’ll be quick,” you dismiss with a nervous smile, a hesitant laugh. You turn your head when the couch groans, and he extends to his full height, and you swallow hard, regretting saying ‘yes’. You’d say yes to about anything.
“Come on, sweet thing,” he says, waving towards the back door, though he briefly pauses to drink the last few drops of water; his head tips back, long neck on display, his Adam’s apple prominent, sweat collecting by the collar of his shirt, veins pumping with blood.
You follow him, throwing on your dad’s oversized jacket that hangs on the back of the couch, dipping outside of the screen door, trailing behind him like a lost puppy. You stare at the back of his head, blinking slowly, reminding yourself why you’ve started writing in your journal again.
“How was your morning?” he asks, turning his head to slow down and match your pace, and you quickly catch up, walking alongside him.
“It was okay,” you nod and shrug, stuffing your hands deep into the pockets of the jacket, fiddling with the lighter and closed pocket knife that idly float around. You’re holding your breath, and you only realize it when you’re at the barn doors and let it out.
“God treating you well?” he asks, half-sarcastic, and you don’t answer; you’re focused on his biceps straining through his shirt as he slides the door open. That answers his questions–you can’t say that aloud.
The two of you step inside the vacant space. It’s empty, a few spare bales of hay, the roof cracked, the wood splintering. It was an older barn on the property, mostly abandoned after a new one was built; the new one was larger and more up-to-date, and you didn’t like it compared to this one. This one still lingered thick with memories, and you occasionally checked in on it, swiftly opening the doors in the night, glaring a flashlight into the space, praying you’d see your mother there. She never was, and she hasn't been. It’s been years since she passed.
“Your father is tearing this down, you know,” he comments as he walks further into the space, boots clicking against the wooden floor, and you step in, unfazed by the comment. You’re not sure when your father last considered your feelings.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” you scoff, wandering around a little bit, not used to the barn in the sunlight. It drools in through the cracks, casting warm rays on your skin, and it catches his eye.
He watches from the corner of his eye as he walks towards the stray hay bales, and you’re standing in the centre, drowning in the oversized jacket. He shakes his head, turns around, leans over the large pieces, and sighs quietly.
“You wanna help me?” he calls over his shoulder, more a command than a question, and you quickly head over to him, joining his side, watching over him; large, rough hands gripping the edges of the smaller bale, tugging it. His forearms look strong, and you’re tempted to touch them.
“Is anything budging? Check, sweetheart,” he groans out, nodding, and you shift on your feet, looking at where the bale meets the wooden planes of the wall, and not much is happening. He’d probably need the usual machinery your father uses for jobs like this, though he’s been more stubborn lately, and asking would lead to conflict.
“No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head, biting your lip while glancing back at him.
He curses under his breath, grunting as he releases the hay, stepping back with his hands on his hips, one hand lifting to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He turns to look at you, and you swallow hard, trying to ignore the impulses you’ve been praying to go away.
“That’s fine,” he sighs, panting slightly from the summer heat. “Probably gonna need to get your daddy or something,” he shakes his head, rolling his eyes out of exhaustion. He’s frustrated, and you’d do just about anything to relieve him.
“I know… I can get him, if you want,” you shrug, trying your best to help, and he’s turning around, leaning against the bale.
“No, no, it’s fine, sweetheart, don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, and you slowly walk towards him, and he’s looking down at you, curiously, like he’s anticipating your next move.
“I can, it’s no problem,” you repeat yourself, and he’s reaching, lightly pushing your shoulder.
“You’re a sweet thing, but I’m fine,” he reassures you, his jaw clenching when he knows that you caught those wandering eyes. They dipped down, bypassing the hem of your dress.
“I’d do anything for you,” you mumble, tilting your head to the side, and yeah, God must be in this room, because no one else could ever give you the strength to say something like that.
You see his posture change; his shoulders stiffen, and he sits up a bit more, his head following the tilt of yours.
