it starts when you knock on his door, your blouse and skirt getting drenched by the rainwater as you wait for a response. your church sent you out on a rainy friday evening, and you can’t help but pray that you won’t be punished by god for resenting it. it’s been miserable.
until he opens the door, his demeanor so soft and…silly? he invites you in with the promise of pie, and when you come in you can bet that you were met with the sweet, buttery softness that is pie crust baking in the oven.
things go so well that you keep on coming back to his house on your behalf rather than your church’s. no one really knows where you run off to, but you like to keep it that way. you’ll talk for evenings upon evenings about everything from art to religion.
he’s the first person you’ve met in a long time who you feel like you can open up to about your shameful doubts. doubts regarding yourself, your community, your god. he’s there every step of the way to listen to you and provide insight.
until his insight turns into him teaching you how to properly touch yourself. you’ll be sprawled out on his couch with your phone turned off, probably a million calls from your parents or fellow sisters wondering where you are while his fingers are inside of you.
when he touches you, he studies you. your facial expressions and movements. even the small, soft sounds you let out. he knows your patterns so well that he’d consider them predictable.
you can’t even be bothered that he doesn’t really believe in your views. he supplies you with the best conversations and the best experinces that you can put your differences aside. only for him.
he talks to you so sweetly, yet not patronizing like everyone else does. he’ll treat you like the adult you are, yet you’ll still be his little muse. the girl he gets all his inspiration from. the gift who showed up at his door.
areudirty
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
jacobvanloon
blakekathryn
dededos
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
