Farmer's Daughter ୨ৎ
Summary: Your father hires a man to help him with the farm, but you immediately realize you like him more than you should. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, virgin!user, inexperienced, first time, first kiss, virginity loss, smut, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talking, pussy inspecting, pet names (sweetheart, baby), finger sucking, sexual tension, sexual confessions, tension, mutual pining, age-gap (user is mid 20s), taboo-ish relationship, slight dumbification lolol, mentions of death and alcohol, no use of y/n, reader-insert. wc: 10k | no idea if this needs a part 2 or something… that will be at a later date LMAO enjoy!! also this is briefly revised... so please be patient. i will edit errors eventually I JUST WANTED TO POST UGHHH
The list of chores only grew longer the more the days blended into summer: feeding the cattle, cleaning the barn, watering the plants, refilling the troughs, harvesting vegetables, whatever your father thought suited you the most that day. It was as easy as walking over and collecting a few eggs from the chickens and calling it a day, or spending hours in the blazing sun, fixing a fence that was ruined by a thunderstorm the day prior–more of those were happening, and it was putting a dent in the family business. Terribly.
The rain was relentless, the thunder and the wind a perfect blend that completely disrupted the routine your father had set in place. Fields were being flooded; crops were being destroyed; fences were being broken. Each morning it was something new, some issue, and your father was fed up with it. He hired help.
A man roughly his age; a full head of hair, a few grey strands that you noticed when the sun hit him right, a tattoo hitched up on his bicep that you only managed to see when his shirt slid up, thick forearms that easily pushed and moved broken wood. You noticed him, and he didn’t notice you at all.
You were the farmer’s daughter. A young thing; all legs and flowy dresses, overalls when you were out in the field, a girl that should’ve been in the city, working on her degree at the age of twenty-four, but she was at home, helping her father work and mourn the loss of his wife.
He didn’t notice when you’d linger by the back door, sipping lemonade, watching him throw hay bales onto the wagon, or when you’d sit beside him on the couch during breaks. He’d give you a nod or two, a brief smile, a crinkle in his eyes and a slight turn of his lips beneath his moustache. It was enough for you, and you basked in the faint attention; he was mostly the only one around these days.
Now you’re sat at the dinner table, and he’s sitting right across from you, focused on eating the food you cooked while he and your father worked outside; steak and potatoes, vegetables fresh from the garden, and a beer that you had bought when you stopped in town earlier that day. He had slid you money, told you to keep the change, and to buy something you wanted. You didn’t; you slid the extra five-dollar bill into your diary and closed the page; the date at the top, and his name written all over the stupid page.
“Gonna be another storm tonight,” your father chimes in, chewing around a fatty piece of steak, taking a swig of beer to wash it down. “Workin’ all damn day tomorrow, those fences ain’t holdin’ up, not at all,” he shakes his head, glancing to the men beside him, and you do too.
“Nothin’ new,” he drawls smoothly, his lips around the rim of the bottle, and his eyes find yours. “Little lady can help us tomorrow,” he nods to you, and you suppress a smile, nodding.
“He’s teasin’ you, honey,” your father shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Laundry for you tomorrow–he’s stayin’ the week to help with the damage; gotta wash his clothes this week as well,” he tells you, and your eyes widen just a fraction, lips parting.
You hold the metal fork in your hand and hesitantly nod, glancing at him; he’s nodding in acknowledgment, clicking his tongue in agreement. You feel that familiar warmth in your abdomen, that burning, the excitement.
Having him linger around in the evenings, all night–you’re too excited, in an oddly perverted way; his tired body lingering around in the kitchen after hours, maybe on the couch when you’re waiting for the television to run a show for you, or when you’re showering and he catches you slipping from the bathroom to the bedroom in nothing but a towel. You swallow back mashed potatoes and look down at the plate. It’s half-eaten, and you’ve been distracted, thinking about him.
Dinner wraps up shortly afterwards, and you’re standing on your feet, carefully pulling the empty plate away from your father and then towards his. He stops you and shakes his head.
“Ain’t your job,” he drawls quietly, and stands up instead, his gaze meeting yours. “I got ‘em tonight,” he dismisses and shakes his head again, swiftly removing the plates from your hands.
“I really don’t mind,” you say softly, and he ignores the light protest, reaching for yours and taking them towards the kitchen. Your father is too busy leaning back in the wooden chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the game that’s lingering on the living room television.
You look to your father, and then carefully disappear into the kitchen. He’s leaning over the sink, placing the dirty dishes in it, and you sigh, just loud enough for him to notice. He looks over his shoulder at you, giving you another nod, and you smile slightly.
“Thank you,” you say with a little shake of your head, your hand toying with the hem of your dress. “You really don’t have to… You know I don’t do much around here,” you laugh nervously, and he’s focused on getting this grease off.
“I heard what your daddy said,” he mumbles quietly, his eyes flicking up at the window above the sink when the thunder slips in. “Gonna be busy doin’ house stuff all week, might as well give you a head start,” he shrugs, and you watch his muscles stretch against the button-up.
You stand in the doorway, leaning in the frame, watching him skillfully work over the dishes, and he knows you’re lingering there. He turns off the faucet and places the clean dish on the drying rack before turning around, leaning against the counter and looking at you.
“You need somethin’?” he questions, tilting his head to the side, rubbing his scruff.
“No,” you shake your head, just staring at him.
Your father slips in at the awkward moment and gently pats your hip, eyeing the two of you. He sighs quietly and yawns, listening to the thunder that reminds the three of you what’s yet to come: another hellish storm that’ll reset any work.
“Why don’t you show him to the guest room, sweetheart?” your father tells you, nodding to the wooden staircase. “Wouldn’t hurt gettin’ to bed early,” he shakes his head, yawning once again.
“Okay,” you say quietly, and your father grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
You carefully slip away from the kitchen and begin walking towards the staircase. You can hear the floor creaking behind you with each of his steps, slow and steady, calculated like the farmer he is, and you hear him mumble something to your father. Probably thanking him for letting him stay for a week, or maybe for the dinner. You’re too focused on not tripping like an idiot to pay attention to the blend of voices.
