#and he has the blue nail polish on

[doctorsiren]

“Every thought is sabotage

What a fool I am

But how long can we keep playing?

Game after game

No losing game after losing game”

[pinkinsect]

aryu and tokimitsu are so special to me actually

[unmotivatedartistry]

You’re the “I hate coffee” and Has A Banger Sixty Design mutual. But rn I most associate you with TSP.

Sixty says thanks :) (and Narrator is photobombing bc you mentioned TSP and I had to)

[nanamiskentos]

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条 悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

[salmonlyster]

im feeling really normally about the 4k remaster and the release of gerards character name so here r my im not okay headcanons :ppp ive drawn frank and ray maybe once ever

more thoughts under the cut vv

okay i might make these fuckerrs into a little comic because theyre eating in my brain like a little worm.... similarly to the im not okay mv the primary inspiration is rushmore but id also want to draw from like heathers and blue monday and eltingville etc

here are some screenshots w notes on them and dynamics etc

illi: glue of the group, introduces them all to each other. for the sake of this, illi and louise are not related. name is from the 4k rendition of the mv. incredibly ambitious and always creates the main idea for the schemes that the group gets up to. kind of only nonbinary due to the fact that illi is an incredibly interesting name, and a very open opportunity for me to make revenge gerard even more nonbinary. their uniform is neat and tidy, not particularly out of respect for the school, but more out of awareness of their own appearance. into fashion but doesn't really know how to deal with their hair. just lets it grow out and fucks with it in the moment. croquet mallet is blue, so draws a lot of inspiration from veronica sawyer. they/she pronouns? maybe? but i lean towards they/them.

frances: placeholder name i guess? it's important for him to have the initials "FTW" to play on both ft willis/fuck the world but i think percy also works since it's a bit of a play on pencey prep. incredibly strained relationship with louise- very different personalities is a source of conflict between them. frances has the messiest uniform because he's the least put together, and has the most carefree attitude about things. hes really into being a problem but hes an unnaturally bright student when he actually gets into doing the work - taking a page from max fischers book here lmao. chipped nail polish. wears barrettes sometimes. very clever.

louise: i've always been enamored by that interview where gerard says that the band used "louise" as a nickname for mikey so i've associated it specifically with his glasses era. no last name for now but i think it has to have the same ou sound. primary inspiration for his character is max from rushmore. used to wear his hair slicked down until illi staged an intervention and forced him and frances to hang out one-on-one and style hair. neat uniform, but doesn't fit him properly for whatever reason. hand me down? transgenderism? he's just too tall? idk! connected with adults more than peers growing up and as a result is very under-socialized. involved with student leadership at the school.

ray: ughhhhh WHYYY did he have to write ray rules on the paper it would have been so fun to make a completely new name. okay anyways i just like graham and i think it suits whatever i have built for him. undiagnosed adhd and if anything a bit of a halfway point between illi and the rest of the group. illi is really intense and cannot be stopped sometimes so graham is kind of the "babygirl i was made to understand you vision" person. yeah im getting this from the hand on shoulder and sitting closer in that one scene but be nice to me im working with like. two minutes of footage as a launching point. uniform isn't buttoned, not because of carelessness, but forgetfulness. he's a little bit inconsistent about everything he does.

the school in general: rushmore style private school, kind of dying in recent years so funding and management is all over the place. mascot used to be the dogs or something but there were copyright issues with the logo and now they are the bears.

i thiiiink thats all i have for now?? im going to draw them more just you guys wait lmfao. ive always loved im not okay more than any other mv by a large margin so all things considered this is me being normal.

[mywritersmind]

TROUBLE - LN4 part one

next part

summary : Trouble comes in many forms, for Lando Norris, it comes in the shape of his teammates sister. A week at Oscars brings more temptation and impulse than any other start to a season.

listen up : lando x piastri!reader. hii i’m back with a series!! im so excited for this one it’s gonna be perfect. comment to be on taglist!

words : 1890

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lando

I’ve met Oscar’s Mum before, but she seems even more like a goddess in her own home. She kisses both my cheeks when I walk in, going off about how excited she is that her ‘papaya boys’ are both home for the week.

I feel at home immediately.

Even though I haven’t moved from the entryway, I can see that Oscar’s house is insane. It’s incredibly open with an immediate view of their whole backyard because of how many windows are in this place.

Nicole hugs Oscar from the side, my teammate seemingly unphased until a small smile breaks onto his face. “I’m so happy you’re here! Do either of you want a drink? I’ve made-”

“Mum where’s the-” A very loud and very sweet voice cuts Nicole off, followed by a brown haired girl sliding around the corner in just socks and an oversized t-shirt. She stops talking when she notices us.

Nicole blinks, “Love. Lando’s just gotten here.”

The girl, Y/n, looks at me… then back to her mother, “Oh that’s today?” It’s then when I realize she’s eating candy because she pops the lolli back into her mouth as she smiles and walks closer to me.

I’ve never met this specific Piastri sister, but I know her instantly before anyone says her name. She’s easily the most stunning sibling (sorry to my teammate) and clearly the most trouble. Oscar has told me many stories of his childhood, all in which include his spunky little sister wanting to be involved.

“Hi to you too.” Oscar rolls his eyes as his sister gives him a look, waving her fingers casually then turning to me. Shit. She really is stunning.

“I’m Y/n.” She puts out her hand, using the other one to grab onto the lolli stick and pull the sweet out of her mouth. She holds eye contact like every journalist ever, her eyes a piercing blue that match her nail polish.

I clear my throat and smile, “Lando. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, her grip is firm but fleeting, her arm around brother in seconds.

“Hi Oscy.” She says, squeezing him tight as he acts annoyed. “Sorry for interrupting… I’m looking for my bikini.”

Nicole just shakes her head, smiling at her children lovingly, “The white one? You left it in my room.”

“Ah, thank you!” She stands up straighter and kisses her mom on the cheek, practically skipping down the hall, “Anyone wanna join me for a swim?”

“Sure.” I say it so easily that Oscar looks appalled.

“No.” He says, about to continue but is cut off by Y/n who’s walking down the hallway backwards.

“Lily will be here soon Oscar! You are swimming!” And with that, she’s gone and Oscar is sighing, dragging his bag down the hallway and looking back at me.

“C’mon then. I’ll show you your room.”

⋆༺

you

The white bikini in question is my favorite item of clothing I own. If you can even call it that. It’s tiny but mighty, making me honestly look the tannest I've ever been.

I sit up in my chair, the sun hot and contrasting the cold drink in my hand. Oscar’s across the pool, all smiley now that his girlfriend is in his arms. His other lover (or teammate I guess you could call him) is definitely asleep on one of the lounge chairs.

I eye his body shamelessly. His arm is over his eyes, his tanned and very fit body looking great in the sunshine.

I always wondered about Lando Norris. About his reputation… about his curl routine. But up until today, I've never met the man. He’s nice, polite, and definitely loves my mom.

There’s just something about the way he looks at me… like he’s curious or something.

That’s dangerous for me. Because if he looks like that when he’s just intrigued, I wonder what he’ll look like when that curiosity is fed.

Lando wakes up at Oscar jumping into the pool, the brit sitting up quickly, clearly disoriented. And then he looks at me.

Well, more like he catches me staring. I just smile, his eyes confused and his mouth slightly parted. I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. And then, I stand up, and dive into the pool.

⋆༺

lando

“So!” Nicole says, spinning around in the kitchen as she plates chips and guacamole, “Are you boys ready?”

Oscar glances at me, “For…?”

“The season, idiot.” Y/n hits the back of Oscars head, “What else?” She walks into the kitchen, still in that little bikini that made me blush when I first saw it.

Oscar flips her off, Y/n sticking out her tongue right back before biting into an apple. “I’d say so.” Oscar shrugs, looking at me for an answer.

“We definitely are.” I agree.

“What about your team?” Y/n chews, smirking as if she knows it’s problematic.

“Can you not stir shit up for two hours?” Oscar shakes his head as Lily walks in, smiling per usual. Y/n grins and walks out, her hand lingering on the countertop.

“Oh leave your sister alone.” Nicole shakes her head, handing the bowl to Lily, “She’s happy you’re back.”

“Right she seems it.”

“She is!” Lily nudges his arm, “You know, she just graduated uni and does want to see her brother for more than a couple hours every two months.”

Oscar says nothing, just nodding along with his girlfriend who is definitely in the right.

“I’m glad you two are here when no one else is!” Nicole sighs, “I love your sisters but sometimes I wonder if they know you’re actually an athlete.”

Oscar smiles at this, “I think it’s better if it’s just us.”

“Plus, now we can show Lando around!” Lily smiles, “Y/n is a great tour guide.”

⋆༺

you

Night comes as fast as ever, our dinner is finished quickly and Oscar is dead asleep on the couch soon after. Lily shakes him awake softly, telling him it’s time for bed.

“Night Lil.” I say, walking down the hall with a bowl of ice cream in hand and past my moms shut door. Hosting always tires her out.

I’m about to walk in my room, an old episode of Love Island waiting for me, but then I hear a loud bang in the room next to mine.

Considering it’s just a guest room, it surprises me. And then I realize that my lovely family put Lando in it. I can’t help myself, knocking on the door even though my common sense is screaming at me to run.

It swings open a second later, a messy haired Lando Norris standing very close in the doorway. “Hi!” He pulls his hand out of his curls.

He’s wearing a baggy shirt, some new quadrant creation I assume, and gray sweats. “You alright? I heard something.” I try to peek around his head but his face is in front of mine in an instant.

He looks a bit panicked, “Yeah! Yes! Of course.” He’s completely lying. I push past him and into the room that’s already a mess from his unpacking.

And then I laugh, “I didn’t mean to!” He defends himself instantly, “Really! I swear it broke so easily-”

He kneels next to the dresser drawer and frowns, a pair of shorts is the only thing occupying the space. “Don’t worry.” I bring my ice cream spoon to my mouth, “It was already broken. Just… don’t tell my mom.”

He looks even worse at my words, “Why…?”

“I’m the one who broke it.” I lean against the doorframe, “Long story, involves a guy.” I shake my head at the memory, “It just needs a good-” it’s like he reads my mind, shoving the drawer back into place as I smile, “Shove.”

He sits back on the end of the bed, shaking his head, “You break a lot of stuff secretly?”

“Apparently only my grandmother's items. Ran into her vase once… did not go over well with my mother.” He smiles at this, leaning back on his hands. “Well, if you need anything else unbroken, just ask.”

I pull the spoon out of my mouth, about to turn and leave before he stops me, “Hey- I could use some of that.” He points at my bowl, “Unless you want to get to sleep.”

I shake my head, “I’m never too tired for more ice cream.” He stands and follows me back into the kitchen. “You’ve got options.” I pull out a lemon sorbet, plain chocolate gelato, and a peanut butter crunch.

He snatches the gelato as I take a seat in one of the bar chairs, crossing my legs and watching him muscle out the ice cream. “Christ-” he scrunches up his nose while shoving the spoon into the top, “Isn’t gelato supposed to be soft?”

I just eye him, still struggling and making his arms look absolutely magnificent. I go through everything I know about him… He’s hot, 25, party boy, insane racer, mental health advocate, my brother's teammate, and someone who makes everything (even bright orange) attractive.

He catches me staring again, the corner of his lips quirking upward, “What?”

“Nothing.” I say simply, “Maybe let it thaw a bit.”

He drops his spoon, clearly frustrated. “Good idea.” He leans back against the counter, facing me and crossing his arms, “So. I heard you just graduated from uni.”

I almost laugh at his sentence starter, “Yeah. I heard you just extended your contract.” He laughs to himself, tilting his head down. “I hate small talk. What has Oscar said about me?”

“Right to it then…” He mumbles, “He said you’re his favorite sister.”

“Well of course I am. I’m the only one who didn’t taddle when he would sneak Lily into his room.” Lando laughs at this, “I may have bribed him after but…” I trail off, watching his eyes which remind me of the greenish blue shore, study me.

His posture is a bit slumped, he looks different from all the posters and media, much more chill. “I heard you were a bit of a trouble maker.”

“Were?” I scrunch my nose a bit.

“Maybe still are.” He shrugs, “Don’t know you well enough yet. Although from what i’ve gathered… what i’ve heard is true.”

“Can’t handle a little trouble, Norris?”

“No…” He looks down, a rogue curl falling onto his forehead as he sighs, “I can.”

I swirl my spoon around my bowl, my ice cream abandoned in a pool of melted chocolate, “Just not in the form of your teammate's sister?”

He doesn’t say anything, just scratches the back of his neck and brings his eyes upward, his head still tilted down. Then, he pushes off the counter and in one step, he’s back at the gelato, now melted enough for Lando to scoop.

He doesn’t answer my question, yet I know what he’s thinking. I slide off the stool and drop my plate into the sink, letting him off just this once. “Sweet dreams, neighbor.”

I walk past him, his mouth holding his spoon in his mouth and his eyes tracking me. “Neighbor?”

“My room is next to yours.” I glance back at him, taking a mental photo of his state, “Hope you don’t snore, the walls are thin.”

[noctiva]

Sweet Thing [PT. 1]

Toby Rogers x f!reader (NSFW)

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WC: 10.2k

Summary: Church on Sundays, a quiet daily life on your family’s farm, and the chirp of crickets to lull you to sleep every night. You had a nice, simple life. That is, until you found yourself entangled with a miscreant from another state. You should’ve listened to mama.

CW: 18+ content, mentions of religion + religious imagery, questioning faith, descriptions of violence and gore, alluded sexism, americans written by a canadian lmaoaoao, female masturbation, manipulation, sort of toxic relationship, loss of innocence, loss of virginity, explicit sexual content, corruption, salirophilia, unsafe sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, pretty plot heavy - you gotta suffer a bit before Toby makes an appearance, but once he doesss, LORD

Part 2

Reminder to separate reality from fiction! Some of the acts written here are definitely not recommended to imitate. Be safe!

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NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

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“Did ya’ see? The old fence out front got knocked down again.”

Sat at your family’s wooden kitchen table, you push around the scrambled eggs on your plate absentmindedly. It’s a morning like any other. The sun just barely peeking over the horizon, illuminating the dew drops on the crops outside. A crisp chill in the air before the sun warms up the sky.

Your father sits in front of you at the head of the table, dressed and ready for the day like he always was - complete with his suspenders and hat, dirtied blue jeans stuffed into his work boots. Your mother sat next to him, looking lovely - as expected. You sometimes wonder how early she truly woke up, with the way her hair was always perfectly curled and her makeup was spotless before the day had even started.

Your brother sat next to you. Jameson, or ‘Jamesy’ as everyone called him - your family’s crown jewel. He was strong, capable, and smart enough that he really could’ve done something with himself if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. He chose to stay here, much fonder of the smell of dirt and manure than that of gasoline and city smog.

It wasn’t much, but it was comfortable. Easy. For you, at least. Your father and Jameson tended to most of the farm work - harvesting and replanting crops, milking the cows and slaughtering the pigs. All you had to do was collect the eggs from the chicken coop in the mornings. And all your mother had to do was homemake and look pretty (which, truthfully, was probably a lot more difficult than you were giving her credit for).

It was all you had ever known, ever since you were a little girl, but you were content with that. You doubted it got much better than this anyway. Even if it did, the cost was probably far too great.

“Again?” Your mother frowned, polished pink nails clinking against her coffee mug as she raised it to her lips. “That’s the third time this month, ain’t it?”

“You bet.” Your father huffed back to her, lips twitched down into a scowl you had learned to look past. Downturned lips under a bushy greying moustache, you couldn’t reminder the last time his face had changed. Maybe it was stuck that way. “I’m gettin’ damn tired of fixing it.”

You watch as he stabs a few pieces of fresh made sausage onto his fork, before shovelling them into his mouth.

“I fixed the fence last time, Pops.” Jameson pipes up as he leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. He crosses his arms over his chest, the navy blue flannel he was wearing rolled up to his elbows.

It was such a run of the mill, mundane conversation, that you were barely even paying attention. The words were more so floating around your ears than actually entering them - the food in front of you going cold the longer you pushed it around. You could name countless other days that has started just the same as this one.

That didn’t mean it was bad, just… Growing stale. After nineteen years on this same old plot of land, everything was. Jameson had his driver’s license and ventured out often, spending nights god knows where only to return with a stupid grin and a flush on his cheeks. You… Well, you didn’t go anywhere. The farthest you wandered was to the old willow tree just outside of your family’s property. Any further, and you’d get an earful from your father.

Which was strange, because you were the eldest, but you suppose that’s just the way life is. Maybe one day you’ll turn out just like your mother - continuing to never wander far, dedicating your time and energy to make some regular farm boy happy. That’s probably the plan.

“Yeah, because I just said - I’m damn tired of fixin’ it!” Your father drops his fork back onto the table with a clink. His plate was clean. Just like your mother’s. Just like Jameson’s. Unlike yours. “I didn’t spend two weeks breaking my back putting that thing up just for it to be knocked down every fuckin’ Tuesday.”

“Language.” Your mother chastises in a soft hiss, shooting your father a narrow look out of the corner of her eye. The pearls hung around her neck showed their lustre the best in the morning sun, as did the absolute rock placed in the centre of her wedding ring. With her fingers clasped around her mug, she lets out a sigh before continuing. “I reckon it’s that new family that moved in at the end of the road. You know, the Rogers?”

Finally, your interest is piqued, and you look up from your plate to gaze curiously at your mother as she rambles on. “None of these things were happening before that lot showed up, and I heard their boy is a real piece of work. They only moved out here to try and keep him outta trouble.”

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” Your father asks, voicing the question you had been silently wondering yourself. You watch with interest as your mother takes a sip of her coffee before answering - steam billowing up from the mug.

“Word gets around. Saw Darleen when I was runnin’ errands at the market.” She hums softly. “They moved in right across the street from her and Tommy.” She sets her mug down before standing up and pushing her chair in. She picks up her plate, then your father’s, then Jameson’s. When she reaches yours she eyes it quizzically, obviously taken aback by how little you’ve actually eaten. “You’re not done, are you darlin’? You’ve barely made a dent.”

Your eyes widen a little as they lift to meet hers, before you sheepishly brush a few strands of hair off of your shoulders.

“Oh, I’m just not hungry today, mama.” You answer back softly, giving her a little smile. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed I suppose.”

She raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at you, studying your face for a few moments. Probably to try and determine whether or not you were lying. You weren’t. You knew better than to try and slip a lie past her.

“Alright.” She breathes out, before collecting your plate as well. “But you’re not skipping supper. Can’t have you going all frail on us.”

You watch as she carries the plates towards to kitchen sink, setting the three empty ones on the counter before scraping yours into the compost under the sink. You can’t help but feel just a little bad about it, knowing that she had been the one to get up early and cook it - only to end up shovelling it into the waste bin. “Anyway, as I was sayin’-“ She however, doesn’t seem phased. But then again, she never did. “The Rogers, they’ve been all over the place because of that boy of theirs. Darlene says he’s got a whole shopping list of medical problems, so they’ve been flying state to state ever since he was a baby to try and get him patched up.”