“Come here,” he says quietly, with a light wave of his hand, and you slowly step forward, and there’s zero hesitation as his hands slide beneath your jacket, resting on your hips, the fabric of your dress the only barrier.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” he asks, lifting a hand, two fingers gently patting your temple, and you turn your face in embarrassment. He’s smiling at just how shy you are.
“So much,” you admit, realizing God might’ve given you the courage to do something, and you’re currently applying it to the worst thing ever. You’re trying to pinch yourself, but you also don’t want to.
“Tell me,” he says, using his fingers to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and your eyes meet his. You’re biting your tongue, knowing you’d scare the shit out of him if you said what you thought about.
You swallow back the words you want to say; I want to beg for more, and I want you to deny it to me because I don’t deserve much, but I need this.
“I like you,” you whisper, and he’s chuckling at your response. You sound like a schoolgirl admitting her crush on her classmate, not a grown woman confessing her burning desire for this man she shouldn’t be caught with.
“Yeah, and how much do you like me?” he teases, tipping his head back, biting his own lip. He’s challenging you, expecting you to bat your eyelashes like you don’t know what the fuck to do with a man.
You don’t know what you’d do with a man, not at all, but you have an idea, and you begin to indulge in it, sinking to your knees, your dress getting dirty, just like your father said it would.
“Hey… hey, baby,” he says quietly, looking around the empty barn, and then back at the figure before him; you’re on your knees, all sweet and soft, despite being neither of those things.
You’ve been angry and rough your entire life; he doesn’t know you, and it seems like nobody does.
“No, no, I want this, I do,” you plead, a hand reaching, grasping at the denim on his thighs, and his eyes widen at your eagerness. You’ve always been so quiet.
He’s hesitant, reaching down, threading his fingers through your hair, and you close your eyes, mouth agape. You’re getting off on it, and he knows it; he can tell.
You open your eyes, and he’s looking down at you, watching your shaky hands reach out to find the buckle of his leather belt. His eyes darken at your persistence, how swiftly you unbuckle it. You are defying every thought he had about you, and you want it that way.
“Angel, this is a lot,” he whispers, gently shaking your head and massaging your scalp as if he’s calming you down, even though you don't need it.
“I know, I’m a lot,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, shifting on your knees on the dirty floor, and adjusting your white dress with your free hand. You’ve always been too much. The world reminds you.
He swallows hard, his belt falling open, and your eyes widen at the sight; his jeans hanging lower on his hips, and you can see his tanned stomach now, the faint trail of hair that disappears into his boxers.
The zipper is loud in the empty barn, and you carefully tug it down after flicking the button open, and he’s groaning a little. He’s taking in your movements; shaky, like you’re more curious than anything else.
“Take it slow,” he whispers, and you glance up at him, nodding a little at his soft command.
You don’t bother taking his jeans off yet; you lean forward instead, nudging your nose against the faint bulge, and he’s tipping his head back. You inhale, panting softly, a small hand resting on his thick thigh–you can’t believe yourself, but you’ve never been more proud.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, patting the crown of your head before grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging you back, and you lean back. He sees the dazed, lustful look in your eyes. It’s almost heartbreaking.
You grip his jeans now, pulling them down just enough until they’re hanging low on his hips, giving you access to slide your hand into the front of his boxers. Warm and hard when your hand wraps around him, and you’ve never felt more flattered; a man finds you attractive, for once, it seems. Now, you feel guilty.
You carefully take him into your hand, and your eyes glance up at him; he’s watching you, rubbing your head lightly, his thumb gliding forward, rubbing your hairline.
“I don’t want to corrupt you, baby,” he says, shaking his head, but the way he throbs in your hand makes it impossible to deny him.
“I want you to,” you nod, eager knees shifting forward, and you duck your head, bowing it like you would in the pews. Your tongue sticks out, a warm stripe along his shaft, and he breathes out shakily, gripping your hair tighter.