The door to the guest bedroom slides open with a gentle push of your hand, and he steps in before you, his eyes roaming over the old room: soft, linen sheets, a queen-sized bed, pillows fluffed and prepared, nothing like he’s ever seen. He makes a whistling sound, and you grin, knowing you were the one who had set the room up.
Your father had told you a guest was staying over, but you assumed it was Auntie May, or maybe your cousin, not the man you’ve been pining over since you laid eyes on him.
“You did this all,” he says plainly, nodding as he wanders deeper into the small room. “Can tell, has that lil’ touch you put on everythin’,” he smiles to himself, nodding, and the light flickers–the rain was taking effect, and you glance upwards.
“Had no idea you were the one staying,” you say softly, leaning against the doorframe again, your bare feet pressing into the panels. “Thought it was my aunt.”
“Glad it’s me?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I ain’t messy or anythin’, don’t worry about anythin’ like that,” he says, looking back at the comfy bed he’s ready to break into.
He’s used to staying at his shitty place a couple miles up the road–no home-cooked meals, merely gas station frozen dinners, his bed lumpy and rough, the most he could afford. He was practically beaming when he saw the sign on the front of the old farmhouse that he drove by every day, begging for help in exchange for some cash, and he saw you too; on the porch, a magazine in your hand, gnawing on your nails. That’s when he knew he had to take the job, and he mostly treats you like you’re invisible. He works for your daddy now; that’s what he tells himself.
“I’m glad,” you say softly with a grin, and he presses one knee on the bed, checking the give. “First time sleeping in a real bed?” you ask quietly, tilting your head to the side.
He laughs. “A comfy one, yeah.”
“What? Where do you live?” you ask, and he looks over his shoulder again, his facial expression pausing for a second as he thinks, and then he looks at the window—a flash of lightning.
“A few miles up the road,” is all he says, nodding. “Small place, nothin’ as good as this.”
“My great-great-grandfather built it,” you tell him, and the floorboards groan when you lean against them. “Worked real hard to make it this nice, you know, for men like you… who stay here,” you tease, and he laughs, nodding.
“Yeah, men like me,” he repeats, and you hear the sound of his belt clinking, and you take a small step back. “Better head to sleep now,” he says quietly, and you’re shamelessly watching as his back is turned, but you dip around the corner the minute his hands find the hem of his shirt. You can’t watch that; you won't let yourself.
The bed creaks when you flop back onto it, your eyes closing in a sigh. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive this next week; the most attractive man you’ve seen in a minute, wandering through your house, all while being double your age, and then some. It’s a challenge, and you’ll have to adapt to it, a test of your willpower and how well you’ll be able to abstain from indulging in whatever the attraction might blossom into. It’s just a crush.
You can hear his voice through the thin walls, a conversation you shouldn’t be listening to, but you do; an ear to the wall like a little girl eavesdropping on her parents, but instead it’s a phone call between a man you barely know and a person you don’t know at all.
It’s soft mutters and chatters, something about a girlfriend, maybe an ex one, but you aren’t sure. The slight accent bleeds through the wall, and you press closer–something about ‘goodnight, honey,’ and you flinch back, like the words personally hurt you. You blink and take a step back, quietly cursing to yourself. Who were you to think that a man like him would want you?
When the sun drools through the window, you finally stir awake, softly groaning when the knock on your door fully wakes you up; it’s him, nudging open the wooden door, and you’re much too tired even to notice that it’s him, and not your father. He gazes at you; your eyes puffy and tired, the nightgown sliding down your shoulder, slipping down.
“Your daddy… wanted me to tell you that breakfast is ready,” he mumbles, and you’re half-awake, processing the interaction; the broad man standing in the doorframe, probably already working for a few hours, and you’re drooling and dizzy.
“Okay–thank you,” you shake your head, glancing at the clock on your nightstand; eight in the morning, and before you can realize who that was, he’s back downstairs, and you’re sitting up, rubbing your eyes.
“Geeze, how long you been sleepin’ for?” your father asks when you stumble into the kitchen.
The two men are already digging into the eggs and biting into their toast, focused on refuelling rather than enjoying, needing as much energy as they can to repair the damage the storm caused last night. Probably ruined a few fences you went out and fixed, scared the cattle straight, and now the two men are stuck cleaning up after them. And you’re on laundry duty, typical.
“Not long,” you mumble and take a seat at the dining table, gazing at the stack of pancakes your father went out of his way to make. “Slept late,” you say plainly, shrugging.
“The storm?” his ‘friend’ asks you, dark eyes finding yours across the table, and you glance up at him, hesitantly nodding–and maybe eavesdropping on his secret phone call.
“Yeah… the lightning kept lighting up my room,” you shake your head, cutting into the breakfast. “And then the thunder… Sammy was running up and down the hallway; I don’t know if either of you heard the dog,” you explain, shovelling the soaked pancakes into your mouth.
“Well, when you work hard… you’re too tired to be worryin’ bout’ some stupid dog, sweetheart,” your father teases, tilting his head, and his friend laughs. You narrow your eyes.
“I fixed that fence! The entire one that lines the cows–it was hard, so hard, and you kept laughing at me!” you protest, and the two men are collectively laughing at your little outburst.
“And now it’s broken,” your father retorts, gesturing outside with his coffee mug. “Makin’ us fix it, all while you play house n’ bake,” he teases some more, and you roll your eyes.
“I could be out there, you know,” you retort, shooting your father a glare. “Mom always was… she worked out there more than you did,” you reply, and you watch his jaw clench.
“We ain’t need to be talkin’ about what your mother did and didn’t do,” he replies sharply, shooting you a glare, chewing a piece of toast. “You don’t bring stuff up like that here, you hear me?” he asks, looking up at you again.
“I’m sorry, sir,” you sigh quietly and look down at your plate, blinking.