The faucet squeaks as she turns it, warm water gushing out and starting to fill the sink. Then she turns, grabbing her apron off of a coat hook next to the fridge before fastening it on. “Don’t know what he’s got, but it doesn’t really matter. Apparently he’s been a bad apple ever since he hit puberty. Lyin’, stealin’, the whole lot. Lived in Colarado for a little before he stole a cop car. Paid his bail and moved him out here.”

“You sure love your gossip, don’t you, ma’?” Jameson snorts, shooting you a look out of the corner of his eye that has you letting out a soft giggle.

“It’s not gossip, Jamesy.” You mother sighs. She picks up his plate, and rinses it under the warm water. “It’s talk. Everyone talks around here. What else is there to do to pass the time?” The same thing is done to the other three plates before she’s pouring soap onto a sponge. “Besides, it’s good to talk. Keeps you aware.”

“Aware of what?” You ask, your eyes following her hands as she scrubs grime from the dishes. Just like she had done every day since you could form a memory. Your father’s calloused hands had never even touched a dish in his life. You didn’t even have to ask to be sure of that fact. Which, again, was just the way things were.

“Of what’s going on around us.” She hums softly, not sparing you a glance as she worked. “Of the people you don’t wanna mix with.”

“Well how can you know you don’t like them if you’ve never even met ‘em?” You question again. Where this boldness had come from, you weren’t entirely sure, but questions just kept bubbling up in your mind like popped corn. You suppose you should just keep all these thoughts to yourself, but then where was the fun in that? You needed something to keep your mind lively, even if it was just a hoard of ‘what if’s’ and ‘what could be’s’

This tidbit about some family of strangers was the most excitement you had gotten in weeks.

Your mother’s hands still, and then she’s pausing at the sink to look at you. And that’s all it takes, one look to know you’ve taken a step too far.

“I know enough.” She answers back to you, with a tone of finality in her voice that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. You can feel it, and so could your brother, if the way his shoulders tensed up was anything to tell by. “I know enough to know that I don’t want the likes of them hangin’ anywhere around here. Anywhere around you, specifically.”

“Me?” You ask, still pressing through you know it’s a dangerous route. Her warning though, just had your imagination running even more rampant. “Why just me? Jamesy’s the one always goin’ out at night. For all you know he’s probably already met the kid.”

“Have not.” Jameson snaps back immediately. He turns his head and deals you a warning glare, probably a suggestion to not throw him under the bus again. “Rogers is weird. You’d never catch me hanging around him.”

Oh?

“That right?” You push, narrowing your eyes right back at him. The calm morning vibe had long since diminished, leaving plenty of room for something much more volatile. “And how would you know if you’ve never met him?”

You watch as Jameson’s eyes widen a little, his fingers twitching into fists once he’s realized his fatal slip up. Got him, you think, as your lips stretch up into a sly smile. Somehow, the look in his eyes only grows colder, before he’s looking away from you with a scoff.

“Alright, damn, I’ve met him before.” He confesses with a huff. “But don’t worry ma’, I don’t pass the time with him. He’s…” He pauses for a moment, struggling to come up with the right word. “Freaky.” He settles on. “The typa guy that your gut just tells you to stay far away from.”

Your mother hums in satisfaction at the answer, resuming her previous actions as she rinses off soap in the sink. “He’s a gnarly lookin’ fellow too. Face all scarred up, practically torn to shreds on the left half of it.” He turns to look at you again, and then raises finger to point square at your face. “Bad news.” He snaps. “That whole damn family. Ma’s right, and you should listen to her. You’ve got no business bein’ around him. I can’t think of a single intention he could have that would be good.”

“Alright, Jamesy, gosh.” You finally concede, crossing your arms over your chest. Unable to conceal the frown twitching at your lips. “I wasn’t gonna, anyway. Was just curious.”

“Like hell you were ‘just curious’.” He snorts, giving you one last warning glance before standing up. “Curiosity turns into ideas, and ideas turn into actions.” He pushes his chair in. “Ain’t that right, pa’?”

“Right on the money.” Your father hums. He looks to you, meets your eye, and you know right then that this little fight is over. You could argue with your mom, and you could bicker with Jameson - but you knew better than to fight with your dad. So you zip your lips, give him a curt little nod of understanding, and the matter is dealt with.

The curiosity, however, lingers.

Breakfast is finished with, and after helping your mother wring out the fresh washed clothes, you pin them up to dry outside. The sun has finally made its full appearance, painting the whole world gold and blessing your skin with its warmth.

A soft, cream coloured maxi dress hangs off of your body - lacy, flowing, complete with bell sleeves. It was the type of thing that showed off the fact that it wasn’t you who got your hands dirty. Your hands were soft and nimble as they pulled your hair up and off of your neck, pinning it in place with a claw clip. You pull a few strands out to frame your face, before turning to look at your mother. She was just finishing hanging up the last few articles of clothing, dressed in something rather similar to you - though hers boasted a robin’s egg blue tone.

“You look lovely today, mama.” You tell her as you take a few steps towards her, bare feet pressing into the soft blades of grass below you. She looks up to meet your gaze, and you smile to yourself when you catch the way her eyes softened. She always looked so much younger when she smiled. It was like a glimpse at the young girl she used to be - the one who giggled softly and blushed at compliments.

“Thank you, darlin’.” She hums, lips curved upwards minutely. Once the last garment is hung, she wipes her damp hands against the front of her dress. “Why’re you kissing up? Trying to make me forget about the stunt you pulled at breakfast?”

Well, yes, but you didn’t think you were that obvious.

“I didn’t pull a stunt.” You laugh softly, clasping your hands behind your back. A soft breeze blows by you both, tousling the hair you had just made presentable. “I really just wasn’t hungry. Promise.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m talking about.” She places a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side. She had this way of peering into your very soul when she looked at you. A result of being born from her very flesh, maybe. Or perhaps you were just too much like her. “Got Pa’ and Jamesy all riled up. A woman’s got to realize when to bite her tongue sometimes, you know.”

“I was just askin’ questions.” You huff, lips tugging into a pout as you gaze up at her. “It’s not often someone new comes around here, can you blame me for wanting to know more?”

It’s silent for a moment as she studies you, her eyes narrowing minutely.

You can see it in her eyes as a million different thoughts pass through her mind, before she’s letting out a huff and settling on one. Closer, she approaches, until she’s standing right before you. Then, she reaches a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear gently. Her fingers are soft, yet so cold.

“Listen to me, okay?” She breathes out. You can tell that she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but you can still see it when a crease begins to form between her brows. “I know you’re at the age where you’re startin’ to want things, growing up into a woman right before my eyes.” She pinches your cheek gently and lets out a little sigh. “But you’re still my little girl. I’ll be damned to hell if I let you run off with some miscreant.”

“I wouldn’t, mama.” You frown, eyebrows scrunching up at her words. Despite that, you reach up to touch her hand softly with your own. “I just wanted to know more about him. I don’t have many friends around these parts, you know.”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry for that.” Mirroring your own expression, her lips twitch downwards. “But you don’t need to be friends with someone like him. You’re a sweet thing. You need someone who matches that.”

She pulls away and purses her lips, before crossing her arms over her chest. “If you don’t believe me, trust Jameson. He’s met the boy.” Somehow, neither warning is swaying you. You weren’t one for rumours. Would much rather see the horror for yourself and be the judge of it, than just blindly abide to hearsay. For all you knew, he might just be a little off kilter, but a notch too far for your tight knit community to accept.

Maybe, he was just as lonely as you were. Maybe, he also just needed a friend. “We all just want what’s best for you, okay?” Your mother continues when she notices you’ve gone silent - getting lost in a mind that she just knew was growing more and more dangerous with each passing moment. “You need to listen, just this once. You’re a smart girl, act like it.”

Act like it. You’d sure as hell try.

By the afternoon, you’ve finished up lunch and were slipping on a pair of sandals by the back door with a wicker basket hanging from your arm. It was a lovely day outside - all blue skies and warm wind - so it was much favourable to the stuffy quarters of your family’s little homestead. Besides, you really felt like you needed a little time alone after being hounded for the greater half of the morning.

“Where are you goin’?” Your father asks, sat at the dining table with a newspaper in his hands. An ashtray sits in front of him, packed with ash with a smouldering smoke rested precariously on the edge.

“Found a patch of lemongrass out by the willow.” You hum back to him, offering a smile once you’ve fastened your shoes and stood up straight. “Last time I was there it was just shy of being long enough to pick. I think I’ll be able to grab some today.”

“That so?” He reaches forward and picks up his abandoned cigarette, slotting it between his teeth before settling back into his chair again. His calloused fingers rub against the thin paper in his hands as he turns to the next page. “Ma’ would probably like that for the roast shes cookin’ up tonight.” His gaze floats over to you once more and he lets out a soft huff. “Don’t dirty your dress again. Got an earful from ‘er last time she had to scrub grass stains from the knees.”

“I won’t.” You laugh sheepishly, but it’s a half-baked lie. You never try to, but somehow you always find yourself coming home with dirt on the hems and moss caked into your knees. You had an affinity for lying beneath the old willow, sinking into the soft patch of grass below whilst sun shone down on you through the gaps in the branches. Nature wasn’t as gentle as you were though, and always left you sullied by the time you walked back through your front door.

But that was alright. You’d just have to do your own laundry next time. Surely that would make up for it.

The sun heats your skin once you step through the door and skip down the steps of the back porch. The gentle sound of wind chimes meets your ears, a soft melody that brings a smile to your face even as you drift further away from the source. The wind carries you as you pad through the soft grass that made up most of your backyard, bordered with a slew of different crops.

Tomatoes, peppers, sweet peas - basically every vegetable your mother wanted constant free access to. Your favourites, were the potatoes- a variety spanning from golden russets to deep purple yams. It was simply the most fun, on the rare occasion that you’d convince your father to let you slip into a pair of Jameson’s old overalls and pluck each nugget from the ground with your bare hands. Dirt under your fingernails, mud on your elbows, sinking your hands into the earth that kept you fed and provided for.

You make a mental note to try and get him to let you next time. You pass the vegetable crops and venture out further, through the plowed land that served as a home for your father’s pride and joy - his corn field. Spanning acres, what felt like miles and miles of husks waiting to be peeled, the scent so fresh and sweet as you trudged through it. If there was an easier route to get where you needed to be, you didn’t care. Wading through the leaves and stems was a simple pleasure you wouldn’t deny yourself. It tickled as they brushed against your bare skin, stray hairs from the cobs catching in your hair and being carried away by you.

It’s a trek for sure, but it was the length of the journey that calmed your mind. The distance from your home that freed you, at least for now.

By the time you get to the willow tree your shows are caked with dirt, and the bottom hem of your dress is dusted brown from the earth it dragged against. Predictable. You have to hop the small fence that serves as the boundary line for your property, and once your feet land on the other side your heart feels lighter.

You had just barely left home, and yet you felt so far away. It was a euphoric feeling, to be all on your own.

Walking closer, you drop your basket on the ground before sinking into a crouch then flopping onto your back. You hadn’t lied to your father, there was a patch of lemongrass close by that was probably ready for picking, but that was your secondary motive in all honesty. The primary motive, was this. Lying beneath the willow with weeds in your hair, moss staining your dress, dirt sinking into your stockings when you slip your sandals off.

The breeze is warm, and the air is warmer. When you close your eyes and stretch your arms above your head, you feel like a cat stretching out in a spot of sunlight - relaxed, content. Free. You could spend hours like this, and you have before. Lying here until the sun went down and sent a chill through your bones. Sinking into the earth, letting it claim your body as its own for a few hours.

Whenever you die, you wish to be buried here. To have the roots of this tree wrap your corpse in an everlasting embrace. Keeping you close. Winding into your ribs and filling the space where your heart once was. It had been there when others hadn’t. It had watched you grow up, and absorbed your tears into its bark. You were one. A piece of you wound into each ring in its trunk.

You stretch your limbs, then bringing a leg up to bend at the knee. Your dress rises dangerously high, lace against your thigh. Exposing skin never seen, to air that would never speak of it. You bring your hands up to your face, cheeks rosy from the sun, and you hold them there. You can feel how warm you’ve become. How the sun has blanketed you in its heat, providing you with the comfort you so deeply craved.

It was times like these, that you felt guilty for calling yourself lonely. You had the sun, and the earth, and the willow that stood sturdy no matter what storm ripped past. You had all these constants, and they should be enough.

But they’re not. Not even close.

You want the warmth of hands. Hands, that loved you and held you close. Hands, that brushed upon places you had never shown another, imbuing you with a heat you couldn’t produce yourself. You wanted breath that brushed against you softer than the breeze did, causing goosebumps to rise despite the temperate nature of it.

You wanted arms to snake around you like these roots would when you were long gone. Curling around your body, constrictive yet grounding. Tight enough to make your breath shallow.

You wanted a man.

A real one. One who knew what you wanted, and abided to it. One who would kiss the souls of your feet, just to make sure every step of yours was blessed by his protection.

You wanted to feel, taste, love someone who held you just as dear.

But it was slim pickings, in a place like this.

You reach into your cleavage, fingers clasping the warmed metal of the crucifix that rested there. You knew it was sin, but was it not also human nature? Were we not born to crave one another? How else would this species live on?

How could one live, without the embrace of another? How could one die, never experiencing it? You wondered sometimes if you would. If you’d take after Mary, and leave this earth as a virgin unsullied.

Your pastor would probably say that was a blessing of the highest honour. You would call it punishment.

You needed it. Craved it like a starving dog craved a bone to slobber on. You could only imagine how it would really feel, but you were sure that your mind didn’t come close to reality. You didn’t have enough information to accurately picture how calloused palms may feel against your soft skin, or how blunt teeth may feel as they bite into your neck.

The crucifix feels hot in your palm, almost like it knows it’s in the grip of a sinner. But you just hold it tighter, like strengthening your grasp may make up for your lack in faith.

Forgive me, Father, for I am just a woman. Your other knee comes up, bumping into the one next to it. Your hair splays beneath you, like a halo surrounding this fallen angel. Is it truly so wrong, to want to be loved in the highest form?

You feel the breeze hit the backs of your thighs, exposed with your legs drawn close. You wonder if the soft tickle is similar to how it would feel if it were someone’s fingertips instead. Your thighs twitch just from the thought.

Would they touch you like you were something holy? Would they whisper your name in your ear like you were gospel? Would they take you apart, just to remake you in their image?

Would they love you? Truly?

Could you find love in a place like this?

You aren’t even thinking as the cross slips from your fingers, in favour of trailing your fingers against the exposed neckline of your dress. Across your collarbones, yours fingers sweeping over the swell of your chest. With eyes closed, you sink into it, grass in your hair as the pads of your fingers skirt against your warming body.

You were a woman, but were you? Were you not just still a girl, blind to the pleasures hidden from you? You could touch yourself all you wanted, but would it ever be the same?

You wouldn’t know until you felt it for yourself.

You rest your palm on your stomach, right over your womb, curling your fingers gently into the soft material of your dress. You wouldn’t dare venture lower - not with the cross hanging around your neck. You would press your thighs together though, as if it were less of a sin if your hands left the ordeal unstained. You press them together tight, shifting, trying to generate any form of stimulation to placate you.

It works, a little. Enough to send tingles up your thighs. Enough to make your stomach flip. It was just shy of pleasure, so it couldn’t truly be wrong, right?

You shift again, rubbing your thighs together more as your fingers grip the fabric between them tighter. You can feel it. The heat, just barely brewing. So close, but just out of reach. You could have it, if you just slipped your hand down lower.

No one was watching. No one would know.

God would. But would he turn a blind eye, just this once?

You had always, always been good. Would one sin damn you? If so, where was the fairness in that from a god supposedly so compassionate?

If you repented, would it all be erased?

Even if you didn’t, what was the difference? You knew it was wrong either way.

(Or did you?)

You’re just taking the bait, slowly sliding your hand down lower, lower - towards the hem of your dress. Towards a place that was simply a gateway to hell if you laid your fingers on it. You were just about to give it all up, succumb to your desires and worry about repentance later. But then-

“A-Ah, shit. I didn’t expect to see anyone a-around here.”

Your entire body jolts, eyes flying open and being temporarily blinded by the sun. Before you even look at who’s just spoken to you, you’re sitting up and tugging your dress back down to your ankles. It didn’t matter who it was, that voice was a man’s. Low, gravelly. Soft, and wracked with stutters, but a man nonetheless.

A man who had just undoubtedly seen you, mere seconds away from indulging in your wicked desires.

Once you’re completely sure that any bare skin is far out of sight, you finally look up, and immediately your eyes widen.

It’s a man alright, just five feet away (give or take). He stands tall, or maybe it’s just an illusion because you’re still sat on the grass. Brown hair, fluffy and unruly - visibly knotted even from the distance between you. Honey brown eyes, freckles spotting the bridge of his nose and trickling down his cheeks. A bandage on the left side of his face, placed right next to the side of his mouth.

You’re speechless. Speechless as you look up at him. Speechless as he takes a hesitant step forwards. Cautious. Restrained. Like a person approaching a scared animal. Maybe that’s exactly what you were.

Baggy jeans hang off of his hips, ripped at the knees and visibly well worn. A slate grey shirt hugs his torso, covered mostly by the dark brown flannel shrugged over top of it. A black baseball cap completes the look.

The look of trouble. You can sense it before you even open your mouth. Or, it could be that you were just being presumptuous, considering that this was the first man who had spoken to you (besides your father, Jameson, and your preacher) in years.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone here.” You murmur back once you’ve found your voice, sitting up more as you eye him curiously. You just can’t tear your eyes away from him. Away from everything that makes him so much different than you. The wrinkles in his clothes, the stubble on his jaw. The way he carried himself - shoulders square with his hands tucked into his pockets. “This is my tree.”

“Your t-tree?” The man laughs and raises an eyebrow, taking another step forwards that has your entire body tensing up. Not that close in the grand scheme of things, but far too close for your comfort. “I didn’t know people c-could c-claim trees around here.” He tilts his head to the side. “B-Besides, isn’t this unclaimed land?”

“Technically.” You narrow your eyes up at him, trying to gauge his intentions. He looked harmless, but was he? Was anyone? “But I’ve been coming to this tree for years and never had another soul wander close.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Therefore, it’s mine.”

“Y-Yeah?” The man shifts from one foot to the other, and you’ve noticed that he’s rather fidgety. Shifting, twitching, like something inside him was trying to burst free from his body. “I-I’ve been coming here too though, and I-I’ve never seen you.”

“You have not.” You argue back immediately.

“I ha-have too.” He laughs softly, eyes warming at your immediate defiance. It was cute, how something that looked so sweet seemed to have so much bite. “C-Come here all the time when home gets buh-boring. Have since I m-moved in.” You watch curiously as his shoulders jolt, a strange sudden motion that had you raising an eyebrow.

“No you haven’t.” You press as you cross your arms over your chest. You’ve never seen this man, not even once. You knew that it wasn’t possible for you to keep an eye on this place all the time, but the chances of never running into him? Slim. Incredibly slim. For all you knew, this was all just a ploy to gain your trust. “I’ve never seen you ‘round here. I’d know it if I did.”

“Oh, s-so you’re here 24/7 then?” He snorts, rolling his eyes minutely. He takes another step closer, then another, so quickly encroaching on your bubble of personal space. “Or, w-what? You g-got cameras set up?” He makes a show at looking upwards and peering through the leaves, sarcastically scanning the area. You narrow your eyes.

