pervy!fermer!dunk trying to be a gentleman ⊹ ࣪ ˖
-18+, m masterbation, shy!dunk, pervy thoughts, he's literally just in love with you. set before ya'll officially meet (could be separate from the farmer!dunk universe but anyways...)
the wind was always the worst part. it whipped the sheets on the clothesline, making the laundry snap against the wooden poles like a flag in a storm.
dunk was hiding behind the old oak tree at the edge of the pasture, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he didn’t have a name for you yet, just a silhouette that haunted his dreams, a woman who walked past his fence every morning with her head high, her hair glowing when the sun hit it just right, a smile he longed to have directed toward him.
he’d been watching you for weeks. he saw you watering the flowers, saw you reading on your porch, saw you laughing with your friends. but every time he tried to summon the courage to walk over and say hello, his throat would close up. you looked like you belonged in a painting. he felt like an intruder just looking at you.
but tonight, the moon was bright, and the air was heavy with the scent of rain coming. he saw you hang the laundry out. that was his chance. that was his only chance to get close to you without speaking.
he crept out from the shadows, his boots silent on the grass. he moved with the stealth of a predator, though his intention was anything but violent.
he saw them first: the panties.
they were white cotton, delicate, hanging on the line next to a pair of shorts. he reached out, his fingers trembling, and hooked them. then he saw the dress, a pale blue thing that looked like it would float away if the wind caught it.
he grabbed that too.
his hands shook with the effort of holding them all. he tucked them under his arm and scurried back to the tree, his heart racing.
back at his home, the silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock on the wall. dunk sat on the edge of his mattress, the stolen items spread out around him like a strange collection of trophies. the panties were balled up in his fist, and the cotton shorts lay flat against his thigh. he looked at the little blue dress, imagining it draped over the curve of your hips, the way the fabric would cling to your breasts…
he felt like a schoolboy. it was a petty theft, a simple transgression, but the guilt gnawed at him. he knew he should feel ashamed. he knew he was invading your privacy, prying into a world he didn't belong to. but as he looked at the dress, a wave of lust washed over him, stronger than any guilt.
the way his cock twitched at the thought of you made him feel like a liar.
the next day, the market was bustling. the smell of roasted chestnuts and damp earth filled the air. dunk stood by a stall selling vegetables, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to look casual. he scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for that familiar silhouette.
he found you near the butcher's tent.
wearing the sunday dress.
the soft fabric fit you perfectly, stretching around your body as you reached for a basket of lamb chops. the sight of you made his breath hitch. you looked so out of place in this dusty, gritty market, like a flower growing in a crack in the pavement.
you turned, heading back toward the produce stand, and in your haste dropped your coin purse. it clattered against the cobblestones, spilling coins everywhere.
dunk moved before he could think. he dropped to his knees, scooping up the coins, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed them over. he looked up at you, his dark eyes intense and serious, and offered a tentative smile. you looked down at him, eyes wide, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. then you smiled back, a soft, genuine smile that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
he stood up, dusting off his knees.
the smile you gave him was like the sun breaking through a thick cloud bank after a week of rain. it hit him in the chest, right in the gut, and made his knees weak. he stood there, clutching the coins in his palm, his mouth hanging open slightly.
"here," he rasped, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. he held out the coins, his hand shaking slightly. "you dropped these."
you took them, fingers brushing against his.
your skin was soft, warm, and impossibly smooth compared to his rough, calloused hands.
the contact sent a jolt of electricity through him that made his breath hitch. he stared at you, unable to look away. he was practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself back.
"i'm sorry," he blurted out, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "i... i saw them. i mean, i saw you drop them. i just... i didn't want you to lose them, of course..."
you laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that made his head spin. "right, of course. thank you." you introduced yourself then.
"i’m dunk," he said. "just dunk."
he wanted to say more.
he wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked in that dress, how the fabric clung to your curves like a second skin, how the thought of you made him dizzy. he wanted to tell you that he’d been watching you, that he knew what kind of shoes you wore, what color your eyes were, that he knew exactly what you looked like when you laughed.
but he couldn't. he was a simple farmer, a man who worked the fields. he wasn't a poet, and he wasn't a man who could just walk up to a woman and say, i love you, and i've been stealing your underwear because i can't get you out of my head.
instead, he just stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and watched you walk away.
when he returned home, he decided he couldn’t take it anymore and, against all better judgment, he held the panties up to his nose, inhaling deeply.
they smelled like sunshine and soap. it was intoxicating.
he’d never felt this way about a woman before. his cock twitched in his jeans, a heavy, aching throb that demanded attention.
he thought about you in that dress. he imagined how soft your breasts would feel in his palms. he imagined the sun on your face, looking like an angel. he imagined the way you’d say his name while he kissed you all over.
it made him dizzy, a hot, suffocating wave of lust that washed over him.
he pulled his throbbing, pink-flushed cock out, wrapping his hand around the thick shaft, and began to stroke.
he closed his eyes, picturing you in that sunday dress, your legs bare, your skin covered in his glossy cum, looking so gorgeous.
he groaned, his hand moving faster, his hips bucking off the mattress as he came, painting his fist and tummy with his hot seed.
he lay there for a long time, the scent of your soap lingering in the air. the shame of the theft gnawed at him again, sharper now that the haze of lust had cleared slightly.
he got up, cleaned himself with a rag, and put the panties back in his pocket.
he folded the shorts and the dress carefully, placing them on the nightstand, as if he could pretend you were coming home to him, that your clothes would be waiting there for you, that you’d put on the dress while he made you a nice dinner…
he lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
he couldn't just keep watching you from the shadows.
he needed to speak to you.
he needed to know if you felt even a fraction of the pull he felt.
tomorrow, he would go to the market again. and when he saw you, he would find a way to speak with you without fear.