Silence fills the dining room, his friend merely looking between the two of you, mostly you; your head bowed, picking at the pancakes, and taking occasional swigs of water. He’s busy sipping the black coffee and finishing off the eggs to worry about what’s going on between you and your father.
“You ever tried fishin’?” his friend casually brings up, and you lift your head, lips parting.
“No,” you shake your head, glancing at your father, who is half-smiling, clearly being up to this odd plan.
“Can take you later, only if we finish up; your daddy says so.” he nods, holding the ceramic mug to his lips, taking another sip of the bitter coffee. “We ain’t got all day, but I can try,” he offers, glancing at your father.
“Really?” you ask in disbelief, not being able to recall the last time you did something that wasn’t on the farm, or wasn’t in the back of your father’s truck. The last time something wasn't considered work.
You knew there was a small river down the road; you had passed it a few times on your bike, but you weren't allowed to stop there; you always had something better to do, always needing to help your father with something. And now it was being offered on a silver platter by the man you desperately wanted to spend time with.
“Yeah,” he drawls out quietly, setting the mug down. “Around four, jus’ be ready by then.”
Your father is grinning at your interaction.
Your childhood hadn’t been the easiest; being the only child, and then your mother passing away in a tragic accident on the fucking farm. The guilt was an inevitable part of it all, though you were much too young to feel any part of it. Your father took it all, and it took a lot from you, too, but not in the way you thought; he was a distant man most of the time, strictly focused on the farm and working away the pain of the death, and it bled into you having an unstable relationship with your father.
You were older now, and you understood him more, and he didn’t mind handing off the ‘fatherly activities’ to another man, as long as it meant you learned it and felt it, even if it wasn't the same as being eight years old and your daddy is teaching you how to reel in a fish. It was something, and he knew that it meant something to you. You were grinning like you were five at the thought of fishing, and that was enough for the man who thought pessimism was the only compatible worldview.
The two men leave you at the dining table, and you watch them drift out of the back door, quickly going back to the duties they were working on before you had woken up. You knew they were up since four o’clock, fixing stuff, doing whatever they could to make use of the day; meanwhile, you slept soundly, only to be woken up to the smell of pancakes and sweet syrup. You didn’t mind it, not at all.
A laundry basket is weighted against your hip as you walk down the long farmhouse halls, picking up scrap pieces of laundry; your father’s sock he took off and threw when he rested on the couch, or a random dishrag Sammy had tugged down and off the hook of the oven. You didn’t mind cleaning; it was one of the only times you weren’t in the blazing sun, on your hands and knees, asking why god let you get in situations like this; digging carrots out of the ground, and whatever vegetables your father thought would sell for the highest price at the end of the long driveway. It barely made a profit, and that was fine.
You’re in your own little world as you drift in and out of the bedrooms, gathering spare laundry, slowly creeping into the guest room. His room. You’re humming to the record that you’ve put on, Elvis Presley’s ‘Angel’, his soft voice echoing throughout the house, and your eyes find the dirty clothing piled on the floor.
You set the basket onto the bed and bite your lip as you lift the denim jeans. Your brain is torn between two things right now: digging through his pockets to see what hidden gems lie beneath the denim, or just shoving it into the basket and doing your job. Your brain chooses the first option.
You slide your hand in the first pocket. Empty. That’s almost relieving, until you slide your hand in the second pocket, fishing out a small photograph, a tiny polaroid, and before you can even analyze the image, a low voice catches your attention.
“What’re you doin’?” that familiar accent drawls, and he’s tilting his head to the side, gazing at the scene; the young girl holding his jeans, her hands deep into his pockets, fishing out artifacts that aren’t hers to touch. He doesn’t seem displeased, mainly intrigued by her thought process.
“What–” you quickly mumble, looking over your shoulder. “I’m… I’m doing laundry,” you mutter out, gesturing towards the laundry basket.
“And… lookin’ through my jean pockets is a part of that, huh?” he questions, eyes narrowing, and he looks at your hands, then towards the basket. “Show me ‘em.”
You bite your tongue, carefully tossing the jeans into the basket, and Elvis Presley is still playing in the damn background as you approach him. You flip your hands over, showing your empty palms, and he lightly grabs your wrist, analyzing them. You furrow your eyebrows, awkwardly looking away.
“Next time, just throw ‘em in the basket,” he says, shaking his head, smiling sarcastically, and you laugh nervously, dropping your hands to your side. He’s adjusting his hat, using his hand to adjust his sweaty hair, and you stand there, staring.
“I will… I will, I promise,” you grin nervously, and head back to the basket, gazing at the polaroid you purposely tossed down onto the basket too, making it easier to pick up afterwards. You were a sneaky thing, and he doesn’t know that about you yet.
You hold the basket close to your body and walk by him, and you don’t notice his head turning with the slow movement, watching you dip out of the bedroom and down the hall, heading to the laundry room to finish up the chores. He sighs quietly to himself, resting his hands on his hips, and looking around his bedroom for the next week.
You begin tossing the clothes into the washing machine, bypassing the polaroid you’re still dying actually to look at. You quickly put in your father’s clothing, as well as the other pairs, a few of your socks, and some underwear. You glance over your shoulder, and the coast is seriously clear this time, and you pull the polaroid out from the bottom of the basket.
It’s him and a woman; his face pressed against the side of hers, kissing–practically eating her face–and you swiftly flip it over to read the date; some time in the late 90s. You should’ve known; he looked younger, softer around the edges, no grey in his hair or scruff like you notice now. You sigh quietly to yourself and slide it into your pocket, hoping that’s not a wife–well, maybe an ex-wife.
When you return upstairs, the two men are lounging around for the afternoon break, cracking open beers right as the clock hits twelve, and you enter holding the empty basket. He turns to look over at you, and your father is focused on the television, some dumb game playing, and he nods in acknowledgement, taking a long sip of his beer.
“You doin’ laundry, kid?” your father asks when he notices you, and you notice that the music had stopped playing–he had turned off your record, leaving the sound of sports commentators and sports fans yelling instead of the sweet voice.
“Yes,” you nod, glancing down at the empty basket. “Just did an entire load.”