Before you can say anything else, he’s already crouching down before sitting against the grass next to you. Still with a few feet in between, but the action makes your eyes widen nonetheless. You can observe him so much better now. How his eyes looked so dark until the sun hit them, and suddenly they were transfiguring from molasses to pools of honey. The slash in his eyebrow, a scar that left a permanent gap between the hairs. His eyelashes, quite long for a man you thought, fluttering against his cheek every time he blinked.

He smelled like pine and tobacco. It wafted over to you, like a beckoning call to get closer. You wouldn’t. “Can’t we share?” He asks you, leaning back on his palms and turning his head to the side to meet your gaze. You avert your eyes immediately. “I th-think you’re being selfish, keeping something so nice all t-to yourself.”

“And I think you’re being entitled.” You mutter back to him, lips twitched down into a frown.

You watch as he lets out a snort of laughter, a sound that caused his expression to crinkle. Little creases appearing at the corners or his eyes and the bridge or his nose.

“M-Maybe I am.” He shrugs. He tilts his head back, fluffy brown strands of hair falling into his eyes as he looks up through the leaves to the blue sky above. “Or, maybe I just want some c-company. It’s lonely around he-here.”

And for the first time during the conversation, you feel like you can’t argue. Because he was right. It was lonely around here. Agonizingly so. Bringing forth the type of loneliness that sunk into your bones like rot, festering more and more each day. Until one day, the sun rose, and you were completely infected. Numb to the melancholy around you.

That day hadn’t come upon you yet, but you feared you were close. “Y-You got a name?” He asks when your response is mere silence, and your eyes flicker up to meet his.

You know you shouldn’t tell him. Names… They held a lot of power. Transformed strangers into acquaintances. Opened a door that couldn’t easily be shut. If you told him, you couldn’t so easily brush him off if you ever saw him again.

Your name was a snippet of who you were. Something not to be taken lightly.

And yet, you find yourself uttering it out anyways. Soft, carried away by the breeze around you - but he hears it. He hears it clear as day.

“Puh-Pretty.” He hums back to you, lips twitched up at the corners in a way that made your heart flutter. A feeling so foreign to you, that it immediately elicited panic in your mind. “Suits you. Y-You’re a pretty thing.” Again, your heart skips a beat. Were you dying? Your pulse has skyrocketed and was doing flips in your chest. Surely, you must be dying. Before you can attempt to get a word out in response, he’s speaking again. “I’m T-Toby.”

Toby. It’s a nice name, soft and boyish. You mill it over in your brain a few times, imagining how the syllables would taste on your tongue. The craving is too strong to stay silent.

“Toby.” You murmur back to him, testing out the sound as it leaves your mouth. You like it, you decide. “Is that short for somethin’?”

The man - Toby - raised an eyebrow at you and lets out a soft chuckle. It’s a nice sound, deep and smooth, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Very quickly, the distain you had felt for him when he first approached was fizzling away. Even if your mind was on edge, your body was so clearly craving the presence or another. Still a few feet between you, but now you were itching to minimize the space a little. Not enough to touch, of course not, just enough to… Observe him better. Your curiosity was, once again, getting the better of you.

But how could it not? The man beside you was a bundle of unanswered questions, just waiting to be dug into. This was just the excitement you had been looking for.

“I-If you must know…” Toby answers with a dramatic sigh, making your lips twitch as you try to contain a smile. You fail, and his grin only widens when he sees your lips curve. Got her. “It’s short for T-Tobias. Tobias Rogers.”

You can practically hear the glass break when the light atmosphere is shattered.

Rogers? Like… Rogers, Rogers?

The very same that your entire family had spent the greater half of the day warning you to stay far away from? The criminal? The ‘bad news’? The ‘freak’, as Jameson had so eloquently put it?

Toby sees it when your lips part in shock, and the colour slowly begins to drain from your face. Rosy cheeks swapped for a shell-shocked pale tone. It’s staggering, how quickly your mood flipped just from the mention of his name alone. He furrows his eyebrows, and tilts his head to the side a little. “D-Damn, is it that bad? We can just stick to T-Toby then.”

You swallow thickly and take a breath, your eyes locked on his face - practically impossible for you to tear away. He couldn’t be the same person, right? You were being presumptuous.

Jameson had described him as a ‘gnarly looking fellow’, and he didn’t look like that to you. There were a few little scars here and there on his face, but nothing enough to warrant such a grim description. Your eyes drift, catching on the bandaging covering a solid portion of the left half of his face. You wonder what lay beneath it. Was it ‘torn to shreds’ just as your brother had said?

“Why are you all bandaged up?” You blurt out, unable to contain yourself. You just had to know. You felt like you may burst or you didn’t.

You watch as Toby’s lips tug even further down, his eyes flashing with something you couldn’t quite describe. The closest match would probably be shame.

“Manners, much?” He mutters as he catches your eye. “That side of my f-face ain’t pretty. I’d rather k-keep it covered.” He pauses for just a moment. “Especially around s-someone like you.”

You hum softly in response, but you’re nowhere near satisfied by his answer. You needed proof. Proof that your luck truly was laughable, and that sheer coincidence was making a fool out of you. If it was true, and this was who you had been warned about, it’s almost funny how you didn’t even need to try and seek him out. He found you.

Was that fate? Was it God delivering him to you?

And if so, could he truly be that bad?

Unless-

Toby watches you, waiting for your next move as he reached up with his left hand to absentmindedly pick at his bandage. His hands were littered with scars too, the skin on his fingertips red and raw. Nails bitten to the bone. You wonder, against yourself, how they would feel against your skin. They looked so much different than your own soft, unmarred hands. Rough and worn. Battered to such an extent that left you wondering how they had become that way. Not even your father, a man who worked the farm day in and day out, had hands like that.

Would his touch be as rough as he looked? Or would he be gentle, so to preserve your fragility?

-Unless it was a test of faith.

“You can show me.” You speak back to him, pushing your hair over your shoulder as you lean to the side a little. Just barely bridging the distance between the two of you. Testing the waters. “Promise I won’t make fun of ya’.”

That earns a snort of a laugh out of Toby, before he’s shaking his head softly in disbelief.

“I’d sure hope n-not.” Toby chuckles, then pulling his hand back down in favour of leaning back against it once more. “Not today though, darlin’. You’re j-just starting to used t-t-fuck! -to me.” You watch curiously as his shoulders jerk, his head cracking to the side in a way that both looked and sounded painful. Of course, he catches onto your worried gaze pretty quickly. “S-Sorry.” His face crinkles up in embarrassment. “It’s, uh-“ His hand lifts up to wave around absently. “This thing I got. T-Tourette’s.”

And suddenly, you get it. You don’t think a place like this would take kindly to someone like him, regardless of what his true nature was. He was different. Different in a way that wouldn’t so easily be glossed over by people who had been set in their own ways for far too long. Barely any outsiders were accepted warmly into your close-knit community, and so one that was so clearly a contrasting force? Not a chance.

But you weren’t put off. Weren’t scared or disgusted like every other member of your community seemed to be. If anything it made you angry at them. For being so unforgiving, though forgiveness was the very thing they nodded along to when the pastor preached about it.

What hypocrites.

“S’Not a problem.” You wave him off, offering him a kind little smile. He deserved it, you think. Everyone deserved to be treated kindly, but him especially. You could just feel it in your bones, that compassion wasn’t something Toby was often dealt. He was probably far lonelier than you. You don’t suppose you can blame him, for trying to find a connection with someone else, though he had startled you at first. At the end of the day, that’s all you wanted as well. “Don’t gotta be sorry about it. ‘Specially if it’s something you can’t control.”

You shrug softly, then meet his gaze as a gust of wind sent your hair into a flurry.

And though you didn’t know it, that would be the exact moment when Toby fell for you.

You were… So kind. So kind, gentle, and sweet. And so pretty too. The way the sunlight was hitting you right then made it look as if you were glowing - golden rays hitting your unblemished skin like the sun was created simply to shine a spotlight on you. You looked like an angel. Maybe you were. With your sparkling eyes, fluttering lashes, and flowing white fabric draped over your body, the only thing you were missing was a pair of wings.

His fingers curl into the grass beneath him, accidentally ripping out a few blades in his grip as he tries to reign in his thoughts. How could someone so lovely live in this place? Riddled with bigotry and sour expressions. How had they not tainted you? And did he even deserve to be in the presence of your purity?

Probably not. He met your eyes again, so warm and inviting. Definitely not.

“Y-You’re a sweet thing.” He mutters softly, tilting his head to the side a little. “Has anyone ever t-told you that?”

“My mama, sometimes.” You giggle, now fully scooting closer though you can so clearly hear the words your mother had spoken to you just this morning. ‘You’re a sweet thing. You need somebody who matches that.’ Grass smears against your dress as you shuffle towards him, leaving lime green stains against cream fabric. Sorry mama, for more reasons than one. “Y’know, she warned me about you.”

Toby’s breath hitches in his throat as he watches you approach him, finally eliminating the space he had created to be courteous. He could smell you now - fresh linen and lavender - and he could pick out all of the tiny features on your face that made you… You. He could see each little flyaway strand of hair that went into a frenzy whenever the breeze hit you. He could imagine the warmth of your skin when his eyes fixated on the rosiness to your cheeks.

He’s so caught up in how dizzyingly beautiful you are up close, that he nearly misses what you say completely. When the words do register though, his eyes are flicking back to meet yours as a frown tugs his lips downwards.

“W-Warned you?” He raises an eyebrow. “‘Bout what? I didn’t d-do nothin’.”

“Didn’t you?” You giggle softly and narrow your eyes at him playfully. Even if he was trouble, it was so fun to talk to somebody that wasn’t directly a part of the circle you had grown accustomed to. It was exciting. So many unknowns that it made your blood simmer with the need to dig in deeper. “It’s a small town y’know, people talk.” You pull your knees up to your chest and rest your forearms on them as you gaze up at him. “Locals are sayin’ you’re a criminal. And my daddy’s convinced you’re the one who keeps knockin’ down our fence.”

You nod your head in the direction of your property, to which Toby’s gaze follows. Immediately, his expression morphs into one of sheepish realization.

“Hmm… Y-Yeah, that might’ve been me.” He laughs softly, a cocky little smile playing at his lips. “Tell your ‘daddy’ he built his f-fence too close to the- the road. Pretty easy to lose control on g-gravel streets.”

You snort out a laugh and roll your eyes. You’d probably spit in your father’s face before ever criticizing one of his creations. Still though, the thought is funny to you.

“So it was you.” You grin up at him. “Are the rest of the rumours true then? Did ya’ really steal a patrol car?”

His eyebrows shoot up immediately, a look of bewildered amusement coating his expression.

“Christ, country folk are s-scary. How’d you know th-th-“ He draws out that first syllable for a couple seconds, like the word is hard for him to form. After a couple tries, he gets it. “-that?”

“I told you, people talk.” You laugh softly as you lean back on your hands. Your shoulder brushes against his just minutely, but it’s enough contact to raise goosebumps on your arms. “So is it true?”

Toby scoffs softly, before glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re so close now. Welcoming him into your personal bubble so easily, looking up at him with those sweet doe-like eyes. For just a split second, his eyes flicker downwards towards your cleavage - smushed together from the way you were sitting leaned towards him, presented so beautifully in that silken white fabric.

He just knew that you had to be so soft. Could already imagine what your breasts would feel like against his palms - cushy warm flesh, yielding to his hands. He could only dream of what you would sound like it as he did it too. With a voice so soft and lovely, you’d probably sound like heaven itself as you breathed out little whimpers and moans.

He bet that you’d be shy about it. Refusing to meet his eye, flushed pink and pretty as you tug at your bottom lip to try and keep all of your noises at bay. But you wouldn’t stop him. No… You probably look up at him with both desperation and embarrassment clouding your eyes, before you hesitantly tugged him in closer.

Maybe he’d make you beg for it, just to see you squirm. Just to see your eyes shine with tears of humiliation.

He could imagine how your thighs would quiver when he gently pushed them apart. How you’d gasp when he touched you for the first time. How pretty your skin would look, with splotchy red marks and indentations from his teeth.

He could imagine ruining you. Tearing off your wings with his bare hands.

You were a sinful temptation, and you didn’t even know it. Looking up at him like he was the perfect picture of a good man. He wasn’t.

He was rotten. Had been since birth, most likely, because he couldn’t remember a day in his life where misfortune didn’t follow him. He was careless, impulsive, brash, and short-tempered. He would taint you the second you touched, infecting you with the decay hollowing out his bones.

He wanted to do it anyway.

“A-And if I did?” He asks with a sly smile, leaning into you with full intentions - just to see how you’d react. He’s delighted when you don’t move away, but he does feel how you instinctively tense up at the pressure of his shoulder pressing against yours. So timid. Had you ever been touched? “Would it ss-scare you off?”

You can feel his warmth through your clothing. The contact point where his shoulder meets yours being so warm in comparison to the rest of you. His bicep presses against yours when he shifts a little, and you can feel the lean muscle hidden under his flannel. What would it feel like to really touch him? To feel his muscles flex under your grip?

It’s barely anything. Just the slightest contact, but your head was already spinning. You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to a man, and your body was very clearly elated by the prospect. Hormones? Human nature? You weren’t sure what it was, but you were absolutely captivated by every little thing about him. You were trying to stay restrained, but these depraved thoughts just kept worming their way into your brain and speaking louder than the rest.

Would it scare you off? No, you knew that it would only entice you. You could feel it, how the idea of his misdeeds was only making him seem that much more desirable to you.

Trouble. Bad news. Then why did it seem so exciting? Why did he set your mind alight?

Maybe his natural charisma was a trap. A trap that you were so easily falling for, like a mouse too fixated on the prospect of cheese to see the danger.

“No.” You hum, tilting your head upwards to look at him better. He was very handsome. Sharp features but soft eyes. Shaggy, unruly hair, and yet it looked so silky. Stubble on his chin and along his jaw, framing his already captivating face. You were already in too deep. You could tell. “I’m not so easily scared. I’m not some delicate flower, y’know.”

Toby raises an eyebrow at you, clearly not convinced. And though he really was trying not to scare you off, the urge to push just a little bit further was getting harder to ignore. He could see it in your eyes, how receptive you were. Skittish, a little shy by nature, but clearly still wanting more. If you didn’t, then why hadn’t you moved away? Why were you the one to close the distance initially?

You were prodding at his personal space like a scared little kitten. Curious, but still on guard. Could he break down your walls a little? Would you let him get closer?

Toby lifts his hand up, his moments fluid and confident as he reaches down towards your face. Your eyes widen immediately, breath catching in your throat as his hand approaches you. Gently, like he’s scared to break you, his fingers brush the skin of your cheek before he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your cheeks heat up immediately, momentarily frozen in placeby the tender contact. It’s like he’s cast a spell on you, and only once his hand leaves you does it break. Still though, you’re left shell-shocked with shaky breathing as his touch retreats.

“Aren’t you?” Toby asks, leaning back on his hands once more. He can’t hide the smile on his lips as he observed you - so flustered by the smallest touch. You were definitely innocent. From that reaction alone, he’d be surprised if you’d ever been kissed before. Just like that, his mind started whirring with images or what if would be like to do so. Guiding you, slow and gentle. Showing you the ropes. “You sure l-look like one.”

You feel dizzy. Your skin tingling like he was setting you on fire with just his eyes alone. He was looking at you in a way that made your lungs feel tight. Amused, and yet tainted with something deeper. Something darker. Something you had never encountered before. Heady. Carnal.

You couldn’t quite tell if you were intimidated or enraptured.

All you knew, was that your heart had never beat quicker than now. “But… Yeah, I m-might’ve done that.” Toby continues, knowing you’re probably too ruffled to respond properly. “Among other th-things.”

Trying to regain your composure, you swallow thickly and take in a shaky breath. You didn’t want him to know just how easily he was sending your mind into a frenzy. Little did you know, he already did.

“Why?” You ask softly, eyeing him curiously. What did he want from you? What did that expression mean?

Toby hums softly, reaching up to scratch the stubble on his jaw before answering.

“For fun, I g-guess.” He breathes out, sending you a playful grin that made your stomach flip. “Mostly just t-to- to piss my dad off.” You watch his hand as it moves, your skin still tingling where it had touched you. You wonder if he’d do it again. “He moved me out h-here hoping it would calm me d-down, but it just made it all worse. It’s so boring out here, I’m more restless than- than ever.”

He tilts his head down, smiling down at you. “What do you do around here f-for fun?”

You’re a little caught off guard by that question, and it’s hard not to shrink under his gaze. If he really wanted to, it would barely take any effort to close the rest of the distance between you. That possibility, is enough to make you squirm.

“For fun?” You repeat back softly. “Um… Come here?” You laugh sheepishly and look up towards the leaves above you. An easy escape from his paralyzing gaze. “Water our crops.. Read, help my mom sew up old clothes.” You shrug. “Not much else.”

“Really?” Toby asks incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. That sounded like such an agonizingly boring life, it nearly made his skin crawl. “You don’t d-do anything else? G-Go anywhere?”

You shake your head, before looking to him once more.

“Nah. My daddy doesn’t like it if I wander off somewhere he couldn’t easily find me.” You shrug. “That fence right there is our property. This is as far as I go on my own. Mama takes me to the market sometimes though, and my whole family goes into town for church on Sunday.”

That just makes Toby’s frown deepen. It seemed to him like you were being kept on a leash, hidden away from every interesting thing that life had to offer. How were you not so incredibly restless? Had you lived your whole life this way? Confined within the fence posts of your family’s property.

“That’s… Not right.” Toby speaks back to you slowly. “There’s a whole world out there. D-Don’t you want to see it?”

“Well, of course.” You murmur softly, gaze dropping down to where your hands were folded on your lap. It was strange, having someone agree with what you believed were just troublesome thoughts. Thoughts that had been shot down since you were a child, never once indulged in or encouraged. “But it’s not what you think… They’re just trying to keep me safe.”

“I think it’s exactly w-what I think.” Toby argues back, his eyebrows furrowed. “They don’t want to keep you safe, they want t-to keep you- you- fuck! -contained. Controlled.” His words make your shoulders tense up. “You’re an adult, r-right? Why’re you letting them treat you like a kid?”

“I’m not.” You frown, to which Toby merely scoffs.

“You are.” He protests. “It’s your l-life, you know? Not theirs. Y-You should live it.” He leans his head down lower, practically caging you in as he encroaches on your personal space. “Or are you t-too scared?”

“I ain’t scared.” You snap back at him, eyes narrowing up at him.

“No?” He laughs, eyes crinkling in amusement. You were so cute, it made his chest feel tight. He could definitely understand the need to protect someone like you. God forbid you fall into the clutches of someone like him. “T-Tell you what,” He grins down at you. “If you’re really not scared, l-let me take you out tonight.” Your eyes widen, and you just look even cuter. “I’ll pick you up in my truck. D-Drive you around. Show you a bunch of places I think you’d l-like. How’s that sound?”

Scary. Perfect. Dangerous. Exhilarating.

Like a recipe for disaster.

“I… I dunno if that’s a good idea.” You mumble. “I’d have to sneak out. And… If my daddy saw you trying to take me away he’d probably shoot ya’.”

