MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Stockholm Syndrome, fem!reader, oral sx, praising.
Months drag on in the dim light of the shed. He bathes you in a tin tub, soaps your shoulders and rinses your arms with care as you sit still, eyes fixed on the surface. His hands feed you gentle with bites of bread dipped in stew. He talks about the farmhouse, describes wide rooms and soft beds. He promises heat from a real fire if you behave and stay behind doors and so you did. Here at night, he curls around you. You shift closer when he lies down, seek the press of his thigh against yours. He notices, smiles faint in the shadows and murmurs something.
Evenings ends with you tucked against him much to your hesitance. Mornings bring his touch first, a hand on your waist to wake you. You lean back, let fingers trace your hip. The door creaks open. In his hand, he carries a tray: a bowl of water, a cloth and something that smells faintly of oatmeal. His gaze focused on you. “Good morning, my love.” He sets the tray down, a breakfast in bed. His eyes lock onto yours for a moment before drifting back down. “You slept so peacefully after…”
You pace the space with full tummy, letting your fingers drift over the small furniture. Ceramic bowls, worn books, a pressed flower framed between glass. A woven rug warms the floor beneath your feet, the faint scent of dried herbs and polished wood. The kind of comfort that settles into the bones. He hasn't looked up. He sits where he was, at the edge of bed. Your knees close enough to brush as you cross back and sit beside him. You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is worn and the scent of earth and soap on him. He doesn't stop reading but his voice softens just a little.
His free hand moves to your thigh, tracing slow circles. Heat gathers low in your belly, an unfamiliar ache stirring. You don't pull away.
Instead, you turn to face him.
Your lips part as he sets the book aside. His hand rises to your cheek, warm and steady, holds you there. He lifts you, places you on his lap. Skirt hikes up, thighs straddle his. Hands explore under fabric, palms slide over bare skin. He pauses when they reach your folds. Eyes darkening as he sees you're not wearing underwear. “So wet for me.” he shifts you off his lap and lays you back on the mattress. He kneels between your legs, pushes skirt up to your waist.
He freezes.
Your eyes meet his, wide and wanting, body arching toward him without a trace of fear. No flinch, no hesitation—just pure eagerness on your flushed face, and those lips bitten in anticipation. It's clear that you've warmed up to him, been sweet on this farmer. Daniel straightens, dropping his work pants, to free himself thick and rigid to the base to tip. He strokes himself once, eyes locked on yours. “Come here my sweet girl.” He stands before you, hand guiding your head closer. Your fingers wrap around the base, warm and firm, thumb tracing the vein that pulses under your touch.
Your lips part, tongue darts out to lick the pre-cum from the slit, salty. He inhales sharply, fingers threading through your hair. You look up at him, eyes soft and adoring, and if it's the best thing he's ever seen? your mouth stretching around his head, cheeks hollowing as you take him deeper, lashes fluttering against your skin. That innocent eagerness, the way your brows furrow in concentration. “Knew you'd come around.” He breathes, thumb brushing your temple.
Your tongue swirls the underside, laps at the sensitive ridge. You bob your head slow, savoring the weight on your tongue, saliva dripping down the shaft. He watches, mesmerized, the sight fueling his obsession. You pull back to catch your breath, lips shiny, then dive again, taking more this time—half his length sliding past your teeth. Hands knead his thighs, nails digging light as you find a rhythm, steady and teasing. He can't hold back forever. Grip tightens in your hair, hips rocking forward.
“That's it, take it deeper for me.” You relax your jaw, let him push further, throat fluttering around the intrusion. He fucks your face with languid thrusts. Cock glides over your tongue, hits the back of your throat, almost... but you don't gag though your eyes watering yet locked on his, ready for more. Spit trails from your mouth, wets his balls as they brush your chin. He groans low, pace building inch by inch, savoring the slow burn of your submission. “Love seeing you like this,” he rasps, his little delusion. “My girl, giving herself so sweet.”
“Swallow it all.” he warns with strained groan. You gulp it down, not spilling a drop. He shudders, holds still as the last pump coat your tongue. He pulls out slow, watching you lick your lips clean. He hauls you up after, arms crushing you in a bear hug, like he never wants to let go. Face buries in your neck. “Forever mine.”