“That’s my girl,” he smiles and gives you a nod, and his ‘friend’ is mindlessly watching the game, more focused on the play than you lingering around.
You stand there a bit longer, waiting to see if he’ll acknowledge you. Still, the grown men on the television screen seem to capture his attention more, and you tip your head back in a frustrated sigh, deciding to set the basket down and head out into the backyard. You haven't been outside yet.
The sun is warm, and you lift your hand, shielding your eyes from the warm rays, beginning your small walk to the chicken coop. You were always the one to collect eggs and then head to the end of the driveway, hitching a little sign, offering six bucks for a dozen farm-fresh eggs, and people stopped more than you thought they would.
You glance over your shoulder when the slidng door shuts, a distant click, and the two men are back at it, but youre’ too busy staring; his broad shoulders fitting through the frame, and he’s wiping sweat from his forehead again, and… well, he’s approaching you, and you quickly turn around, trying to amek it look like you were focused on gathering eggs rather than eyeing him.
“Laundry, and egg duty,” he drawls, leaning against the wooden fence. “Aren't you bein’ a helper today?” he adds on, and you bite your lip to yourself, turning back to glance at him.
“Yeah… thought I could do more than just laundry and baking,” you laugh, and his eyes rake over your body, and he clicks his tongue.
“Aha,” he nods in understanding, looking past you and at your father, who is waving him over. “You be careful, darlin’,” he grins, and as he walks by you, he lightly pats your shoulder, and you turn your body with his, watching him lightly jog towards your father. You sigh.
“Darlin’,” you repeat to yourself, copying his distinct accent as you glance at the empty coop–yeah, you were standing there, no eggs or chickens around, and you mentally face palm.
When four o’clock rolls around, you’re sliding on a pair of denim shorts, a plain t-shirt and tucking your hair back into a ponytail. The two men had finished up the work for the day, much earlier than they expected, and you know what it meant: the fishing trip, and you’re fumbling with your white sneakers, quickly lacing them up.
“C’mon,” he mumbles, always appearing at your bedroom door when you least expect it. “Fish ain’t gonna wait for you,” he smiles and leans back, glancing down the long hallway, blinking when he notices your father is out doing something else.
“I’m here, I’m here,” you breathe out softly, and straighten your shirt, and he glances down at you, patting your shoulder again.
“There we go,” he nods, and begins walking down the long hallway, and you pad after him.
He has the truck loaded when the two of you walk outside; two fishing rods and his tacklebox, and you’re climbing in the trunk instead of the front seat–you always did that, since you were a small thing, and it never really mattered, not when there was barely anyone around for miles.
The summer air is warm through your hair, and you peek at him through the back window; his occasional glances back at you, and you’re smiling, each bump you hit making you laugh, all until he’s turning down a little side road, and pulling off the side, a tiny clearing for the two of you to walk down to the lake from.
You’re hopping out the minute the truck shuts off, hopping off the tailgate, and hitting the dirt. He groans quietly when he steps onto the gravel, sighing and adjusting his tucked-in shirt, walking towards you. He takes the two rods and nods towards you to grab the tackle box. It’s a wordless interaction, but you don’t mind.
The walk to the body of water is short, and your eyes widen at how beautiful it is; a few ducks loitering around the edge of it, an open patch where the two of you can set up camp, and large trees shading the area. You grin and take a seat on the small patch of cleared grass, setting the tackle box down beside you. He follows suit and sits down beside you, groaning again. That’s where the age gap becomes noticeable, and you try not to laugh.
“You ever rig a fishin’ line?” he asks, nudging you with his knee, and you look at him, shaking your head.
“No,” you say softly, your curious eyes watching him reach for the rod.
“What did your daddy teach you?” he jokes, resting the rod against his lap, thick fingers swiftly working, and you watch carefully.
“Everything but fishing,” you laugh, and he clicks his tongue, nodding.
“Yeah… he was tellin’ me how much you help around,” he starts, all while he works on getting the rod ready for you. “Always bakin’, and cleanin’, and then go on outside and do a man’s job,” he shakes his head, sighing.
“Not a man’s job if I’m doing it,” you quip, and watch him smile, a deep chuckle coming from his chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” he nods, lifting a hand to wipe the sweat on his forehead again. “He jus’ doesn’t want you gettin’ hurt; you mean a real lot to him,” he explains, and you go quiet, gazing at the open water.
“I know,” you say quietly, idly scratching your thigh.
“Do you?” he asks, shooting you a look from the corner of his eye. “He says you've been doin’ stuff lately, not listenin’ to him a whole bunch,” he explains, looking back down at the road.
“I mean… I’ve just been helping more,” you shrug, staring at the bubbles that come to the surface of the pond. “I feel guilty… just sitting around, not doing my half.”
“You ain’t have a half, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, the nickname like honey. “What you were doin’ before… that was enough for your daddy; you’re stressin’ him out.”
You sigh quietly and look down between your legs at the dirt patch, biting your lip gently. It’s because of your mother, you know that, and you can’t blame him for worrying it’ll happen to you. It’s easier to keep you inside than it is to worry about what you’re doing.
He casually hands over one rod to you, and you take it in your hand, gazing down at you, standing to your feet, and he is too. He looks over at you, and he smiles to himself; your lips parted, eyelashes against your cheeks when you blink, and the sun is warm and shining against your hair. He looks back out to the lake and takes a small step back.
“Real easy to do, sweetheart,” he drawls, and you naturally take a step back, creating some distance between the two of you. “Just… like this,” he mumbles, carefully casting the line, and you watch the movements closely and nod.
You copy the exact motion, and he looks at you in surprise, nodding.
“You lyin’ about never doin’ this before?” he asks, laughing to himself. “Just about damn did better than I did,” he adds, sitting back down, and you do too.
“Never,” you shake your head, grinning with teeth–that’s the first time he’s seen them, and his eyes linger on them for just a second. Too sweet.
“Well, I’m proud of you,” he nods, and you feel that warmth bloom behind your ribs, right by your heart, and you laugh nervously, clearing your throat.