Toby barks out a laugh, tilting his head back and taking in a wheezing breath like you had just told him something hilarious - and not a threat against his life. A few more giggles slip past his lips before he’s able to contain himself, and he lets out an amused sigh before looking back to you.

“I’m sure h-he would.” He chuckles. “But I’ll take that risk.” His laugh is so warm and addictive, it’s hard for you not to break into a grin as well. “S-Sneak out after he’s sleepin’ then, if you’re so w-worried about me. And I’ll pick ya’ up here, just to be safe.”

He really didn’t quit, did he? His insistence was more charming than anything else though. The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you this badly, was something that made your heart skip a beat. “If he somehow still manages t-to catch you, and he d-does put a hole in my head, I’d still say it was worth it.”

You want to. You really want to. And how the hell are you supposed to stay rational when he’s staring down at you with the warmest brown eyes you’ve ever seen? You’re trying to fight it, but it’s futile. You know you’re going to say yes. It’s a golden opportunity. When’s the next time you’ll be offered freedom like this?

“Okay.” You find yourself muttering out, the wind whistling in your ears and rising goosebumps on your arms. Or was it because of him, and how his aura was so effortlessly subjugating? “Okay.” You repeat, louder this time, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself that you’re truly giving in.

But the smile that Toby gives you in response? It makes all of the apprehension dissipate. He smiles at you like you’ve just offered him the world. Eyes gleaming, expression wrinkling with elation.

“Yeah?” He grins, then nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. “I’ll show y-you a good time, p-promise. And I’ll get you home safe. N-No one will be the wiser.”

“You better.” You giggle. ““I’m taking a big risk for you, you know. Never done anything like this.”

He bet you hadn’t. Bet you wouldn’t know a good time if it stared you in the eye. He could teach you so much. Teach you everything, and more. And maybe, if you liked him enough, you’d let him keep you.

Maybe you’d let him get you out of here, show you what life’s all about, as if he knew. You could figure it out together.

“And for that I-I’m grateful.” He smiles, leaning into you a bit more. “I’ll pick you up a-at midnight, right here.” He was already practically buzzing with anticipation. “Y-You better not stand me up.”

“I won’t.” And you’re leaning right back into him, because it just feels right. Feels like something you need.

“Good.” Toby hums, feeling so satisfied with himself he almost feels guilty. Almost. It’s hard to really, when he’s got someone like you sinking into him so easily. He knew he couldn’t give you what you deserved, but he was sure he could give you something better than you were accustomed to.

That was enough, right?

You probably didn’t even know what a good man acted like. “Then I’ll see you a-at midnight. Wear somethin’ warm.”

You would, though you weren’t sure if you would even need it. Just being around him seemed to make your skin heat up.

Your brother was right, he definitely was trouble.

But maybe that was exactly what you needed.

—————————————————————————☆

getting part one up then working on asks!!

I’ve just really been wanting to get this one out here,, everyone say thank you to ethel cain for placing this idea in my mind!

part two is where all the goody goody will be, and I’m hoping to get it up by next week maybe?? Idk we’ll see

thank you for reading! and thank you to all of my new followers who have been so kind <3

[milkingtonthethird]

BATBOYS’ reaction to you asking to paint their nails

WARNINGS: fluff, gn!reader, but you wear nail polish

NOTE: DUKE IS HERE. EVERYONE SAY HI DUKE

Bruce Wayne:

- You’re doing your own nails when he walks in.

- Clearly you’re bored, or something, because he can easily pay to get them done professionally.

- He approaches you, gently lifting your hand to inspect.

- “Pretty,” he murmurs, followed by a kiss to your knuckle.

- You grin. “Can I do yours?”

- He considers, even though there’s already a denial on the tip of his tongue. But, it doesn’t come out, because you look really excited at the thought.

- He agrees. And it’s lame.

- A clear top coat. That’s all he’ll let you do.

- Bruce Wayne can’t be seen with sparkles on his hands, even if he doesn’t care what the media thinks.

- He believes it’s too feminine for him.

- They’d probably be chipped immediately given how handsy his nighttime life is, anyway.

- Still, it’s something—you’ll take what you can get.

- He actually comes to you every few days so he’s able to keep it on.

- He does try on black at some point. It looks odd on his large, calloused hands. That’s just him, though.

- The top coat is too unnoticeable for anyone to comment, but his kids are smart, observant.

- “Why are your nails shiny?”

- “Because it makes them happy.”

Dick Grayson:

- He really likes watching you do your nails and is very satisfied when you do a color he recommends.

- Said color most of the time is blue.

- You’re waiting for the polish to dry when you ask, “You want me to do yours?”

- Grayson is open-minded, but he’s also utterly in love with you, so obviously he agrees.

- You’d both have black on your thumbs and pinkies, with that iconic vivid blue on the rest.

- Unfortunately, colliding his fist into jaws and his training does get in the way of keeping them nice.

- Which means he gets spoiled with your attention even more as you fix them. Yay!

- He’s lowkey cocky when he takes down criminals with it on.

- “LOL I just kicked your ass with nail polish my partner put on” ahh mf.

- He’s incredibly defensive if anyone teases him.

- They’re basically insulting you, too.

- They eventually stop because he’s dead serious.

Jason Todd:

- “You look better with it,” he would say upon the offer.

- But he’s equally bored. He’ll agree.

- Black. Pure black. Black hole black.

- He’d make an edgy comment about how it’s his “soul” or whatever.

- He actually kind of likes it. It fits his aesthetic.

- Beats people a little harder if they happen to chip it.

- He’ll let you add a small, red matching heart on a finger.

- Preferably middle. It’s his favorite one.

- He would make snide comments when he’s fighting.

- “They did my nails so pretty, don’t you think?” (Morseo his “fingerless gloves” era.)

- Not that they’d notice. His knuckles are being too personal with their face.

- He’d be like Dick. Why is simple nail polish just so fuckin’ funny?

Tim Drake:

- He won’t necessarily be interested in polish, but rather small designs.

- Like a little flower, or a heart.

- Super simplistic stuff that has him smile when he looks at it.

- You did, as cheesy as it is, a Red Robin one time.

- May or may not have taken forever.

- He’s genuinely sad if they get ruined. You worked hard on them.

- He’d probably apologize because clearly it’s his fault—heavy sarcasm, by the way.

- You remind him that it gives you an opportunity to do more.

- He probably would ignore whomever made comments that weren’t compliments until they apologize.

- He hasn’t talked to Jason in a while.

Damian Wayne:

- “Don’t you have your own nails?”

- You’ll offer to bathe Titus for the rest of the year, and suddenly he’s sitting on your floor while you put a tacky hot pink on him.

- He lets you do whatever, because he doesn’t keep it long. He’s just not into it.

- But if he isn’t doing anything, he won’t take it off until he has to.

- Him texting Jon about how stupid he is with cunty ass nails.

- No one finds out. It’s his little secret.

- And then Bruce forgets to knock one time during a session.

- “Father,” he greets flatly, not looking up.

- You’ve never seen the Batman so…confused.

Duke Thomas:

- He’d be in the same boat as Tim—simple designs.

- Ones that make something with both of your nails together. Like a heart.

- He let you do acrylics one time for shits and giggles.

- “How do people…do things?”

- He’s been trying to open a can of soda for the past ten minutes.

- He keeps the designs absolutely pristine, somehow.

- He’d avoid doing certain things, but he also has crazy luck.

- He’ll bring you new ideas.

- He wears it with pride in public.

- If anyone brings it up in a mocking manner, he’d say, “I think you’re mad because you’re single and I’m not.”

- The time Jason did it, he’d sulk, because Duke’s right. He is mad.

doing their makeup

[jccatstudios]

Six of Crows Character Design Notes

Character design notes for my most recent character lineup for The Crows! I did this last time for the super old ones I did right after I read the series, so these new ones are much closer to how I imagine them. There probably will be a good amount of rehashing from the old notes, but I hope you enjoy these nonetheless!

Kaz and Inej

Closest in color scheme due to how close they are at the start of the series, though there is a difference between the purples. Kaz's purple accents are light and muted (similar to the color of Kruge). Inej's tunic is more indigo, shifting away from the warmer purple she wore at the Menagerie. After she realizes her dream in the incinerator shaft, I imagine her theme color changing to dark blue, then dark teal by the end of the series.

I often see Kaz in a red tie, but he had to wear something different for my design since him and Van Eck would basically be in the same outfit. His black shirt is also meant to distinguish him from the real merchant class.

Coin added to Kaz's pose to refer to his magician and thief personas (and a callback to his backstory)

Their vests symbolize their morality. Kaz's is asymmetrical ("crooked and wrong...") while Inej's evenly goes down the center (more balanced and true to herself).

Jesper and Wylan

They're meant to contrast each other, since they don't exactly see eye-to-eye at the start, but their similarities are important. Both have patterned elements, brown leather boots, and freckles. My favorite differences: vibrant vs muted, gold vs silver, open vs closed poses

Jesper has freckles just because I feel like they suit him but also as a visual connection to Jordie. :)

Wylan is holding a Victorian fire grenade! They were actually used for extinguishing fires back then, but I can imagine Wylan replacing the ingredients to do the exact opposite.

I used to draw Jesper in a longcoat just because that look from the show is so iconic, but I changed it to something more cropped. The shorter coat makes him look taller and differentiates his silhouette from Kaz's.

Wylan's black vest is meant to hint at his merch family ties.

Nina and Matthias

Another couple who clashes through color palette! Nina's Heartrender red vs Matthias's northern blue. They also differ in leather color (black vs brown).

Matthias was a bit harder to design since he's not wearing clothes that he'd pick out himself. These are whatever Kerch dockworker clothes the gang could find for him, but I feel like they suit him enough to convey his personality.

Nina's necklace pendant is teardrop shaped (The Queen of Mourning).

Nina is wearing makeup and nail polish. From my limited research on Victorian culture, this was seen as improper, but I think that fits Nina's boldness all the better. I don't try to make any of my designs authentically Dutch Victorian (It's a fantasy series after all! Why not make semi-anachronistic designs that value personality over accuracy?), but it is fun to think about how these characters would be interpreted with that lens.

[moondirti]

simon forcing your jaw unhinged and hooking two thick, salty fingers behind your molars to keep your mouth open, thumb pressing up on your top row of teeth. warns bite n and i’ll pluck em out, all low and coarse, voice deeper than it usually is. to be expected for the hour.

your body’s wedged between the bathroom countertop and his heavy body, struggling for air as his stomach crushes into your sternum. he’s in only his boxers — the usual sleep attire. you’re in nothing at all; though you’re given an old shirt to wear overnight, he insists you take it off for this part of your routine. doesn’t want it to get messy, he says. what you know is that he prefers to feel your bare tits heaving against him, nipples caught in the steel wool coils of his chest hair. as good as dead, like little flies in a spider trap.

the sun’s barely up. through the open door, pale blue light douses the bathroom in a similar hue. your eyes water, and the image blurs to one of wet dawn and the shadow he casts above you. you see his free hand working something, hear the run of tap water, smell the minty fresh dollop of toothpaste before it hits your teeth. the tears slip down your cheeks, and he comes into focus again. focused. cruel. face more scar tissue than flesh. the one that runs through his upper lip gives the impression that he’s always sneering, but you can glean what he looks like amused by now. his eyes are too narrow to be anything else.

brushing your teeth for you. considerate. he works in fast, rough circles. brutally efficient. there’s a metallic aftertaste to the bristles he runs along your gums. you must be bleeding. it’s harder to breath with the intrusion in your mouth. you spread your legs wider, giving his body more space to move. perhaps naively hoping it would be away from you. he only carves in closer.

there’s a hot mass pressing into your inner thigh now. simon makes sure to get the back of your mouth, polishing around your molars. he must be really into it; what, with the way his hips match the rhythm. grinding into your leg at the same tempo he cleans the backs of your teeth with. you’re like a little rag doll to his whims, manhandled by the hand anchored in your mouth. it pulls your body closer, tilts your head up higher.

your neck aches. there’s a ringing in your head. one of your hands acts against your will, clamping around his sturdy wrist for purchase. his erection has pushed up closer to your cunt. it’s mortifying when you’re shoved up on top of the counter to discover you’re radiating heat and slick — an especially stark reality as you press down onto the cool granite surface. inadvertently, you lean into him. a gurgled whimper escapes you. as if to exaggerate the sound, simon grabs the tip of your tongue and drags it out of your mouth.

it’s not at all necessary to brush your tongue the way he does. with as much aggression. your clit catches the mound in his boxers the same time the brush strokes the back of your throat, and a messy gag sends tributaries of watery toothpaste down your chin. you’re moaning like the whore he insists you are now; holding onto him like you were the one to stick out your tongue.

it doesn’t get easier to withstand the rough sweeps of the toothbrush, now clutched in a tense fist — you gag and spit and cry and make a mess all over, just like he said you would. but the cock humping into your similarly weeping pussy helps just a little bit. you must soak through the cotton of his underwear with how good it feels, grinding your hips up and down all over his length. the waistband rolls down with the motions, and you catch the gleam of your juices matting his happy trail in the low light. your eyes roll to the back of your head. you tuck your nails into the flesh of his forearm. he brushes your tongue until there’s more toothpaste running over your lips and down your neck than there is in your mouth.

you convulse in his arms until you’vs wrung the last dregs of your orgasm from your frame. simon hardly waits for you to finish, collecting your hair to pivot you over the sink basin.

spit. rinse out. he wipes the front of your mouth off with a towel, then runs a thumb over your canine to check if it squeaks. your lashes feel crusty with the dried remnants of your tears. it hardly matters when he bends down to tuck your face in his shoulder, lifting you off your feet. the bruising pinch he gives your ass meant to mean: we ain’t finished.

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 !!

𐚁 bull rider ! beau arlen x high school sweetheart ! reader !! home has never been a place but a person, and he's finally ready to go back to you . . . six years too late. ℧ mdni !! sexual content. high school sweethearts to exes to lovers. couple's quarrels. festering tension. angry sex? word count : 14.1k (LMFAO) ☆ minor characters !! kelsey. daisy. delilah gaylestone. rhett gaylestone. moonlight. sunshine. brooks williamson. abigail williamson. ella gaylestone.

FIVE YEARS AGO —

“you really are livin’ proof of the american dream, ain’t you, beau arlen?” 

“why, yes ma’am, i’d say so.” 

you pause the tv on his face, taking in every single detail about beau that had changed in the last 6 years. his facial hair was fuller, hair a little longer and a lot less kempt. his eyes held deeper bags beneath them, but still shone with the glimmering gold-green that swayed you toward him in the first place.

you hit rewind, and then play again.

“mr. arlen! another victory under your belt buckle,” the interviewer says, sounding breathless even though she had not been the one atop a bucking bull, grasping at the horn of a saddle for purchase to keep from tipping off. “i’m sure this feels typical for you, by now.”

three championship belt buckles, four second-place trophies, and so many medals and roses that the mere announcement of beau arlen being next had the stadium littered in petals. 

not that you kept up with him, or anything. 

“the thrill never dies, no matter how many times it’s happened,” beau says, dimples dipping into his cheeks. he lifts the stetson off of his head, runs a sweaty hand through sweatier locks of hair. 

the interviewer’s name fades onto the screen below her too wide grin. kelsey jones wants in your man’s pants, and you aren’t entirely convinced that he didn’t take her home that night. how many fingers had undone that giant championship buckle, while you sat at home, waiting for a man too busy chasing thrills to remember what he left in the montana dust? 

“you really are livin’ proof of the american dream, ain’t you, beau arlen?” 

you turn the tv off.

behind you, daisy arlen clacks her toy blocks together, building a tower taller than she was. her gold-green eyes flick up to meet yours, little mouth parted in wonder, forming babbling sentences that were only ever semi-coherent.

this one sounded devastatingly close to the innocent ramblings of a little girl asking for her father.

you scoop her up, placing her in the crook of your hip that she lived in. "sorry, sweetheart," you say on a sigh, with a final glance toward the blank tv screen, "daddy ain't comin' home."

beau arlen was a friend of a friend of a friend. your best friend was a princess of a girl named delilah, most fondly known as del, who was dating a farmer's son named rhett, who was best friends with beau.

of course you knew all about beau. del couldn't seem to go a day without bringing up rhett, which most of the time had beau's name in her mouth too. you'd never properly met him except the occasional shared class in your small town's smaller high school, but you had a backlog of blackmail on him in the back of your mind.

he went to church every sunday after partying all night saturday with his friends. he snuck into rhett's barn to go for a late ride with his favorite of the gaylestone family's horses, moonlight. he so often stole from the arlen liquor cabinet that half of the vodka was water, and he misplaced which bottles were which all the time.

but meeting him? no, you'd never had the pleasure of it. del spent a lot of her time with rhett, but she never skimped on a girls' night every weekend, where you'd get to hear all of the shenanigans that the montana boys got up to.

it was routine. you got to know all of the little things about one of your town's most notorious rebellious cowboys, and pretended that you didn't know that, in turn, he probably got to hear all about you.

del sat on your bed, navy blue nail polish still wet on her fingers as she idly waved her hand around, humming along to whatever song drifted through the radio on your sidetable. "rhett wants to hang out tonight."

you startle from your spot next to her, a second coat of maroon drying on your own fingernails. "what? no. he knows every saturday is girls' night and," you wave your hand in a mock imitation of hers, "boys' night for him, or whatever."

"i know," she hums, like she wasn't trying to completely skew this routine you guys had built up since you were in junior high. "s'just that brooks is sick, and rhett doesn't like hangin' out one-on-one with beau. says they get all drunk n' sentimental."

you could think of so many worse things they could get up into besides cuddly and pouty, but teenage boys were prone to thinking a molehill was a mountain.

you don't look over at del, not wanting to look her in the eyes as she so casually tries to abandon you for a boy. you know, something that best friends always promise they won't do, before they do it. "so, you're gonna go hang with rhett and arlen?"

her eyes are on you; not glaring, but staring hard enough that it could singe your temple. "no. rhett and arlen wanna come over."

"what?" you sound like a broken record at this point, but seriously, what? "no way."

"you've got that ol' barn!" she argues, conveniently looking away when you fix her with your own stare. "your folks will never find out."

"delilah."

del stumbles on a little giggle, examining the handiwork of her freshly painted nails. dark blue like the sky and the headband she wore to keep the stray curly bangs out of her eyes. "it's just a one time thing," she assures, curling her fingers around your wrist, "don't you wanna meet beaauuu?"

"no." passing him in the halls was plenty, thank you. "no, i do not wanna meet beaauuu."