You’re tasting him, and you’re realizing why this is forbidden–you love it, and you shouldn't.t
A few licks lead you to the tip of him, and you carefully cover it with your mouth, and he’s groaning at the feeling of your mouth around him, warm and soft, and he feels just as guilty right now. But your eyes, pleading, begging. He can’t say no.
You hold him at the base, though you drop your hand, sliding it to grip his thighs. You claw your fingers into the flesh slightly, eyes falling shut as you take more of him into your mouth. It’s sinful how easily he glides on your tongue, how quickly you adapt to the size of him. Your shielded eyes weren’t used to this, seeing nude men, but you’re sure he’s bigger than most, and your throat is telling you that. You gag.
He’s moaning now, nodding, listening to the space fill with the light sounds of your gags and chokes. Your struggle is evident, but he knows how determined you are. Fingers are digging into his legs, and he uses his hand to brush back strands of your hair, getting a better look at your face, glistening in sweat, flushed.
“That’s it, angel,” he breathes out, grunting, resisting the urge to buck forward. You’re already struggling as it is, and if he were to use your mouth as if he owned it, it would only make things harder.
He’s patient with your curiosity; your tongue tensing, drool dripping down your chin, eyes watering. You want to take a breath, but his disappointment overshadows your desire to exist, so you continue, nodding your head, and he watches you with simple awe. Still, he can’t stop watching.
“Gonna cum in your mouth,” he mumbles, giving into his own urges, and he brings your head closer to him. It earns a gag from you again, a choke that barely gets out of your throat, and he’s tipping his head back.
He pulls back slightly, letting himself slide out of your mouth, but it’s instinct; you let your tongue hang out, saliva glistening on it as it pools at the tip, and he releases onto it. Warm and sticky, desperation dripping out of him and leaking onto you. You close your mouth, licking your lips, head bowed in shame.
Despite him being pulled out, you still feel the veins on your tongue, the light prodding against the back of your throat, and the ache at the corner of your mouth where he purposely stretched you more than you could take. You’d take and take if you could.
“Good girl,” he whispers, still rubbing your head as he leans back into the bales, staring down at those innocent eyes looking back up at him.
You swallow, feeling it slide down your throat, ashamed of how you purposely held it in your mouth for a beat longer, savouring the taste and warmth that’s so him.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he breathes out and retracts his hands like he was scared of hurting you, and your eyebrows furrow. You wipe your mouth and lean back.
“No, I liked it,” you admit, your voice hoarse, and you cough. His eyes are softening.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he mumbles quietly, his hand sliding down to gently cup your face, a rough thumb rubbing along your cheekbone.
I combined both of my hyperfixations of Outlast and The Butchery! So we have William Hillwalker as Chris Walker and Jackson Hillwalker as Eddie Gluskin (I lowkey gave up on his half lol)
just beat hardcore mode in two hours and fourty minutes and couldn’t help but cheer. art for celebration. also they should put the ending song on spotify. both guys in the middle two images are my oc, everett ! also enjoy my playlist maybe ..
my new current fixation has got to be those modern harry potter au’s where they constantly message each other on instagram notes, it’s like my favorite thing ever.
gold digger y/n who takes money from these men simply for the thrill. she’s able to buy whatever tf she wants but.. why do that when men exist? at this point, her purse only contains lip gloss and her favorite boy toys card. whoever it is that week.
gold digger y/n who fucks him so good he knocks out— giving her enough time to clean out his wallet, shower and head out in 30. he wakes up in a daze of his own filth, yelling profanities at the fact that he fell for it again. no worries though, she knows he’ll still come crawling back for another late night rendezvous.
gold digger y/n who gets her allowance before taking off a SOCK. she needs to know how hard she should perform, how much this current “lover” deserves. her current favorite is lowkey fine enough to get that “fucking into the morning” treatment no matter what. he still spoils her nonetheless, he knows she’s not the one to fuck with.
gold digger y/n who doesn’t sugar coat her intentions. she’s successfully cut off and avoided any man who starts trying to treat her like a wifey. after one “i want to cum inside of you so bad” too many, she’s out of there. is it really a breeding kink at that point ?