It’s not like your father doesn’t tell you those things–he always did; when you jumped off the school bus with an award, or showed him the one hundred percent on a math test. He always said he was proud of you, but coming from the man you had been fawning over the past few months… You shift against the dirt and look out at the water.
“Used to drive by your place all the time,” he starts quietly, his voice smooth and quiet, trying his best not to frighten any fish. “Always saw you on the porch, flippin’ through your magazines,” he comments, looking over at you, and you swallow hard.
“That's why you wanted to work for my daddy?” you ask, turning to look at him, and you realize the awkward implication. “I–I mean… I meant… It’s because you drove by a lot, not because I live there; that’s not what I mean,” you quickly shake your head, raising your voice.
He chuckles and covers his finger with his mouth, shushing you.
“I got what you meant, darlin’,” he nods, looking back at the water where the rod bobs. “You were a part of it,” he adds quietly, and your cheeks fill with warmth, and you breathe out.
“Why?” you ask curiously, looking over at him, and you see his jaw clench.
“Pretty thing on the front porch,” is all he says, and you laugh softly, shaking your head.
“What if I have a boyfriend?” you ask, clicking your tongue, grinning.
“Then I’d be real ashamed that he ain’t teach you something as simple as fishin’ yet,” he counters, turning his head to look at you fully. “But you don’t, so it doesn’t matter.”
You grin and look down at your thighs again, sighing. You’re not sure where this conversation is leading, but you look back at him, and he’s squinting, noticing the action happening in the lake; his rod being lightly tugged, and he nods.
“Look at that,” he mumbles, and you gasp, eyes widening.
“Oh, my gosh,” you laugh, and he’s standing on his feet, reeling in the poor son of a btich that fell for the worm on the hook. Sometimes you feel like that.
The two of you stand there; you’re laughing in surprise, and he’s showing you the hook with the fish on the end of it, hooked by the mouth, and you almost feel bad for the poor thing. He’s unhooking it before you can say anything.
“Ain’t always gotta keep ‘em,” he shakes his head, and he’s carefully helping it off the hook, tossing it back in the water. You furrow your eyebrows, watching it quickly swim off beneath the murky water.
“Not gonna eat it?” you ask, blinking.
“Nah,” he shakes his head, gazing in the distance at the dark clouds settling on the horizon. “Better to let it get away, ain’t gotta keep it around,” he shrugs, and you look at the storm clouds too, sighing.
“I feel bad,” you tell him, and he smiles, looking at you.
“Jus’ a fish,” he says, leaning down towards the tackle box. “Happier that way, even if he’s hurt,” he explains, and you repeat the words back: happier even if he’s hurt. Maybe fishing is a metaphor for your entire life.
You’re in the truck on the way back too, your eyes following the clouds that begin to darken the sky, a gloomy mess ready to redo a day’s work. The minute the truck rolls into the long driveway, you’re hopping out and running inside for safety, where your father is already lighting candles and hunkering down for the storm.
“Fuckin’ hell, thought the two of you were gonna get caught in that shit,” your father grumbles out, shaking the lit match once he pulls it from a candle. “Already got a phone call from Tim a few miles away; the line cut halfway through. Pretty sure the power lines are going down.”
“Really?” you ask and quickly run towards the kitchen, looking out of the small window above the sink; the wind comes in quick, and then the front door slams.
“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, wandering past your father and into the kitchen. “Don’t know where the hella any of that came from,” he shakes his head, tossing his hat onto the kitchen table.
“Are we gonna be okay?” you ask nervously, and a warm hand presses against your lower back, and it’s joining you at the sink.
“Yeah… yeah, darlin’, ain’t nothin’ we haven't seen,” he reassures, keeping you close, his hand now lightly cradling your waist, almost.
Sammy starts barking and howling, his growl thundering, causing a scene, and you quickly break free of his grip on your waist. You kneel before the golden lab, shaking your head and rubbing the dog’s scruff. He whimpers.
“It’s okay… shhh,” you whisper to your dog, and he’s whimpering, looking behind you at the window. “Can keep you in my room tonight,” you mumble to the dog, grinning.
The thunder is a low noise, the ground shaking beneath the old farmhouse, and you look up and over. He’s still standing by the window, turned around and peeking out of it, rubbing his hand over his scruff, thinking.
The two of you settle in the living room; you on the floor by the couch, and he’s sitting on it, your hand lightly petting Sammy, calming the poor dog. Your father is doing something else–probably finding flashlights for when the inevitable power line goes out, and the lights flicker. You look up.
“Fuck,” he curses quietly, his eyes gazing out of the window again; dark and stormy, rain coming down hard against the glass, and you swallow hard, looking at the television that’s frozen and lagging. It’s the rain.
You subconsciously lean your head against his knee, letting the temple of your head rest against it, and he glances down at the light weight; just your head leaning against him, and he swallows hard, hesitantly leaning down to fix your hair for you. The ponytail is awkward.
“You know,” he drawls quietly amongst the heavy rain and thunder, and you keep your eyes on the dog. “My sister, she taught me how to braid hair,” he mentions, and you look over at him, behind you.
“Are you offering something?” you ask quietly, looking back down at a panting Sammy, and he laughs, not even bothering to ask before he tugs on the elastic of your ponytail, yanking it through your hair, and pulling it down.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, parting his legs, and you slide between them, sitting on the floor, his thighs on either side of your head, and he gathers your hair in his fist.
It’s to keep you calm, distracted from the chaos outside, and he’s carefully threading your hair into a braid; crossing each piece, his eyes focused on it, and your eyes close in relaxation, letting him play and toy with the hair. He ties it off and pats your head.
“Lookin’ like a princess,” he teases, and you bite your lip, looking over your shoulder and up at him; the vulnerable position is enough to have your cheeks flush, and sweat brimming on your forehead.
“Be quiet,” you mumble and shake your head. “Thank you…”
Your father barges into the living room, out of breath and shaking his head. He dismisses the position; you between this man’s thighs, he’s much too frazzled by the storm to give a shit about the odd sexual tension in the living room. He groans, frustrated.