"beau wants to meet you." you close your eyes as if that alone could erase that sentence from your reality. "rhett said so. that's why i ever even brought this up, y'know? i wouldn't drop this on you if i wasn't desperately tryin' to get my girl coupled up for double dates with me."

the ulterior motives were sickening. you were in pajamas, for crying out loud, and now two of the three hellions of your grade were about to be at your house. not that you cared what rhett thought of you, or really what beau arlen did, but...

del had been your best friend since you two were in diapers. she could have read your expression without seeing it, looking straight through the back of your head. she nods toward your closet. "the white sundress. with those boots of yours." she smiles wide, like she wasn't turning the tides of time completely on their axis in one sentence. "beau likes cowgirls."

your family's barn was a rundown little thing on the edge of your property before it delved into fields. your father kept it up for sentimental value, having built a newer, sturdier one closer to your home. makes the walk shorter for me n' my old bones, he'd said once.

the ladder to the loft was unsteady and rickety, but you could still remember climbing up there when your hands were too small to properly grip the rungs, could remember running back to the house at sunset and your mom plucking pieces of hay out of your hair before supper.

it was oddly intimate, having this many people in a space that was once your favorite place. hell, even del had only been in here a couple of times, and now here she was, and her boyfriend, and... beau arlen.

he had that gleam in his eyes that mothers warned their daughters about, a head of hair that poked out through the brim of the hat he wore. he had a plaid jacket tied around his waist, leaving him in a dirt stained white tanktop and an equally stained pair of faded blue jeans.

rhett was already drunk and incredibly sentimental. he clung to del's arm like a bride walking down the aisle, nuzzling his face into her neck like a cat marking its scent. you didn't even get a chance to wish her good luck before he was attaching himself to her.

which left you and beau. beau, who stood in the corner of the barn, looking elusive and mysterious without even meaning to be. he had a sweaty glass bottle of beer in his fingertips, his other hand tracing idly over the splintering wood.

wanted to meet you, your ass. he'd isolated himself, looking just as awkward as you felt. it really was your fault for believing your best friend wouldn't make up some sort of tall tale to get to spend a full weekend with her boyfriend.

beau turned on a dime, his eyes finding yours, too fast for you to pretend you were not, in fact, staring at the back of his head. half of his mouth lifted in a smile. he doesn't say hi, or address it, just jerked his head in the direction of the wall he'd been looking at.

"there's writin' on it," he said, taking a quick swig from the bottle he held. "'m guessin' you're princess peach."

your face flushed against your will. you'd forgotten all about— "no, actually," you blurted out, as eager to throw del under the bus as she'd been with you, "that's del."

his smile widened for a second, before he turned back to the engravings on the wooden paneling. "so you were princess strawberry."

this was not a good idea. this space was not for anyone else but you and the littler versions of you that still lingered in memory. beau arlen did not do anything to earn seeing these glimpses of you.

"come over here n' stop wallowin'," he laughed, tapping a nail against the writing, "'m not judgin' you or anything, sweetheart. i happen to think it's endearing as all get out."

you really did not want to see his live reactions to the little scraps of your childhood in these walls, but what else were you supposed to do? let beau arlen walk your space on his own and third wheel with rhett and del?

so you walked up to him, the chipping wood barely doing anything to mask the words you and del had scratched into the walls many years ago. "if it makes you feel better," beau drawled, his voice softer now that you were shoulder to shoulder, "i used t'do the same thing when i was a kid."

"pretend to be a strawberry princess?" you asked incredulously, eyebrows shooting up on your forehead.

his laugh was as warm as a shot of whiskey. his teeth were straight and blinding in the moonlight. you'd been so adamant on never properly meeting him that you'd forgotten why you wanted to stay away so badly. boys like him, with smiles like that, were nothing but trouble.

"no, i used to..." he shook his head, glancing back toward his friend and yours on the other side of the barn. del was stuck in a sloppy slow dance with rhett now, and somehow, the stetson on his head was now on hers. you barely restrained the amused smile, and beau didn't even bother to try. "i used to pretend i was a cowboy," he finally said, head tipped down as he stares up shyly through his eyelashes. they were so long. his eyes were so green. good lord. "wrasslin' up all of the angry bulls. takin' care of business as the arlenville sheriff."

"arlenville?" you broke into a little surprised laugh. "no. no way."

beau nodded, his lips curling higher up at the sound of your laugh. this was a terrible idea, leaving you two alone like this, because now you were beginning to think that the double dates with rhett and del didn't sound so appalling. "yes way." beau sat the empty bottle in his hand down on a mottled barrel next to him, using both of his freed hands to throw a pretend lasso. "beau arlen, arlenville's hero, gatherin' up all the wild horses and settin' 'em back loose. cleanin' the streets."

it's so damn ridiculous that you couldn't help but laugh again. beau kept the invisible lasso between his two hands, tossing and tossing until he hooked you. his eyes told you that he was well aware of the fact that he'd already gotten you hooked, lined, and he was just waiting for the sinker.

"are you trying to say i'm wild, beau arlen?" you asked, and you couldn't even help it, really — he did have you lassoed! — when you inched closer by his pretend pulling.

beau's eyes raked up and down your figure, and something shifted in his gaze. another thing you'd heard down the grapevine of your interconnected friend groups was that beau arlen didn't date. he didn't ever really have interest in anyone, just on taking care of the farm he grew up on and causing mayhem every saturday before church with rhett and brooks.

but the look in his eyes said otherwise. those dangerous, golden green eyes. "i'm sayin' i'd sure as hell like to find out."

PRESENT DAY —

the radio filters through the speakers of beau's faded red pickup truck, the cab of it rattling as he presses the gas pedal down more firmly. the window is down, his elbow propped out of it, fingers tapping idly on the door's frame.

he hadn't been back in montana in six years.

he still remembers the day he left. you, standing on the arlen family farmhouse's front porch, waving bye as he backed down the dirt driveway. i'll be back after this competition, baby, he'd promised, the gps on his phone spouting monotone directions through the aux. you couldn't yet afford a plane ticket, so he opted to drive the twenty-two hour trip. a small price for following his dream, wasn't it?

you'd given him a kiss goodbye for good luck. it'd worked. he won the bull riding championship down in dallas's championship rodeo. he stayed an extra day to bask in the victory, following where the party went, enthralled by the way his name sounded in everyone's mouths. beau arlen, bull riding champion. had a hell of a sound to it.

and the following day, when the thrill of the rodeo died down, beau went chasing down another, and another. montana became a blurry memory in the back of his mind. he never forgot you, but you were definitely a reason that he kept away. how could he face you after he broke a promise like that?

but it wasn't easy to maintain a champion status when younger, more wily riders kept popping up left and right. there was a reason that most retired before their mid 30s. beau was getting up there, closing in on his thirtieth that year. it was hard to hang up the hat, harder to not think of it as giving up, but he had to be sensible somehow.

god knew he hadn't used his brain six years ago, when he threw something stable away for a job that gambled on his life, risking it for an adrenaline rush and a belt buckle to add to the collection.

still, beau was only a man. he rolls back into the town he grew up in wearing the most recent of his buckles, the final one he'd won. he may have been giving up the lifestyle and dream he'd chased for so long, but he wasn't going to undermine his accomplishments.

he remembers the path home, even years later, without needing to look it up. his parents had gifted him the family home as a wedding gift, making him promise to put it to good use. give us some grandbabies, his mom had told him, in front of you and the entire rest of his family and your family and all of your friends, with the sweetest smile on her face.

another promise he didn't keep. another one in the back of his mind that haunted him, day in and day out.

your car is parked up by the shed when he pulls in beside it. beau doesn't expect a warm, welcome greeting from you. hell, he's sure he's gonna walk up to the front doorstep and be met with your hand stinging his cheek. he'd deserve it, too.

there were so many memories in this house. you didn't want to go anywhere for your honeymoon, so you both spent it breaking in every piece of furniture, the air in the house so thick that the open windows condensated. rhett and delilah's wedding gift to you was moonlight's foal, sunshine. he'd take you down to the river on his property, tucked away between shady trees, paving trails with sunshine's hooves.

what could he possibly say to fix this?

beau bites the bullet, shoving the driver's door open and stepping out. he grabs his duffel from the bed of the truck and hooks it over his shoulder, his expression set in a grimace as he glances at the house again.

you were watching. he could see the bottoms of the curtains swishing with the sudden jostle. the front door stays closed.

he deserves this. he knows he does. but he'd kill to see you smile. to feel your arms around him as you welcome him home. but that sort of treatment was earned, and he hadn't earned any of it, not when he abandoned you for six years for a short-lived dream.

the porch steps creak under his boots, the wood soft and splintered with age. for a moment, beau just stands there. he can hear you moving around on the other side of the door; the soft sound of music drifts out from the gapped windows, your laughter echoes through the the heavy door he raps on.

three knocks. the doorbell doesn't work. he kept promising to fix it, and then he was gone.

your warm laughs gets closer, the music louder when you pull open the heavy door and meet his gaze through the screen door.

beau watches the realization settle on you. surprise, heartache, and horror, all in quick succession. your lips are parted in some semblance of mortification, and beau can't possibly understand why. anger and upset were what he expected — hell, his jaw was tight and steeled, still expecting the slap to come.

he does not expect the screen door to shove open into his shoulder, and a little toddler in a white sundress and cowgirl boots to barrel into him. "playtime!" she shouts, barely even processing the man attached to the leg she'd caught herself around.

his old cowboy hat falls off of her head and on his feet. he's on autopilot, his brain not catching up to the forefront of his mind yet, as he bends to grab it for her, anything to avoid the look in your eyes.

"t'ank you!" she says, flashing him a toothy grin, a prominent gap in the middle of her little baby teeth. she's off again before he can get another word out, but not before he sees her eyes. pale gold-green and glittery; the eyes of a dreamer.

a month passed, and beau and you ended up dating. rhett called it, getting a twenty dollar payout from brooks when he recovered from the bout of flu he'd gotten. they'd had a running joke that you'd end up being the girl to tie him down. it was just fact and fate; rhett was dating your best friend, delilah, and brooks was dating abigail, the third to your little friend group. who else would pair together with the single of his friend group, but the single of yours?

his parents brought you up every chance they could. it was an endless cycle of, when are you bringing that sweet girl of yours over? and do we ever get to meet your little girlfriend, beau? as if the town wasn't the size of his pinky, and they hadn't watched you grow up as much as they'd watched him.

beau wasn't keeping you from them, not really. he'd meant to bring you over for your first anniversary, but you'd both gotten a little tied up in each other in the high school parking lot. and then he'd meant to on prom, but your parents wanted pictures even though you were already running late, and, well, he loved your parents, so why would he deny that?

now, there was no escaping it. you'd both just graduated, and on a day full of celebrations, beau thought there was no better time than now to show you off to his family.

the entire family. he didn't intend for his parents and grandparents and every person in between to be back at his farmhouse when he'd drove up the driveway, but why else wouldn't they have been there?

"no." your feet are firmly planted on the car's floor, your arms petulantly crossed over your chest. "no, beau, i did not sign up for this."

"hell, neither did i," he grumbled, turning off the engine and spinning in his seat to face you better. the hand he had on your thigh squeezed reassuringly, a sympathetic smile on his lips. "c'mon, maybe it'll be fun."

your eye twitched. beau loved the hell out of that eye twitch. "is this revenge for our first date?" you asked, a look of disbelief in your eyes, mouth trembling with all of the panicked words that threatened to spill out at once. "when my dad bombarded you at the front door?"

beau blinked. "honestly forgot about that."

"bull."

"bull?" he laughed, putting his hands up in a mockery of surrender. "okay. you're right. i didn't magically forget about the time your daddy walked outside to meet me with a rifle—"

you poked him hard in the shoulder. "unloaded."

"—unloaded rifle." beau snatched that hand of yours and kissed each of your knuckles. "but i did not set this all up. my mama's been pesterin' me about bringin' you over, so i thought now was a better time than ever, and—"

"apparently the entire arlen bloodline caught wind."

beau snapped his fingers with his free hand. "bingo." already, he can see the curtain's ruffling with the breeze and movement inside, shadows dancing across the glow of gold through the thin fabric. he was pretty sure that was his uncle howling with laughter, too, so loud he could hear it through the inside of his pickup. "hey, maybe it'll be fun."

you gave him a look that said you did not believe him within an inch of your life.

"we can drink?" he offered next, running down his list of reassurances. they were dwindling.

"all of your alcohol is water." you lurched forward to poke him again, and he caught your finger once again. more reassuring kisses. they were all he had to offer.

beau hmphed. "forgot about that too."

you could sit in his passenger seat and argue until your face turned blue. so he takes the initiative and let go of your fingers, shoving his door open with his shoulder.

he circled around to your side of the pickup, pulling open your door for you, a hand extended for you to take. "c'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, nodding toward his hand for you to take, "y'look too damn pretty to hide away in my truck all night."

you really did, too. a part of beau felt bad for dropping all of this on you so suddenly, but the other part is damn glad that all of his family gets to find out at once about the pretty girl he'd managed to snag.

you stared at him, and beau really expected for you to put up more of a fight. you'd fought him harder over less, like how much butter and salt to put in your popcorn at the movies. but you took his hand with nothing more than a little sigh.

"let's go meet the arlens."

beau's face had never been so red in his life. his family flitted up to the both of you in waves, always with the same routine. congratulations! what a pretty couple you make! marriage? kids? did his mama tell you about the time he played in cow patties thinking it was mud?

he'd never been so glad to have an excuse to drag you away. your family's graduation party wasn't even until tomorrow, but you'd on the spot made up the lie to save you both.

his intentions were pure. they were! he'd planned to sneak you out of the house and take you down into the woods on his family property, to show you the little rushing river deep in the trails, to show you the trees that he'd carved his name into, like you had with your barn.

and then he'd remembered that barn you had.

far enough away from your house to keep the both of you out of sight from your parents, and unofficially deemed as your special place that they never entered without warning.

the story wrote itself. your last act as reckless teenagers before you delved facefirst into adulthood. he'd insisted on being a gentleman, testing the ladder to the loft and making sure it didn't fall. he even held the top steady when you started the climb up. making it back down would be a different story, but you'd get there when you got there.

the stars were so bright from up there, through the open window in the wall. the moon hung high in the sky, the crickets chirping outside, talking to each other through the wind.

you were on his lap before he could even get properly settled on the dilapidated pile of hay, little pieces tickling along his skin as he shifted into it further to let you get comfortable.

he worked your dress's zipper down carefully through the onslaught of kisses. his tongue swiped against your lips, tasting the faint traces of vodka clinging to your mouth. it was definitely watered down, and definitely his fault, but it only made you all that much sweeter to taste.

your fingers trailed down his flannel, working the buttons open with ease as you stumble across them, until the shirt was open and spilling off of him. beau slipped it off of himself, laying it in a beginning pile in the hay next to your jacket.

the kiss broke, and you lifted your head enough for the moonlight to pour in and light your skin aglow. he couldn't look away for a moment, captivated. your teeth held your bottom lip tight between them, looking up at him through the expanse of your eyelashes, and he's gone. he's gone, he's gone, he's gone.

there was no rush to it, no sense of urgency. it was you and the moon to keep him company, and he didn't want to rush through the good things, not when it came to you.

beau slipped one sleeve of your dress off of your shoulder, his fingertips dancing over your collarbone. he followed their kiss with a proper one of his own, mouthing softly at the sensitive skin until he made his way up to your ear.

the words that came out aren't what he expected. he meant to say i love you, to seal it into your skin with his lips, to embed it into your veins and bloodstream. maybe he even would have said it a few times, permanent ink below your ear, on your neck.

instead, beau said, "marry me."

you stumbled on a laugh, your hands flattening on his chest. "what?"

he should have taken it back. "marry me." he didn't. "don't have to be right now. don't have to be next year, or the year after that. but promise you will."

your eyes glimmered in the moonlight. you looked so damn beautiful. he thought proposing would have been all nerves and jitters, that he'd get cold feet at the simple idea of marriage and commitment, but his mind made the decision for him, and he already knew that you were different. nothing felt hard or scary with you.

"beau," you said his name like a breath, "you're kiddin' me."

he shook his head, and now he was laughing, giddy and bright. his arms encircled your waist, tugging you closer to him in his lap. "say yes."

"no." but you were grinning from ear to ear. "you're crazy, arlen."

"say yes," he whispered again, nuzzling his nose against yours as he steals a kiss. "don't you wanna be a crazy arlen along with me?"

you extended the kiss, prolonging it, your palms going up to his face to hold him that close a little while longer, until you're panting breathlessly on his lips. "yes."

beau eyes popped open. he grabbed your hips with his big hands and flips the both of you so that your back was pressed into the hay. "say it again."

"yes," you nearly squealed with laughter, and he wanted to bottle the sound, he wanted to swallow it whole and never forget how happy you were right here, now, beneath him, "i'll marry you, beau arlen."

your happiness was a virus he was destined to catch; tugging a grin onto his already gleeful expression. "welcome to the arlens," he breathed as he leaned forward and stole another kiss, and another. "now we got somethin' to celebrate on our own."

daisy sits at the kitchen table, legs swinging and kicking straight out in front of her. she has a plate full of peeled apple slices and colby jack cheese cubes in front of her, mindlessly babbling as she pops them into her mouth.

she is oblivious to the tension between you and beau at this table. beau, sat at one end of the table; you, propped up against the other, hipbone digging into the sanded wooden edge.

"when did this happen?" beau asks, and there's some sort of accusation in his tone, but you aren't sure if you really hear it or are just at a predisposition to think negatively about every word from his mouth.

you both stare at each other for a while. certainly he doesn't think that you'd broken your vows when he skipped town. certainly he didn't look at your daughter and not see the arlen green eyes in her.

you glance down at the table, disbelief still clouding in a haze in your eyes. "when do you think?"

when your eyes dance back up to his, his smile is tight-lipped and force. "she's six." it's not a question, or something requiring confirmation. he knew. knew, and just didn't believe what was in front of him, almost like you couldn't, either.

"i am!" daisy pipes in through a mouthful of mashed apples. she offers beau her brightest, toothiest smile. she even had the same dimples as him.

beau spares her a glance, then, like he couldn't any longer ignore the pull toward her. hair in low pigtails over her shoulders, already coming loose around the ponytail holders, shorter strands poking awry from underneath the too big cowboy hat she wore too.

it's tense. you're sure he's going to blow up. beau wasn't really the type to lose his cool, but the beau you thought you knew wasn't this man, either. this man was aged six years, and just as capable of leaving you as much as he promised not to.

daisy holds out an apple for him, kicking beneath the table so wildly that the dining chair's legs screech against the hardwood floor.

he takes it, the tightness of his smile never loosening.

there's something he wants to say. beau always got this twitch on the corner of his lip when he was keeping something back, locked tight away behind a carefully placed mask of coolness. you saw that expression a lot - in high school, when rhett started to get clingy, or brooks got mouthy, or at his family's graduation party, when he was reaching his limit with the endless interrogations. each time, you'd slide in and swoop him away before he popped off with something he didn't mean.

there was no saving him this time, because he'd already lost himself.

you glance out toward the open fields in your backyard. a little playground sits in the dead center of the grassy plains, like it popped out of the earth itself. the chains of the swing ding against the metal poles as the wind blows them wild, bringing inside the scent of daisies and sunflowers.

"coffee?" you ask, because when have you ever been able to help yourself when it came to beau arlen? he'd had you hooked and lined from the beginning. it was just a part of you, by now, that need to calm the storm that brewed behind his eyes.

beau glances over toward the machine by the fridge. "machine's broken."

your turn to smile tersely. "was broken. six years ago."

his parents bought you a new one, after daisy was born. the least they could do, they said, considering their son was across the country living a dream that he promised he wouldn't let get in between you two, while you were at home alone raising his little girl.

there is just as much that you want to say as he does. so much anger and cruelty you want to spew at him, just to hurt him like he'd hurt you.

instead, you turn to the coffee machine to start a pot. it can wait. all of the fighting can wait until daisy isn't here. she was already wrapped up too much in the both of your mess, and she didn't deserve to become a weaponized pawn.

the screen door slams into the wall behind it, just hard enough for you to know exactly who it was without turning around. great.

"where's my pretty li'l berry princess?" abigail calls from the doorway, and from the little whiny fusses, you know that del is right behind her. the guys were probably on diaper bag duty, using that as an excuse to linger in the driveway and smoke.

beau inhales sharply. at least he's aware of how much his leaving and returning would stir things. and now he could fester in his guilt a little more, knowing that his friends and yours rallied behind you.

daisy's out of the chair before you even turn around to greet any of them. her excited squeal and sprint have the cowboy hat falling to the ground again.

the porch steps creak under the weight of the guys' heavy steps, and rhett's cough is a telling sign enough of the cigarette he shared with brooks if the smell wasn't. "delly insisted we bring you some of this cherry pie she made last night—"

"it came out so pretty," del interjects, the closest one to the kitchen doorway now that abigail had gotten hung up with your daughter. "i had to!"

"it's real good, girlie," rhett sighs, a soft thud creaking the floorboards as he drops the diaper bag down, "so damn good, i left it in the car so we can just take it right on back home—"

"rhett gaylestone!"

del peeks her head into the kitchen with a sweet smile. there's a baby carrier across her chest, a tiny head peeking out of it beneath her chin. she doesn't even glance in beau's direction; why would she? no one ever expected beau arlen to show his face back in montana.

"sorry about him," she says, wiping her palms on the skirt of her dress, "you know how the montana boys are. unreliable as sin—"

you watch it unfold. the moment that beau straightens his back, and the movement draws del's attention. she visibly startles, her mouth hung open.

it's a trainwreck. neither of them speak, but the tense smile had yet to leave beau's mouth since the realization of daisy clicked in his head.

"what the hell was all that?" rhett asks with a laugh, coming up behind his wife to prop in the doorway behind her, one hand coming around her to rest his hand on her stomach, just beneath the baby carrier. "about us montana boys being unrelia..." of course rhett would know to look where beau was sitting. they used to sit at the kitchen table, on that exact end beau was at, gambling away pocket money in games of poker, straw hanging out of their mouths. "unreliable."

beau clears his throat. "hey, rhett."

rhett scoffs out a sort of laugh, sounding more discomforted than anything. "brooks owes me twenty bucks."

brooks laughs from the other room. still as oblivious as abigail and your daughter to the fact that her daddy was home now, and what that meant. "no fuckin' way," an audible slap from abigail, and a groan to follow, "sorry, kiddos. no flippin' way. don't flip with me this time, i ain't fallin' for it this time. you can't convince me for nothin' that beau arlen's at that table—"

beau sucks in a deep breath through his teeth. he looks ready to bolt, and you're sure, from previous times, that he will.

"you should stop bettin' against me, williamson." his voice is raspier than it typically is. maybe you'd feel more bad for beau if he didn't do this to himself.

you shake your head. you'd kept silent, and calm, and collected for the last two hours of him being in your space, sharing snacks with you guys' daughter. "no, beau," you say, meeting his gaze when he finally turns it toward you, "i don't think he should."

the river cut through the forest, the sound of rushing water echoing around you. little splashes of waves spilled over the edge of it, sloshing against the damp muddy grass lining it. a little farther up the hill leading down to it, you're perched on a red and white plaid picnic blanket.

there was a book in your hands, held open with your left hand, the wedding ring on your finger glittering under the sunlight. these early days of your marriage were the easiest by far. it felt so natural, being in beau's space, your lives woven together like crochet.

beau was in the river, trying to catch frogs. you didn't remember what even led him to want to, just that you were adamant that you weren't joining him. sunshine was tied to a tree a few feet from you, chewing on patches of grass and whinnying.

"baby, you ain't gonna believe this," beau called from the river, the water splashing as he trudges out of its shallow depths.

you glanced up, and then immediately back down. "i don't wanna see whatever frog you've got captive."

beau laughed, something held in his one hand, the other coming up to run through his wet locks of hair clinging to his forehead. "i gave up on the damn frogs," he grumbled, each footstep squelching beneath him, "ain't no fun when you're a grown adult and not an eight year old. damn things are too quick."

you set your book aside, tucking it back safely in the picnic basket. you snatched a strawberry from the wicker, biting off the sweet end off it. "so what on earth are you about to drop in my lap?"

he flung his arm out at you, throwing stray water droplets across you. you knew he would; that's why you protected your book, after all. you were well adapted to the antics of your husband, by now.

"guess."

"i already guessed a frog." you sat up a little straighter, cringing at the dirty water droplets in your dress. "i lost. now you gotta just tell me."

beau dropped down in front of you, legs crossed, water pouring down his bare torso and onto the corner of the blanket he sat on. he opened up his fingers to reveal what was in his hand.

you blinked a couple of times. "a... rock?"

he groaned. "baby. i love you so much." he leaned forward to snatch your hand, yanking you a little closer to him. "so much, you know that. my beautiful, beautiful girl. you gotta open up that mind a little."

you huffed as you ended up kneeling in front of him, your knees sinking into the wet cloth beneath you. you snatched the rock out of his palm, and just faintly on the rock's smooth surface, in faded white paint, was rodeo champion, beau arlen.

"bingo," he snapped his fingers, leaning up a little to duck his head and see your expression. "told you, remember? when we met? used t'carve my name into tree trunks. used to leave it everywhere."

you tilted your head curiously at it, a small smile curving your lips upward. "i thought you were pretendin' to be arlenville sheriff, not rodeo champion beau arlen."

"when the life of justice got borin', i switched it up." he took the rock back from you, something wistful in his expression as he reads the words over himself. "s'what i wanted the most, y'know."

you did know, somehow. beau wore his dreams and his heart so proudly on his sleeve. you'd lived with him long enough to know that, after work, he'd settle onto the couch, kick his legs up, and turn on reruns of the rodeo championships. he could predict who would win, which bulls were more troublesome than the others, and when a cowboy made a bad call on a dime.

beau glanced up to meet your eyes, that same wistful smile on his lips. "what were your dreams like?" he asked, setting the rock down next to him on the picnic blanket. "not the strawberry princess ones, or the silly ones. what did my little sweetheart see herself growin' up into?"

you hummed a little to yourself, shifting a little so that you could splay your legs over his lap. forget not wanting to get dirty or wet. "a nurse, once," you said, scrunching up your face at the memory, "i used to insist on havin' every baby doll in the market, because i wanted to take care of them. make sure they were alright, y'know?"

beau nods, his arm slipping around your back to cradle you properly against his side. "you would look good in the scrubs," he teased, but you knew, like you always did, that it was never with bad intent.

"mmm, maybe," you agreed idly, "but i didn't want to go through all that school. i wanted to just... just launch into somethin'. and so i shifted gears completely. no more baby dolls, but flowers. made up my own little garden patch just outside that old barn down at my folks' place."

beau's fingers traced lines and shapes down the curve of your spine. "that when the strawberry and the peach princesses come into play?"

you slapped him lightly on the arm, chuckling a little to yourself. "stop it. but yes. del and i planted everything we could to see if it would grow, and call it our princess magic if it did."

"a damn flower girl," beau murmured into your neck, planting little kisses on the skin. "it suits you. what changed?"

"nothing changed," you said, tipping your head to press your temple to his. "i still dream about flowers. havin' a big garden in the backyard, havin' a shop downtown."

beau scooped you up, settling you comfortably in his lap, straddling his waist and the wet denim clinging to his legs. "well, what the hell is stoppin' us now, from gettin' you that flower shop of yours downtown?"

there were those eyes again, the ones you always knew meant bad news, back when you were younger and still dancing on the cusp of being in love and running before he could fully swoop in and steal your heart.

your lips curled, teeth worrying at the bottom one. "maybe nothing. maybe everything."

"no. nothin' is." beau leaned in to capture your lips in his, pulling the bottom one loose from your teeth with his own. "we'll get my baby a flower shop. we'll get you a garden in this backyard. hell, we'll fill all the fields with sunflowers and daisies."

your head fell backward in a laugh. "stop it!" but it's half-hearted, because beau always knew how to lasso you into all of his crazy dreams, and he was already beginning to sell you on it without needing to do much convincing at all.

"we'll name all our kids after flowers," he mumbled against your jawline, kissing upwards until he met the corner of your mouth. "daisy. rose. violet. lily."

"what about the boys?"

beau paused, taking a breath before he stole a proper kiss from your lips. "we jus' won't have boys."

you're silent for a long while. beau always made the impossible and the unachievable seem so pretty and within reach. you lifted your hand to touch his cheekbone, swiping gently across the smooth, sunkissed skin, before you let it fall to the ground next to the both of you, grabbing the little rock he'd placed down.

rodeo champion, beau arlen.

"but then who will continue on with your bull ridin' legacy?"

beau's gaze is unbelievably soft when he meets your eyes. his fingers close around yours, bringing them to his lips to place a gentle kiss to each knuckle. "you're worth more than every dream, sweetheart." again, he kisses each knuckle, one by one, lingering on them this time. "i think a flower girl and a cowboy make a mighty fine pairin'."

you'd let beau tuck in daisy. daisy. his baby girl's name was daisy. she looked just like you, all except for the fire in those pretty green eyes she'd inherited from him. she was tiny, and a little spitfire, and it ached so desperately that he didn't get to watch what shaped this little girl. that, in a way, his absence did more for her than his reappearance had.

her room was a scattered mess of baby dolls and plushie horses. on her small dresser, beau had plucked that old hat of his off of her head and popped it there before he'd scooped her up and tucked her into the baby blue blankets on her bed.

"are you staying?" she asks him quietly, her voice a little slurry and sleep addled, tiny fingers curled into the hem of her blanket, holding it up to her chin.

beau brushes those stray, wild hairs off of your forehead, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her temple. "of course i'm stayin'. and miss out on my future rodeo champion growin' up? no way."

daisy's giggles spread a warmth through his veins that he hadn't felt in this house in far too many years. for the first time since he came back, he felt welcomed, though he knew that it was only because she didn't know, not really, who he was. "mommy told me about you."

"what did mommy say?"

under her little elbow was a little white horse plush, near identical to sunshine. his smile is hesitant, but there, as he drops his hand down to pat its head, and then hers.

"mommy said you were a dreamer," daisy says wistfully, her eyes fluttering as she forced them open, "that you chased things and chased things, no matter what it meant. she said you rode off into the sunset."

beau frowns when her eyes fall shut and stay shut, the rise and fall of her little breaths deepening and slowing. there was a time when people said that about him and meant it in a good way. there was a time when his name was spoken with reverence and awe.

that was before he'd moved up from local rodeos to the big time, where he proceeded to take all of his dreams besides that single, blinding one and dump them away.

one more time, he leans down to kiss the top of daisy's forehead, before he pushes off of the edge of her bed and flicks the light off as he leaves. he pulls the door shut behind him, leaving it gapped so that the golden light in the hallway filtered through. he didn't know if she was scared of the dark. beau didn't know much of anything about his daughter.

he did know, though, that someway, he had to make this right with you. you, who was sitting on the couch in the living room, filtering through channels on the tv screen. you glance up at beau when his steps creak on the old floors, before you quickly glance away.

"i'll put on the rodeo for you."

beau grimaces. like hell he'd want to see what the newer, spunkier cowboys were doing after he'd hung up the hat. like hell he'd want to watch it anyways, not right now, not after those showings were part of the reason his head got too big and he stopped thinking rationally.

"put on the simpsons or somethin'," he waves a hand idly in the tv's direction, "not that shit."

"whatever you want, arlen." you press the remote into the arm of the couch, your smile forced and sickly sweet at once. "you'll be the one down here watchin' it."

beau sidesteps as you pass, his face screwing up in irritation he didn't deserve to feel and confusion. "we're not even gonna talk? you're just gonna go to bed?"

"yes, beau," you toss back at him, spinning on your heel to face him. there it is, he wants to think. the anger he'd expected and didn't get, not once, until the sun fell and the guests cleared and their daughter drifted off. "yes. i'm gonna go to bed. because in the morning, i have to drop daisy off at kindergarten. i have to go to the shop and work. not all of us have the luxury of hangin' up a hat and callin' it done."

beau's lips thin. he nods a couple of times, his arms crossing firmly over his chest. "go on, sweetheart. keep 'em comin'. what else have you been stewin' on while i was gone?"

"you're a coward," slips out of your mouth as easily as i love you once did. "you abandoned everything at the first sight of freedom from this town. you didn't even think twice."

beau shakes his head, now, and doesn't stop. "you think i was free out there?" he takes a step closer to you, towering over you. you don't shrink. not even a little. "you think i felt free any of the days i wasn't in the ring? that i didn't feel suffocated by the weight of your hurt, back here?"

"you don't know a thing about hurt, beau. not if it hit you in the face."

"so hit me in the face. show me how it felt."

your palm cracks across his cheek, his jaw slackening with the force of it, skin reddening beneath the pale brown of facial hair. "there it is," he says out loud this time, a hand coming up to rub at the stinging scruff, "my pretty girl's fire."

"i am not," you shove his chest back, pushing his spine into the back of the couch, "your pretty girl."

beau throws his arms up and glances around. "and why the hell not? you got another man around here i don't know about? hidin' under our bed?"

your eyes flare. he's lashing out. he knows that all he's doing is finding all of your wounds and prodding at them until they rebruise, but he can't seem to stop. "so it's true, then."

"what's true, honey?" his eyebrows bounce, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "you'll have to talk to me if you wanna get pissy with me."

the eye twitch. beau missed everything about you while he was gone, but goddamn, that eye twitch. there was a twisted sort of comfort in the fact that only he could ever bring it out of you.

"you fucked kelsey."

"hey, watch the language, alright?" he tsks. "baby girl's upstairs tryna sleep n' all that."

"you fucked kelsey jones from tv, and now you're projectin', tryin' to make up some random man that i cheated on you with—"

beau's expression sharpens. "never once did i cheat on you." something has gone awry, and his control in this battle of words and anger has slipped. somewhere in your anger and your hurt and his guilt and shame, something got validated that shouldn't have been. "you think i cheated on you?"

"don't even lie to me, beau arlen, i'll go grab a goddamn butcher's knife, and—"

"i. never. cheated. on. you." his voice comes out firmer, and more harsh, than he intends. you fall silent. the echoing buzz of it in his ears is louder than any of your fight, so far. "never once was tempted."

your mouth trembles with, he hopes, anger and not tears. if you started to cry, he'd crumble. every bit of his resolve would crash down. "she wanted to fuck you."

"hell, a lot of people wanted to fuck me," he laughs, tries desperately to dampen the fire, but it only seems to stoke it a little higher. "kelsey jones only saw the big belt buckle. if terry gold had won, she'd have been all over him, too."

you don't even move. beau would have thought time was frozen in place if the simpsons wasn't quietly playing behind him on the tv.

"and 'i didn't think twice' about leaving?" he continues when you still don't say a thing. "sweetheart, i thought about you every damn day. no win was a win without you there, seein' your grinnin' face on the sidelines. i kept chasin' and chasin' because i thought i'd feel good if i won enough, or if i won the right championship, but by the time i realized that it never felt like a win because you weren't there, six years had passed."

not an excuse. beau knows he has no excuse at all for not just immediately turning to go back home, so he wasn't even going to bother trying to make one.

"i was going to tell you when you came home," you say, and the familiarity of your quiet voice is like a knife. "i knew you'd win. i told you that day that all of our dreams were coming true."

beau winces. "i know."

"and then you never came home." the knife plants itself in his heart and twists. the anger rises like a flush over your heated face. "you just kept movin' around, and i was left in your house, with all these little reminders of you, and an even littler one inside of me, and you were gone."

what can he do besides take it? he did make that choice. he made it over, and over, because he was a coward, and didn't want to face this exact conversation.

he thinks you might slap him again. but all you do is walk closer, like you really want him to feel the force of the consequences, until you're close enough for him to breathe in that perfume of yours.

"i can't even say i hate you," you manage, even though the words are stifled and choked on, a physical lump in your throat, "even though i want to."

beau's hands raise to cup your face between them, tilting your head up to properly look in your eyes. his always shimmered with wildness, something uncontained and dangerous; yours shimmered now with tears and everything broken between the two of you.

he doesn't mean to kiss you. he leaned down to whisper his apologies into your breath so that hopefully you'd breathe them in and know he meant them. but beau was not very good at doing the right thing, or the thing he intended to do.

you're tense when your lips meet. you taste like cherry chapstick, or maybe it was the two bites of delilah's cherry pie you'd had. he almost pulls away, has the apology lined up on his lips along with all of the others, but then you grab his face and force him closer.

your grip is harsh. nails bite into beau's skin as he follows your lead, his hands sliding under your thighs and hoisting you up into his arms, helping you to wrap them tightly around his waist. there's a lot of blind stumbling, but he makes it down the hall to your room.

your room, his room, both — what did it matter anymore?

it's even more haphazard as he collapses down on the edge of it, more focused on keeping you planted in his lap than he is on where he's landing. the room is still decorated the same, in the little glimpses he catches between breaths. the pictures in the frames on the dresser, the calendar still months behind, though he wonders if it's now months and years behind.

beau's heart aches, tight and taut behind his ribs, so he kisses you harder. his fingers find the zipper of your dress and start to trail it down, going back up to unclasp your bra in that same swoop.

your hands are on his chest, ripping at the flaps of his flannel, popping the buttons open, some of them flying loose. you look so beautiful in your anger, all bright eyed and flushed. beau lets you peel his shirt off of him, tossing it aside in the room. he lets you run your soft fingertips down his chest until they reach his jeans.

"stupid ass belt buckle," you grumble under your breath, looking up at him through your eyelashes, almost as if you were teasing him rather than trying to hurt him.

but the words hit their mark. yeah, the buckles were stupid, in the long run. he threw away the first six years of his daughter's life and six years with you for this stupid ass belt buckle. he'd wore it home as if it was some sort of flex that this is what his life boiled down to, on his own choices.

"let me make this right," beau murmurs down the column of your throat, sucking little marks into the skin, tasting the bruising skin with his tongue. "i'll make it right."

the belt buckle unclasps, and you're yanking it off of him wordlessly, though he can hear the little pants of breath falling out of your mouth. "can't," you manage to say, tugging open his jeans and trying to pull them off under your own weight.

"can't i try?" beau tugs the sleeve down your shoulder, helps you slip your arm loose from it.

you nudge his face up with your nose and steal a punishing kiss, teeth colliding and pinching the skin of his inner lip between them. "i'd rather you just shut up."

you'd hate him for this in the morning. hell, you'll probably hate him for all of this the moment that your orgasm subsided. he'd take these little moments of tension-ridden peace while he could.

the dress pools down on his waist, hung up by the fact that you were still in his lap, just like his jeans were. beau raises your arms to work the straps of your bra off, tossing it away as aimlessly as you'd thrown his shirt.

he goes back to your throat, trailing kisses downwards now, between the valley of your breasts and everywhere in between.

beau hooks his fingers into your panties with his lips sucking little marks on the tops of your breasts, tugging on the hem. "gotta get up for a sec, baby," he mumbles, kissing the sensitive marks he'd left, "got us at a standstill."

you raise up on your knees, kicking the dress away from you. the look you give him is some variation of malice, but he can look past the lingering hurt and see it for what it was. passion laced in with your anger, turning into something beautiful and violent, lashing against your veins and threatening to get out.

beau kicks his jeans off, his boxers following suit moments afterwards. he grabs you by the waist to get you to step between his legs, tugging your panties down your legs once you were close enough.

the lack of clothes seems to revitalize that rage warring inside of you. you go from complacent and warm against him to looking completely furious that this is happening at all. beau again expects another slap, but it doesn't come this time, either. instead, your hand shoves him back down onto the mattress.