“Damn generator is bein’ a son of a bitch,” he scoffs, trudging over to the kitchen. “Might be out of power… for fuckin’ days if it takes it out, real fuckin’ rich,” he grunts, heading to the fridge to grab a beer.
His ‘friend’ lightly nudges your head with his fingers, and you take the hint to slide out, and he stands on his feet, shaking his head. He puts his hands into his jeans pocket, clears his throat, and wanders towards your father.
“Eh, it’s calmed down,” he reassures, looking at the window again, and it’s clockwork; the power goes out, a sudden darkness, and you don’t make a sound.
“Get in here,” your father calls to you, and you’re scrambling to your feet, quickly finding your way to the kitchen, trying your best not to trip over a rug or a dog toy.
A hand catches your hip, and you stop, deciding to lean into him while your father curses some more, watching the heavy winds tear apart the fence and knock over a few trees. He rolls his eyes and sighs, oblivious to the two hands on your hips in the dark, the rough thumbs rubbing you gently.
“What if we went in the cellar?” you ask, your voice quiet among the heavy wind, and your father tries to find you in the dark–he gives up, but nods.
“Yeah… yeah, two of you head down there, gonna go in the garage and try to get that stupid fuckin’ generator goin’,” he groans out, and shakes his head, taking a flashlight off the counter and flicking it. The minute the light flashes, the hands are off your hips.
He takes a hold of your hand instead, a casual gesture that could easily be brushed off as platonic, and you two head to the cellar door, and he’s keeping you steady, making sure you avoid articles on the floor. Sammy trots after the two of you.
The cellar is dark and cold, but there’s a small mattress in the corner, a few pillows and blankets, just enough to be comforting through a heavy storm or whatever other reason you’d need to tuck down for the evening. You let go of his hand and take a seat on the mattress, and he does too, landing right beside you.
“Gonna be okay,” he reassures, your bodies pressed against each other; warm and solid, his arm hovering around your shoulder, and you shamelessly lean into him. “Storms like this happen all the time–you’ve seen ‘em, I know you have.”
You can hear the wind and the rain, and all you can think about is your father up there, doing god knows what, trying his best to get the stupid generator working. It’s silent other than that, and you focus on the warm chest your head is hesitantly leaning against, your eyes closed, and you sigh heavily. He notices the way you’re cuddling up to him, a poor attempt at trying to extract some type of comfort.
“I know you have that picture,” he then mumbles quietly, and he feels you tense. “Me n’ my ex girl,” he drawls, sighing.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper back and shake your head, sitting up a bit, swallowing hard. “I-I was just curious…” You explain, and he lifts his hand, lightly cupping your face, his rough thumb brushing beneath your eye.
“Ain’t gotta be sorry,” he mumbles, barely being able to see your face in the dark room. “We ain’t together anymore… divorced,” he concludes, blinking.
“You were married?” you ask quietly, your eyebrows raising, but he can’t see that part.
“Yeah…,” he huffs out, and your lips part in surprise.
“Why’d… things end?” you ask curiously, more curious as to why he even kept a photo of the two of them together.
“Different things, you know? Met when we were real young… probably younger than your age. Had a baby girl, realized things weren’t what we thought, had to divorce,” he explains further, and you swallow hard, feeling relieved–you shouldn't; this means nothing to you.
“Is that who you were calling?” you blurt out, and he chuckles, realizing you overheard the call.
“Yeah…” he mumbles, still holding your face, his thumb dipping down to brush by your mouth. “Only a lil’ close; she’s older than you,” he tells you, and his thumb finds your lip.
“Don’t see her much?” you ask quietly, and he shakes his head, pulling down your lip gently, almost subconsciously.
“Nah,” he shakes his head again. “Callin’ her to let her know I was stayin’ here for a week, ain’t want her callin’ my place and not knowin’ why I wasn’t pickin’ up,” he tells you.
You breathe a bit heavier as his finger toys around with your mouth, a few gentle tugs of your lip, and you focus on the whistling wind and the slight noises of trees breaking. Your father has gone quiet, but you know he’s fine. He always is.
His thumb grazes over your top teeth, smiling a little at the feel of them against his thumb, and you sit there with heavy eyes and parted lips, letting his man touch you in an almost clinical way, so calculated. Just a thumb pushing past your lips, analyzing the teeth he sees when you smile too big.
Naturally, your teeth drift apart, and he uses it as leverage; he slips his thumb past your teeth and presses it onto your tongue. You lift a hand and hold his wrist, blinking, but your eyes are heavier at the oddly erotic moment in the fucking cellar.
He removes the digit, damp and covered in your saliva, and he lightly spreads the spit against your lips. You stare at him still, not saying a word, and he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. The moment is short, but it feels longer than it should; his warm lips against yours, and now his glisten in your spit, and he licks it up when he pulls back.
The timing is perfect, your father busting open the door.
“You won’t fuckin’ believe it,” he calls out, quickly heading down the stairs, and you’re too busy pulling back and away from the strong arms, wiping your mouth. “Generator started–we got power, can head upstairs,” he says in disbelief, using his hand to flick on the light.
It flickers on, and you wince at the bright lighting, keeping your distance from him on the mattress, and he’s quickly standing on his feet, acting like he didn’t just take your first kiss. You swallow hard and stand up, and your father catches your shoulder right before you hit the first step.
“Y’okay?” he mumbles to you, noticing the look on your face–surprise and guilt–and you nod.
“Mhm… storm scared me,” you lie, and turn away, quickly heading up the stairs.
It’s still raining hard, and the thunder rumbles, lightning flashing into the house, but the lights are flicked on, and the television hums on again, making the situation a bit easier to tackle. You quickly head to your bedroom instead, trying to process what happened down in the cellar; you had your first kiss, and a thumb shoved into your fucking mouth.