"i want to hate you so bad," you say to him, a wobble to your voice that is more than enough proof that you meant it.

he reaches down for your hand, tugging you on top of him. "show me how bad," he whispers against your mouth, before he teases at your lip with his teeth.

you interlock your fingers with his, and for a second, it feels like it used to, back when you were both twenty and everything was fun and easy. it feels like the cool wind of nostalgia and the warmth of love. you lift the conjoined hands to rest against his chest as you shift from straddling his waist to settling into his lap, sinking down onto him in one slow motion.

beau watches every second. watches as your lips part as he stretches you open, your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones. you still fit so perfectly around him, even if it hurt to admit that. how could he have thought for even a second that there was a dream better than the one he had in his lap?

your eyes lock onto his, and somehow, it's more intimate than your first time together was. more intimate than the entirety of your honeymoon. every emotion flashes across your face at once, and he reaches up to thumb across your cheekbone to wipe away the stray eyelash, though all that was, was just an excuse to touch you.

his other hand finds your hip, reluctantly having let go of your fingers, helping to guide your movements on him, even if you didn't need it. you knew what you were doing, knew what you wanted.

"i'm sorry," beau finally breathes out, the words more of a grunt than anything else. he opens his mouth to say more but you slap your hand over his lips, and it's all he can do not to laugh.

you grind down into his pelvis a little harder this time, smearing slow circles where you're connected, your lips open in wordless pants. "i told you to shut up."

"can't." he groans this time, his hips bucking up into you, the tip of his cock brushing along your cervix. he starts, and can't seem to stop it, as he meets your movements and buries himself into your tight walls. "got too many — too many things to apologize for."

even with glassy, dazed eyes, you manage a glare at him. it's probably the sexiest thing beau's ever seen. "you didn't answer my calls."

"felt like a dumbfuck," his voice is muffled against your palm, and your grip tightens over his mouth like a silent urge to shut the hell up, but he's never been one for listening, "sorry. dumbflip. thought it'd make it worse — when i didn't have an explanation."

you're not usually as domineering as this. you weren't exactly submissive to him, but you'd never held the control you had over him in positions like this and used it against him. because one moment you had a quick, steady pace as you rode him, and now you were agonizingly slow, your jaw ticking.

"you should have answered." beau wasn't listening. he could feel each time you stretched around him and could tell by the way your thighs tightened around his when he'd hit that spot deep enough inside of you to make you squirm. your hand squishes his face between your fingers to draw beau's attention again. "should have answered. should have checked in."

"i'm sorry." what was he even apologizing for again? all beau could think about was how his head was tipped back to meet the stern look in your eyes, and how pretty your mouth looked when it was pursed in that little pout. god, he was going to fucking bust like a teenager. "won't do it again."

"that's a terrible apology."

"sorry." all he can say is sorry. he'd been reduced to a mess of a man beneath you, and when he seemed to be reaching the point of desperation that you wanted him at, you finally stopped fighting against his grip's guidance and quickened your pace again. "really sorry, baby."

you move your hand away from his mouth, replacing it with a kiss that was almost loving, slow and languid. "you've got six years to make up for in one night. good luck."

yeah. good luck, alright. he didn't think he'd make it to the morning alive.

the adrenaline and the thrill that came from being in the bullring was an intoxication of its own, but beau found that it was nothing at all compared to the look on your face when he found you in the stands.

he'd pull you half over the gate and kiss the daylights out of you, until your lips were swollen pink and his ached with the loss of it. he'd stand on the podium with the local montana championship buckle on his belt, and it wouldn't even settle in that he'd won at all until you were dragging him back to his truck in the parking lot.

the people around town started saying his name differently now. he was outgrowing the reputation that he, rhett, and brooks had left as a heathen montana boy and was becoming his own name. a renowned name. one that, he could tell, you were proud to have attached next to yours.

"did you see?" you asked him one day at breakfast, sliding the newspaper across the table to him. "the next rodeo's gonna have scouts for the big leagues."

you were always his biggest fan. you told him to pursue this dream of his, ensured him that it was just as important as yours were to him, and so it only made sense that he take this next step for you. that he outshine every other guy in the county and take it big, down to dallas, texas.

and so he did. beau sustained a minor ankle sprain and a dislocated arm, but by god, did he ride hard, setting a local record and capturing the eye of that scout.

dallas has been waiting for a guy like you to come out, the scout told him. and beau saw gold; bright, shining, blinding gold.

"come with me," beau said the night before he had to leave, throwing handfuls of clothes and necessities into a duffel bag. he dreamt big, but he didn't plan big, and when given a week before the championship, he'd waited until two days before it to start and finish his packing.

you're taking the hangers that he tosses onto the bed, hanging them back up in the closet. "can't. i've got a shop to run and a horse to keep happy."

"sunshine'll live without her favorite girl for a few days."

"okay. scratch that." you snatched his stetson off of the dresser and put it delicately on your head. "someone's gotta hold it down here in arlenville."

beau laughed heartily, shaking his head in pure, unbridled amusement. "and you've taken up the mantle?"

"a sheriff's gotta do what a sheriff's gotta do."

he wanted to keep pushing, but he knew that you were stubborn — and right. you had a shop here to run, had a garden to maintain, and someone did have to watch over sunshine. as much as he wanted you there alongside him, he understood where you were coming from.

"i'm gonna bring it home, baby," he said when he rises to his feet, zipped up duffel sitting on the end of the bed. he tugged you into his arms, dipping down to kiss you once, twice. "gonna get the gold."

"i know," you nuzzled up into him, noses brushing together, "my cowboy can do anything."

beau ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "i should teach you how to ride," he murmurs, leaving little kisses down your cheek, just below your ear. "give her a li'l lesson on cowgirlin' up before i head out."

you laughed as he scooped you up in one arm, his other hand adjusting the hat properly on your head.

beau had put the hat back on you, too, that next day, when he was about to head out on the road. "keep it nice n' warm for me."

"don't you want it for good luck?"

beau's eyes ran all over you, his expression melting at the sight of you. "no. don't need it. i'll be back after this competition, baby," he promises, brushing a knuckle over your cheekbone, "and i've got all the good luck i need right here."

he brings his ring finger up to his lips, kissing the wedding band he wore. your eyes were a little glossy, but you still looked beautiful. a little nervous, maybe, but so was he.

beau takes a hold of your face between his bigger palms and drags you down to press his lips to your forehead, lingering there for awhile.

"i've got to tell you something," you breathed onto his lips, glancing between the both of his eyes. "but i'm gonna wait until you're home again. gotta keep your head on straight, don't you?"

beau laughed, taking your hand to kiss your wedding ring, too. "my head's always a little screwy around you."

"i'm serious," you laughed, too, and there those tears were again. he wished he could take them away, if only so you didn't look so devastated about these few days apart. "all of our dreams are coming true, beau."

he nodded, leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose once more. "they are," he agreed, brushing your hair out of your eyes, "and we've got so many more to make."

letting go of you was the hardest decision he'd ever made. if beau didn't, then, he wouldn't have. he'd have stayed there in your arms and wiped away all of those tears as they fell. but some dreams were infinite and some had a time limit, and he wasn't capable of letting this one slip through his fingers.

"i love you!" you called from the porch, waving at him through the windshield of his truck as he turned the engine.

beau hopped up to sit in the open window of the driver's seat, head peeking out over the roof of the truck. "i love you more, baby."

you open your mouth like you were going to argue, but you must have known that again, it would have kept him there for hours, going back and forth until one of you caved and you wound back up in bed.

he gives you a little wave this time, as he shifts to settle back into the driver's seat. beau starts to back out of the dirt driveway, alternating between your shrinking form on the porch, waving at him, and looking out the rearview mirror.

leaving one dream for another. it made him feel a little sick, knowing that he was leaving you here and not having you next to him, but at least it wasn't forever. at least it was just a few days that he'd be gone, and then he'd get to see you again.

just a few days.

the sun crested over the hill that the arlen farmhouse was planted upon, spilling bright gold through the glass and onto the sheets that you'd gotten tangled up in. last night was a blur of sweat and sex and too many apologies to count. at some point, you'd deemed beau forgiven enough to get some sleep, even though you felt a little nauseous over the thought of beau in the bed next to you.

too familiar, and yet not enough so.

at least beau seemed to get it, in a way. it may have taken a fight and a few mean words to get through to his skull that this wasn't something that could be solved in one night. he'd missed the birth of his little girl. he'd missed her first steps, first words, and her first lost tooth. missed her first day of kindergarten.

you felt as angry at him for it as you felt guilty. you did try to tell him, but beau didn't pick up the phone, and there was never a solid address to send letters to. you'd tried, but it still wasn't his fault that you found out about the pregnancy the day that he left. it was just his fault that he chose to not come back.

beau shifts a little in his sleep, his arm tossed over your waist and tucking you closer into his chest. he still smells a little like sex, but underneath it all is that cologne of his that you'd missed so desperately.

"g'mornin', sweetheart," beau rasps into your hair, pressing a kiss into the mop of it, just behind your ear. his voice is like gravel and sin. you'd both changed a lot in these last missed years, but fundamentally, he was still beau, and you were still yourself.

you see those traces of him in his smile when you tilt your head up to meet his sleepy eyes. the alarm clock on his side of the bed read 5:43. you'd have to start rallying daisy for breakfast, soon, so she had enough time to play and watch cartoons before school, like she always did.

just because your life routine changed didn't mean that hers had to.

beau brushes the hair away from your forehead. "what's goin' on in that pretty head of yours?"

"nothing." too quick to reign true. what was the point of trying to lie, anyways? you'd already slept with him. the anger was already dealt with, leaving nothing but a dull sort of ache in its place. "just... thinking how i have to wake daisy up, soon."

and that you felt a little guilty for everything. guilty for the fight. guilty for kissing him. guilty for pulling him back into your bed like he hadn't walked out on you. guilty for hearing his apologies and still not knowing whether it was safe to forgive him.

his smile doesn't fade, not even for a second. there's still the underlying fear that he was going to leave again, but at least there was the reassurance that he was still beau arlen, sweet as a man could be when he wasn't so caught up on the what ifs.

"let me."

your eyebrows furrow. you open your mouth to insist otherwise, but he steals a kiss before you can. his lips dance with yours slowly, savoring the taste and the familiarity of the motion. "i'm serious, baby. let me."

beau shifts again behind you, this time to ease you onto your other side to face him better. words don't come to the surface now that you need them to.

"what was her first word?"

"baba." you smile a little, thinking back to little daisy in your arms, her tiny fingers grasping impatiently for the bottle in your fingers. "she was hungry."

he smiles, too, a shadow replica of yours. just as hesitant, sad; the same feeling of loss over what could have been a shared memory. "first steps?"

"she ran." you lean your forehead against his, closing your eyes for a second, remembering those days when she was littler but just as rambunctious, barreling into everything without a care of the scrapes and the bruises. "i was walkin' with her, holdin' her up on my feet, and she just... took off."

"sounds like you," beau teases, kissing the tip of your nose.

you snort, opening your eyes again. "no. it sounds like you."

beau's little smile fades. he brings a hand up to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb across it. "i'm sorry," he whispers, sincerity oozing out of the words so thick that you could almost taste their bittersweet honey, "i should have been here. hell, i should have long already been here."

"you should have answered the phone, too."

he nods. "should have done a lot of things differently."

it's not that you didn't forgive him, or that you were entirely angry with him. those feelings still existed, but at least he was here now, and at least he knew he messed up. you couldn't exactly make a proper judgement call on if he'd changed and learned from those mistakes, now; not until he proved that he meant these pretty promises he was making.

"daisy..." beau mumbles to himself, a little huff of a laugh falling from his lips, now. "i can't wait to get to know her."

"she's just like you," you say, desperately hoping that he ignores the voice crack in your words. "full of dreams and energy and wonder. she's great, beau. she's really great."

the pad of beau's thumb swipes underneath your eye, tracing the lift of your cheekbone. "we gotta get the hell up," he says around a yawn, a dimple poking through his muss of facial hair as he gives you a little grin, "we've got a little girl to drop off at school."

TWO YEARS LATER —

daisy is seven, almost eight. she calls beau dad with ease, even though she had from the moment that she met him. she brings home report cards with straight a's and b's and notes from the teacher about being a little bit mouthy, a little bit wild, but otherwise a wonder to have in class.

beau has her in front of him on the swingset, pushing her even though she insists she can do it herself. he knows she can, but he has a lot of parenting to make up for, and he was so damn glad to.

inside the house, he could hear the chattering of his friends and yours, cleaning up the remnants of a get-together dinner. ella gaylestone is just as crazy as rhett was, and so she was leashed to his belt loop to keep from running and tearing things up, even though beau knew that she just wanted to come out here and play, too.

he was picking up these things, these natural instincts that came with being a parent. rhett and delilah probably knew that their little girl wanted to play, but they also knew that sometimes, like now, daisy just wanted some time with beau.

he'd never deny his baby girl these moments, either.

abigail was pregnant with her and brooks's first. a boy; the first boy to get granted heir to the montana boys legacy, they'd said, though the girls were already proving themselves to be just as worthy too. daisy was so clever, and ella was crazy; they would pick up where beau, rhett, and brooks left off just fine.

"daddy, you never told me about the bull ridin'," daisy says suddenly, craning her head back over her shoulder to look at him. her green eyes were so pale and bright in the setting sun. "i thought you'd have so many stories."

she loved sunshine as much as beau had once loved moonlight. you and beau had signed her up for horse riding lessons that she didn't need, not when she was already a natural. she was his kid, through and through.

"what do you want to know?"

she hums, tapping her fingers along the chains she holds onto. "was it scary?"

"very scary."

"why did you do it then?"

beau wasn't very good with the why questions that came with parenting, though, but was any parent? he mimics her humming noise, just to make her laugh. "sometimes the scary things are the best things."

it was as good of an answer as he could give. that was something she'd learn with time, just like he'd learned how to slip into the role of father. something innate that clicked into place when the time was right.

it'd been terrifying to leave you, that day. it'd been terrifying to come back. it'd been terrifying falling in love with you, and even more so when he fell deeper in love. it'd been horrifying to meet his daughter at six years old. all of those things were things that he did not regret.

he glances out toward the open fields of land behind the arlen family home. daisies and sunflowers and, now lining the fence of their yard, roses. the wind blew and with it came the sweet smell of flower petals and pollen.

the back porch door swings open, and out toddles a wobbly stepped little girl, heading straight for the playground. rhett looks a bit sheepish in the doorway, tossing his hands up in exasperation. "she's got a mind of her own."

"that's alright," beau reassures, slowly pulling daisy's swing to a stop, even with her protests. "you gonna be okay hangin' out with uncle rhett and little ella?"

"do i get to stay up late tonight?" already bargaining with him. daisy arlen was definitely his little girl. you'd been right about her being just like him.

beau sighs dramatically. "i guess so. only tonight, though. you've got school again in a couple days."

daisy picks up ella and puts her on her hip, and it nearly makes beau's knees buckle. he doesn't want her to grow up just as much as he does want her to. it's so bittersweet, watching kids become adults, seeing how quickly it all happens. he used to carry daisy on his hip like that.

he turns to head back inside, waving away rhett's offer of a cigarette as he does. brooks seems to smell the cigarette through the florally scents in the wind and passes beau on his way in.

"they're havin' girl talk," brooks warns, snatching rhett's cigarette from between his lips, "good luck in there."

beau snorts. what did beau need luck for when he's already gotten lucky enough to have earned your forgiveness and your trust again?

still, he lingers a little longer in the kitchen, listening in for a good time to dip in and see you again. no amount of time anymore was enough time with you, in his mind.

"do you know what it is, yet?" abigail. beau smiles a little to himself, knowing exactly what they were talking about.

your voice chimes in next, a little hum to the words out of your mouth. "no. i don't think we want to know, either."

"that couldn't be me. i had to know the second i could." delilah. her voice is louder than the others, and before he knew it, she was about to run straight into him. "oh, sorry, beau. girlie, your beau's in here!"

beau shakes his head, stepping out of her way. delilah goes straight for the lemonade pitcher, and so beau goes ahead and grabs her a cup. "very original, delly."

"hey, i got a lot of cheesy beau jokes to catch up on!"

beau snorts, letting delilah pour her glass of lemonade before he steals it right from her hand, dipping out of the kitchen and into the living room as she protests behind him.

"beau," you say with a little sigh, looking up from your spot in the rocking chair to meet his eyes. he comes to stand next to you, bending down to kiss your temple.

abigail's nails tap mindlessly on her own lemonade glass. "maybe you will tell me," she says, sitting up straighter, "since your girl here won't."

you roll your eyes fondly, your hand coming up to steal beau's off of the armrest. he lets you take his hand, tracing shapes on his palm with your fingertips. "she's being nosy."

"i'm always nosy! so tell me!" abigail looks over at beau, now, one hand strewn over her swollen belly. "what are your name ideas?"

beau huffs out a laugh, taking the stetson off of his head and draping it on top of yours. "this is what that's about?"

"told you," you hum, your free hand lifting up from your own swollen belly to adjust the brim of the hat on your head, "nosy, nosy."

beau doesn't mind it, though. he's got years of talking about his kids and boasting about his family to make up for. "rose. we were thinkin' rose."

notes. u may be thinking omfg dahlia finally watched big sky !! beau arlen !! no i did not. i stole his name and the lil info i could find on the big sky wiki n i made an au <3 bc that is my specialty!!! not knowing canon shit so i make aus!!! terrified to post this literally bc what if the beau arlen lovers think i did bad. i will pretend i don't see. anyways this is long asf sorry i had a STORY TO TELL !!! LOL

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @couturewinx @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

blue has always been a color of negativity for kaiser.

his blue rose tattoo, the blue highlights of his hair, the blue eyes that ever so resembled his father’s, the blue rose perched atop his counter in his childhood home from his mother before she left, the blue bruises that were constantly left on his body by his father, the blue lips of his whenever his father left him outside on a cold winter day for too long, the blue veins on his wrist that he was always ever so close to cutting.

but with you, blue has a different meaning.

blue is the tinted color of your tongue and lips whenever you’re eating a blue raspberry flavored lollipop. blue is the color of your nail polish whenever you go to a game of his to cheer him on. blue is the color of the sky when you first confess to him in that park that you first met him in when you were little. blue is the color that coats your eyelids when you try to put blue eyeshadow on. blue is the color of your cheeks whenever you try to paint something blue but end up making a mess. blue is the color of the gem of your shared engagement ring with him.

to kaiser, blue is the color of negativity and bad memories. but when he’s with you, blue is the color of love, happiness, freedom, and nostalgia that he wants to cling onto even when he’s old and graying.