The night carries on as any night would, but you hide in your room this time. You usually sit down in the living room and watch a movie until you fall asleep, but there’s something more comforting about hanging around, alone, letting the thoughts consume you; that stupid kiss and how you were about to lean in for more, and beg him to take your virginity on a dingy mattress while your father is just above the two of you. Your father saved you in a way.
Thunder rumbles again, a loud clap in the quiet house. Sammy is asleep, just as the two other men are, and you find yourself creeping out of your bedroom and into the empty hallway. The guest bedroom door is shut, but a light is on just beneath it, and you swallow hard, taking soft steps towards it. You’re not sure what’s possessing you in this moment, but you knock on it.
You turn the knob without thinking, peeking your head in; he’s shirtless, fresh out of the shower, a towel draped around his waist, hovering by the dresser. He’s all muscle–soft yet firm, and you can tell he must’ve been stronger back in the day; with age, his muscle had disappeared, leaving him soft, but still broad, and still strong enough to toss hay bales onto the back of the truck.
“What’s goin’ on, darlin’?” he asks quietly, his eyes gazing at you, but they look down into his open dresser. “Storm scarin’ you?” he asks, one hand holding the towel, the other focused on rummaging through the wooden drawer.
“Is… is this a bad time?” you ask, and he quickly shakes his head, gesturing for you to come in fully.
It’s warm and humid from the shower, and it smells like shampoo. You shut the door behind you and walk further in, looking around the guest bedroom that’s usually familiar, but it feels unrecognizable with him inside of it. You take a seat on his bed, and he peeks over when it groans, a light squeak in the room.
“Ain’t tell me what’s wrong,” he drawls, heading over towards you, standing before you, and you stare up at him and his damp hair, trying to ignore the loose towel.
“I was just… thinking about earlier,” you tell him quietly, and nod, swallowing hard. “Kissing me…” You add on, and he bites his lip, tilting his head to the side.
“You didn’t like it?” he asks quietly, adjusting the towel around his waist.
“No–no, I really liked it,” you immediately say and shake your head, shifting on the mattress. “I just… that was my first kiss,” you tell him, and he sucks in his breath.
“First kiss?” he asks quietly, cursing quietly to himself.
You were a fucking virgin; he should’ve known, and he took your first kiss without even knowing, not even second-guessing himself. He clenches his jaw again and looks back to you, guilt flooding over his features.
“Sweetheart…”
“No! No… no, it’s okay,” you practically beg, shaking your head quickly. “I wanted it… I’ve wanted it,” you almost whine, and he’s biting his lip again, mentally slapping himself.
“Ain't really give you a choice, just did it,” he tells you, his free hand lifting to rub over his chin in thought. “So? You comin’ in here to tattle?” he asks, swallowing hard.
“No… no…” You mumble, resting your hands in your lap. “Wanted… more.”
“More?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrows. “Darlin’...”
“No… no, I want you to do it,” you tell him, leaning closer to the edge of the bed, and he’s moving closer, too. “I want you.”
Those pleading, wide eyes, all innocent and gazing up at him like he carries the world in those rough hands. He takes one and carefully holds your face with it again, and he steps closer to the bed, and your head tips back to keep your eye on him; he’s looking down at you, restraining himself.
“Give me your hand,” he mumbles, and you lift your hand, and he takes your wrist into his own. Your gaze up at him curiously, blinking.
He guides it towards him, and he places it against the front of the white towel; he’s hard against his thigh, and you feel him, twitching and straining, a pulse that has your eyes widening.
“You ever feel this?” He asks you quietly, taking his hand away, letting you feel him. “You ever make a man hard before, baby?”
“No,” you whisper in awe and shake your head, your hand lightly gliding over it through the towel, feeling just how hard he is—how big he is.
You shift a bit closer, lightly palming him through the towel, complete instinct, and he groans, shaking his head. He tugs the towel down instead, letting the fabric pool at his ankles, and your eyes immediately bulge out of your head.
It’s the first time seeing something like that. He’s hard, and his hand is at the base, gliding up and stroking himself right in front of you. You look away and up at him, your cheeks warm and your forehead glistening with sweat.
“Look down, baby,” he hums, and you look back down, face to face with him; he’s throbbing, you know he is, a pulse at the tip of him. “Lie back.”
You don’t hesitate. You’re instantly lying back into the bed, your nightgown hitching up to your knees, your underwear on display, and he’s finding himself between your legs, gazing down at the front of your underwear.
“Shy thing, yet you’re makin’ a mess,” he mumbles, noticing the white fabric turning translucent from you being unable to control yourself. “You ever get wet?”
“Mhm,” you admit quietly, and he’s rubbing your thighs, warming you up.
“Tell me when, sweetheart, and why,” he presses, and you swallow hard, feeling his hand gliding up your thigh, finding the soft inner plush of it, and then cupping your core.
“Uhm—just… my thoughts,” you whimper out, not used to having a man’s hand holding you there, lightly applying pressure, giving you satisfaction while none at all. You close your eyes.
“Thinkin’ about… being fucked, huh?” He asks, watching you nod, and he smirks.
He’s not there to waste time; he lightly tugs down your underwear, his eyes glazing over at the sight of you, swollen, all sensitive and tender, slick gathering right where he’s begging to push into. He has to be careful; he knows this.
“Pretty little thing,” he whispers, and moves closer to you, lightly resting the hard tip against your folds. He’s taking this slow.
He doesn’t insert himself, no; he begins dragging the tip through you, collecting the wetness on the head, moving it back and forth. He’s groaning, and you’re softly moaning at the feeling, noticing the way he nudges your clit.
“God, you’re wet,” he groans out, lightly fucking through the folds—you didn’t even know this was possible, the way he’s just dragging himself through them, letting you get wetter and him harder.
His hand glides down, and his two fingers join in—he spreads you, letting the tip of him reach those parts that are usually covered, and you gasp, tipping your head back. He’s practically examining your body.
“Look at this,” he mumbles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Been waitin’ for this, ain’t you? Feel me, baby?” He asks, prodding at your entrance before dragging back upwards, and nudging your clit.
Your head tips back against the pillows and your hips shift around, a mewl slipping by your lips,s and he knows how loud you’ll be.
“Deep breath,” he whispers to you and nods slowly, his hand that once spread your body gliding up to slip into your mouth. “And out…”
You latch onto his two fingers, index and middle, sucking before whimpering loudly. He thrusts in when you breathe out, a sharp, stinging pain instantly rippling through your body, and he groans at how tight you are.
“So… fuckin’ tight, so… tight,” he pants out, his head tipping back as he gags you with his fingers, forcing them back into your throat, only letting soft choked out.
“Takin’ me perfectly… wrappin’ around me like you were meant to,” he coos, and all you can feel is that stretch. That solid ache that reminds you of how big he is, and how he’s forcing it all up in you.
“Stop fuckin’ clenchin’,” he curses when he starts thrusting, noticing your body is naturally doing it, a reflex to the large cock stuffed up into it. You whine around his fingers, eyes brimming with tears.
“Lookin’ like a dream… spread out, tearin’ up like a puppy,” he shakes his head and breathes out, his free hand holding the side of your hip, keeping you pressed and still against the bed.
His thrusts are slow but still deep, sharp rolls of his hips that lack much care—he cares, but it’s hard not to mercilessly pound into you when you’re gazing up at him like he’s everything, and your body adapts to him like he’s the first and only cock you’ll ever need.
“Good girl… that’s a good girl,” he pants, keeping your body still and your mouth gagged. “Let me feel you… all of you, takin’ me like a champ,” he nods, his head tipping back, and the stupid bed creaks and groans.
“Look at you…” He drawls out again, in awe of how pretty you look. “Dumbed out on my cock… and it’s your first fuckin’ time,” he groans, watching the drool trickle out of your mouth, your eyes almost rolling back.
It’s hard not to act like this; he’s deep inside of you, hitting all of those warm, soft spots that no finger could ever touch. And he’s being gentle but rough, moving and keeping you still, and his words are sweet but bitter when you try to taste them. It feels so good, better than you thought.
He keeps thrusting and thrusting, his fingers stuck in your mouth and on your tongue, forcing every noise to be muffled. Waking your father is the last thing you want.
“Wanted this… ever since I saw you,” he admits, nodding. “Sittin’ on that porch… dumb fuckin’ shorts riding’ up, showin’ what I couldn’t have,” he curses, and your eyes fully roll back at his admission.
“Always wanted it… standin’ in that kitchen, bendin’ over like you ain’t know I’m right there… saw your panties every damn time,” he curses, and you almost smile when he tells you that he was catching on.
It was a slow seduction, the whole mess; bending over purposely, looking at him like you didn’t have a clue in the world, nudging his thigh beneath the table, sitting beside him on the couch. It was all a plan in your perverted head, and it made him seem fucking crazy. It only took one day of knowing you’d be together for a week for it to bleed into acting on it.
“Would’ve thought you were a whore,” he spits, and he watches you smile around his fingers. “The way you were actin’ around me… temptin’ me like I was supposed to use you.”
He’s thrusting harder now, his sharp words aligning with how damn aggressive his words are; a flood of confessions and dirty secrets, and you have some, too.
“Made me feel fuckin’ sick,” he tells you, his head tilting back as he keeps going. “Jerkin’ off in my truck, all because you decided to brush my arm when you served me dinner casually—it was on purpose, ain’t it? So I’d fuck you like this?”
You’re groaning and moaning around his fingers, helpless pleas that mean nothing to him when he’s so focused on pounding into you, to get the both of you to finish finally. You want it so bad, and you can feel it in your stomach, that twisting and turning.
“Now… you’re gonna take me, all of me,” he presses and nods. “Gonna fill you up, make you think about me at breakfast tomorrow—probably gonna be leakin’ all over your thighs after this.”
He cums almost right after those filthy words slip out of his mouth, and you hate how you do too. You both finish, and he’s stuffing you and keeping you feel, pumping deep up into you, purposely stalling, not letting his hips fslter. Not once. He keeps himself deep inside of you, refusing to stop.
He keeps you gagged, refusing to take his fingers out of your mouth, much too focused on letting as much cum as he can get out of himself and into your body. He’s rubbing your stomach with his free hand, soothing that ache that’s making you dizzy now.
“Ain’t even got a clue… how stuffed you are, baby,” he pants out, looking down at the way you mumble something sounds his fingers. “Gonna be feelin’ me for days. Workin’ on shit tomorrow, and you’ll feel me there… hitting every spot, wishin’ I’d take you behind the barn.”
You lie there, high off sex and the orgasm that almost knocked the wind out of you. You’re shocking on his fingers, soothing yourself while he rubs your stomach and whispers how well you did, how your body was always supposed to be his—it all feels so good, and you want more and more, but you know you physically can’t. Not right now at least, maybe in the entire week you have together.
Walking around the next day couldn’t be more awkward; wearing a dress, feeling his hands on your body still, feeling how deep he was, and you swear to god he left a piece of himself inside of you. It almost feels wrong when you move, like he’ll somehow spill out of you even though afterwards, he fingered you and examined you, like a patient. And now you’re just wandering the farmhouse and smiling at your father.
The two men come from outside while you’re washing the plates from breakfast, and he’s there, gazing at you; he feels it too. He’s hard, he knows he is, and he can feel himself straining against his zipper, wanting to bend you over that dumb sink, and tell your father to get the hell out of here. A soft nod is all he can do, and you glance at him, cheeks red.
“Last night,” your father starts, taking off his work gloves and tossing them into the dining room table, and you’re focused on scrubbing syrup off a plate. “Stupid bangin’ against a wall—think a branch knocked loose, gotta check on that,” he shakes his head, and your eyes widen.
That was not a branch. That was the fucking headboard. You have to act like your knees didn’t almost just buckle, and your cheeks didn’t fill with warmth. He notices it. Of course he does.
“We’ll check it out, yeah,” he nods, clicking his tongue, glancing over at you. “Wanna help, sweetheart?” He asks, teasing you.
It’s gonna be like this for a week.