[seungcheorry]

dino will be damned if he doesn't spend some time with you. his body longs for you just as much as his heart, and he knows he can literally fall down to his knees if he spends another moment away from you.

so when he's back from tour, he makes sure to let you know that you're his for the weekend. no invitations, no phones allowed, just you and him.

dino locks the door as soon as you're both home on friday night. he makes sure to let his family, friends and manager know that he's okay, he'll just be away from his phone for a bit - and then he vanishes for two whole days.

he does because he's too busy pampering you, and i'm talking full spa experience. dino washes your hair, so you wash his too; he tries to get your nails done in a deep blue nail polish he found abroad, but he's a disaster at it - and he pouts as he apologizes.

he does because he's too busy catching up with you, cooking dinner side by side with you as you tell him whatever he has missed while being away. dino remembers that last scene your cousin caused because of that old family beef, but what happened after that? please tell him.

he does because he's too busy napping with you, waking up at 11pm just to eat a snack, and then going back to sleep again. and then-

he does because he's too busy making love to you, his body asking for attention at an ungodly hour, and not letting you sleep till the break of dawn.

but, most importantly, dino does because he loves you. so dearly, so much, so deeply. he could spend the rest of his days locked up with you.

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

CRAZY

rafe cameron x fem!reader

(mood board does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)

SUMMARY: y/n knows exactly what makes rafe angry, and after a fight she uses it to her advantage.

based on this ask !! i hope it’s what you asked for anon, enjoy my lovely <3

(check out my other drew starkey & rafe cameron works here !!)

WARNINGS: lowkey a toxic relationship, cursing, rage has anger issues, reader is a teensy bit petty, angst but w/ a fluffy/soft ending though !! (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

THIRD PERSON +

The fight had been bad—bad enough that Y/N had stormed out of Rafe's truck, slamming the door behind her so hard the sound echoed through the empty parking lot.

Her chest heaved with frustration, fingers trembling as she dug into her bag for her phone. She needed space. She needed air. And, most of all, she needed to get away from Rafe before she said something she couldn't take back.

Their relationship had always been intense, an unrelenting push and pull that left them both breathless. Rafe loved hard, and he fought even harder, his jealousy and temper a storm she'd learned to navigate. Most of the time, she knew how to calm him down—knew exactly what to say to keep the fire from burning too hot. But tonight? Tonight, she didn't want to be the one to fix it.

Her finger hovered over the settings on her phone, her heart racing as she tapped the switch to turn off her location. She knew it would piss him off. That was exactly why she did it.

The messages started almost immediately.

Rafe🖤: Where the fuck are you?

Rafe🖤: Turn your location back on, Y/N.

Rafe🖤: Don't do this right now.

Y/N ignored them, walking the short distance to her house. She needed a night to herself, away from his sharp words and possessive hands. By the time she locked her front door behind her, her phone had blown up with missed calls, each one filling her with a strange mix of satisfaction and guilt.

She tossed it onto the couch and sighed, running a hand through her hair. She hated fighting with him. Hated the way it drained her, leaving her restless and exhausted all at once. But at the same time, she couldn't just keep letting him get away with his controlling tendencies.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A night of self-care—it was exactly what she needed.

—

Rafe was losing his mind.

He was pacing his bedroom, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists. He'd called her a dozen times, sent twice as many texts, and nothing. The read receipts taunted him. She was ignoring him on purpose.

His heart hammered in his chest, but it wasn't just anger. It was fear.

He knew Y/N, knew she was stubborn and fiery, but she wasn't reckless. She wouldn't just disappear—unless she wanted to prove a point.

"Fuck," he muttered, shoving his hands through his hair. He grabbed his keys off the nightstand and stalked out of his house. If she wasn't going to answer him, he'd go straight to where he thought she’d be.

—

Y/N had just finished painting her nails when the loud, insistent pounding on her front door made her jump.

She groaned, already knowing exactly who it was.

"Y/N. Open the goddamn door."

Rolling her eyes, she stayed where she was on the couch, letting him stew. She wasn't about to let him ruin her night of peace.

More knocking. Harder this time.

"Seriously?" she called out, still not moving. "Go home, Rafe."

"Not happening," he shot back, voice muffled but unmistakably pissed.

Y/N sighed, setting down her nail polish bottle with exaggerated patience. She padded to the door, taking her sweet time before unlocking it and swinging it open.

Rafe stood there, broad shoulders tense, blue eyes blazing with frustration. His chest was rising and falling with uneven breaths, like he'd been barely keeping himself together the whole drive over.

"You think this shit is funny?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

She arched a brow. "What are you talking about?"

He scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "You turned your location off, ignored my calls—what the fuck was I supposed to think, huh?"

She crossed her arms, unbothered. "That I wanted space?"

Rafe clenched his jaw, running a hand down his face. He was furious, but more than that, he was relieved. Seeing her standing there in pajamas, a face mask on, her nails half-painted—she hadn't been out doing something reckless. She hadn't been with someone else. She was just... here. Safe.

That realisation made his anger simmer just enough to be replaced with something else.

His shoulders dropped, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "You could've at least told me you were home."

Y/N sighed, some of her stubbornness fading at the exhaustion in his voice. "I just... needed a break, Rafe. From the fighting, from the way you get when you're mad." She shook her head. "I didn't want to deal with it tonight."

His lips pressed into a tight line, and for a moment, she thought he'd argue. But then he surprised her by exhaling slowly and nodding. "I get it," he muttered.

She blinked, caught off guard by his sudden agreement. "You do?"

"I don't like it," he admitted, his voice lower now. "But yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, the anger fading as something heavier took its place. "I just—I fucking hate not knowing where you are. It drives me crazy."

Y/N sighed, her frustration waning. She knew Rafe wasn't like this for no reason. He loved her, even if he didn't always know how to show it in a healthy way.

She stepped closer, hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I just... needed time to breathe."

Rafe looked down at her, his blue eyes searching hers. After a beat, he nodded again. Then, without a word, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her up in a tight embrace.

Y/N exhaled against his chest, feeling the tension between them ease just a little. He was still possessive, still overbearing, but he was trying. And for now, that was enough.

"Can I stay?" he mumbled into her hair.

She let out a soft chuckle. "You already let yourself in, so yeah."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his grip on her tightening. "I'll make it up to you."

Y/N pulled back slightly to look up at him. "Damn right you will."

He smirked, then pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "C'mon. Let's go to bed."

An hour later, they were tangled up together in her bed, limbs intertwined beneath the covers. Rafe's arms were wrapped securely around her, like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

Y/N felt herself start to drift off, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. Despite everything—the fights, the chaos—she knew she wouldn't trade this for anything.

Because for all his flaws, Rafe Cameron loved her in a way that no one else ever could. And if he had his way—no one else ever would.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was a short little one, but i’m trying to get through as many request before i go on holiday !! the ‘sports car’ drew starkey fic may be posted when i return as i’ll be taking a tumblr break for that week :)

still send in any requests, i’ll be working through my inbox until then !! some of these i’ve been writing for a couple weeks i’ve just had writers block lmao

[peachdues]

THE SWEET, FAR THING — NSFW TEASER

Knight!Kyojuro x Princess!Reader • Royal AU

A/N: surprise! It’s been so long since I’ve posted any Kyojuro content, and this fic has been my quiet project since originally teased. I love royal AUs, and I love a good forbidden love story.

Enjoy a first look at some of the spicy, smutty goodness to come in The Sweet, Far Thing. But be warned: these two blue ball the living daylights out of each other for several chapters. This fic will be one of the first breaks in my usual pattern of letting characters bone the first chapter.

You can read the prologue and find links to the other teasers HERE

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content • grinding • lots and lots of sexual tension • Kyojuro’s got self control but it’s rapidly fraying • Reader’s a bit of a brat

shoutout to @tearmint for letting me flood their DMs with this

The scroll of containing the young Lord Agatsuma’s flowery prose lies forgotten on the floor, hidden beneath the layers of Kyojuro’s discarded uniform. Across the polished wood floor, you’ve been hoisted by your Knight into a distant corner of your room, your legs wrapped firmly around his bare waist.

The great roaring fire in your hearth bathes the dark room in an orange glow. Its flickering brilliance, however, seems dull in comparison to the flames in Kyojuro’s eyes as he grinds his bare member harder against your drenched sex.

He grunts as he ruts his hips into yours, mimicking the movements you’re so desperate for him to make while he’s buried inside you. He leans forward and catches your lips in a bruising kiss. Another thrust, and the thick, leaking head of his cock nearly snags at your entrance.

You gasp into his mouth just as he moans into yours. For one, foolish moment, you hope he will cast caution into the flames where it belongs and finally make his claim on you.

But Kyojuro’s self-restraint will forever be the bane of your existence, for he twists swiftly out of reach, the blunt head of his cock instead shoving into the crease of your thigh. He breaks your kiss with a ragged pant, though he resumes his desperate, jolting rut.

Your nails bite into the thick, corded muscles of his shoulders as Kyojuro’s length passes through your wetness again, though slower than before. There is a shadow of a smirk on his lips as he studies you, brow furrowed, your mouth pulled into a faint pout as you buck into him.

You will catch him; you will take him into your body, and then you will be his. He just needs to stay still —

“My Flame,” Kyojuro leans in and nips the soft spot beneath your ear in warning. “Stop.”

“Please,” you try and guide him back to your entrance, your fingers fisting in his hair to force his obedience.

Kyojuro seals his moan against your throat as your nails graze his scalp, but he stills your efforts by pressing you harder into the wall. The solid weight of him only flames the ache of your longing.

He pulls his face away from your neck. Despite the flush of his cheeks, his eyes remain sharp. “I cannot have you. You know this.”

“You can,” you insist with a demanding roll of your hips. “I command it.”

You try once more to maneuver your way back to him, to coax his thick, turgid length right where you need him most, but Kyojuro tenses. Slowly, he unsticks himself from where he’d pressed you solidly to the wall, shifting his arms out from under your legs, returning your feet gently back to the floor.

“If that is your command, your Highness, then you will have to send me back to the barracks for punishment. For I cannot obey.”

Kyojuro tries to turn away, but you catch his forearm, your fingers digging insistently into its thick muscle.

“Why?” And his heart strains at the plea in your tone. “Why must you continue to deny me? I would give you all of me, if you’d only allow it.”

Kyojuro guides you back into his arms, his lips pressed to your forehead until his mark is seared into your skin, before pulling away. He brushes a knuckle across your cheek. “Can this not be enough? Is it not enough that I risk your ruin — never mind my own head — so that we might be close like this? Are you so unsatisfied?”

You jerk away from him, swatting his hand from your face. “Yes. Because I have told you I care not about any pompous lord or prince of a distant land. I want you. Completely.” You know you are doing yourself no favors by acting like the spoilt, petulant princess you’d always tried so very hard not to be, but Kyojuro’s rejection strikes at some soft, unguarded part of you, and you are too easily bruised. “Yet you continue to only give me half of you.”

Kyojuro bristles, eyes narrowed. “I have lain with you in every sense of the word —“

“Except for how I desire you most,” you finish, cool, so as not to let the bitterness of your disappointment show. “You have had my body in every other way, yet this is where you draw the line?”

Kyojuro’s shoulders are rigid as he snatches his tunic from the foot of your bed. “Do not trivialize yourself for the sake of your argument. You know as well as I that the kingdom’s viability rests entirely on your marriage prospects.”

You storm to his side, still as nude as the day you were born, your loose hair spilling down your bare breasts. You plant your hands on either side of his face and twist, forcing him to meet your stare head-on. “I would marry you. I will march before my father this moment and declare I will have no other.”

You press your body against his, every soft, unblemished curve of you molding perfectly with the solidness of him. Though his limbs are rigid with restraint, he cannot stop himself from cradling your face between his palms.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Princess —“

“I dream of you inside me,” you breathe against his lips. Kyojuro’s fingers curl into your cheeks, and his breath turning ragged. “Every night, I dream of it; of how you might lay me back against the bed and make me yours. How you would feel, sheathed within me.”

“Y/N,” his desperate plea is little more than a gasp of air; a whimper for mercy you will not give.

You dig deeper into the wound you’ve opened. “I dream of you putting your claim in me.” You stretch tall on your toes, pressing your lips just below the notch in his throat. “I would carry your child for all the kingdom and those beyond to see. I dream of it so fervently that I am aching when I awake.”

You tease up the length of his neck, kissing his chin once, twice, before settling on his mouth. He indulges you with a soft, pleading moan. His tongue brushes your bottom lip right before you break away.

“You desire me; that much is clear.” Your fingers trail down his torso, finding your proof where it stands taut against his abdomen. “Do you not dream the same?”

Of course he did.

It is his most dangerous, most treasured fantasy. One he’d held even long before he ever began training to be a knight, back when he’d been young and foolish and dreamed of marrying not the Princess of his beloved kingdom, but his dear childhood friend. The girl he trailed after during her family’s lavish feasts, stealing away with her under tables to watch revelers drink and dance and sparkle the way all adults seem to, when one is young. And as he laughed as you would sneak a small hand out from beneath the table’s cover to tickle some lord or lady’s ankle and startle them, he imagined one day whisking you out onto the dance floor. He, in some handsome, smart finery he’d seen the other young lords wear; you, resplendent in the finest of gowns, a crown of jewels sat atop your head.

It is all he has ever wanted; to have you, openly. His love and devotion to you a display that did not have to be concealed in the shadowy corners of your chambers.

But he’d always known it could never come to pass. It was why he’d been able to hold back, even when you were as you are now, bare before him, demanding he lay you out on your bed and claim you for good.

Your thumb strokes his cheek. “Will you continue to deny me? When you swore an oath to serve me?”

You were not his to possess; to love. You belonged to the kingdom and its people. Your people.

Not him. Never him.

You know his answer before he speaks it; can see it in the way his eyes lift to yours, pained yet resigned. Kyojuro withdraws reluctantly, his hands dropping to your wrists before stepping away from you entirely.

“I serve the kingdom.”

He doesn’t need to clarify. Not you.

Kyojuro would rather swallow his own sword than raise a hand to you; you know that. Yet his words are an ugly, vicious slap and you recoil all the same.

The sharp bite of your nails into your palms is all that helps you keep your voice steady, even as embarrassment warms your cheeks.

“If that is your answer,” you swallow once, and force your chin high. “Resume your post then, Sir Rengoku. You’re not needed here.”

He makes as though to say something more, to protest, fight back, do anything that might prove someone in this castle cares for you, not merely what you represent. But even Kyojuro, kind, sweet, loyal Kyojuro cannot elevate you above his own duties. He cannot be fully yours.

Instead, his hand balls at his side. “As you wish, your Highness.”

You’ve put your back to him now, too prideful to allow him to see the silly tears burning in your eyes under the sting of his rejection. Even as your fingers find your dressing robe, the material sliding silkily over your shoulders as you conceal your bare body from sight, you can imagine the curt nod of his head; the ease with which he slips back into his mask as Captain of your guard.

A small, childish part of you longs to lob one of the small pillows decorating your bed right at his head. You opt instead, however, to stare into the fire burning merrily in your lavish hearth.

You try not to linger too long on the way the flames dance like his hair in the wind; how its warmth caressing your face feels dangerously close to his hands; his lips.

Behind you, Kyojuro silently gathers his own abandoned attire. Your ears are painfully tuned into every snap of leather, every shift of metals as he completes his metamorphosis with careful precision.

He cannot help but hesitate as he dresses, silently willing you to face him, to say something — anything — but the only sound that passes between you are the ones of him preparing to leave. Again.

Resigned, he makes his final adjustments to his uniform, his armor, and then slips quietly to your chamber door. He chances one, last hopeful glance back at where you stand before the hearth before pulling the door shut.

You do not turn around.

[suhtorus]

first day.

fluff‐parents au. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ preschool teacher!nanami. our little sunshines go to school ! for more info/context, read nanami's part in the masterlist :)

little sunshines au

nanami stands by the gates, observing and greeting everyone with a smooth 'good morning'. he's already making mental notes about each kid, their behavior during drop-off, and who their parents and siblings are.

there are lots of new faces, but most of these new alumni are related to kids he's already familiar with.

he sees the gojo sons walk in with matching 'Nemo' backpacks, and the youngest, with his red-rimmed eyes, clutches his brother's hand tightly.

a crier, he notes.

but before he can keep watching them, he feels a little one hug his legs with all their might.

"nanamin! meet my babies!"

with a small smile and raised brows, nanami crouches down to yuuji's height. he notices a boy and a girl who look incredibly alike, staring at him with curious eyes.

"hello." he waves at the twins before turning back to yuuji. "are they your cousins?"

"they're my babies!" little yuuji yells excitedly, running over to the kids and grabbing the girl's hand. "uncle 'kuna says I'm not their uncle! but I am! and-and cho–"

"good morning." megumi greets nanami politely, interrupting yuuji's rambling. he has a small girl holding his hand—his younger sister, nanami recalls as megumi pecks the top of her head. "my baby."

nanami can't help but let out a chuckle. "oh? you come with a baby of your own, too?"

the itadori twins can't keep their eyes off of the zenin toddler, the extroverted girl already showing them the glittery nail polish on her fingernails.

nanami faintly hears the geto twins chatting with tsumiki right outside their classroom while the gojo kids chat between themselves. and after realizing he has almost the entire preschool surrounding him, he rises back to his full height and offers them a gentle smile.

"why don't we put those backpacks away?"

and that's how nanami kento starts his day, with a small army of kids that look like baby ducks following after him.

ten minutes earlier.

GOJO FAMILY

"why is he cryin'?"

your five-year-old tilted his head in confusion while your youngest clung onto you desperately, his wails catching the other kids' attention and threatening to start a chorus of crying children.

"baby, mama promises you'll be veeeeery happy at school." you wiped his tears, smiling and ignoring the lump in your throat. "you're gonna make new friends, you're gonna play, eat yummy food. and when I come back, you'll tell me aaaall about it!"

you were met with a pout and baby blue eyes staring pleadingly at you. so you decided to try a different approach.

"let's make a deal." you grabbed his hands and pressed a soft kiss in his palms. "if you stay here and behave like the good boy you are, I promise to take you to the aquarium."

he perked up instantly, even with his little chest heaving with hiccups. "fishies?"

"yup, we can go see the fishies."

without a second thought, your son wiggled out of your grasp and walked away, only waving his little hand behind him as he joined his brother.

"buh-bye!"

ZENIN FAMILY

"daddy?" your daughter's eyes met your husband's in a classic puppy eyes look. "go with me?"

"no, princess." he brushed her soft hair, his voice surprisingly tender while he crouched down to her eye level. "daddy can't go with you."

she remained silent, playing with the fabric of his shirt between her little fingers as she seemed to be pondering what to do next. your husband braced himself for the tantrum that for sure would follow, something he learned to expect when she didn't get her way.

"okie. bye, daddy!"

his jaw dropped and he swears he could feel his heart break.

ITADORI FAMILY

"nanamin is the best teacher!" sukuna found it both impressive and irritating how yuuji could talk about everything and anything. even as he struggled to climb down the car and put his gigantic backpack on, he wouldn't stop talking. "we dwaw a lot, and we... and we, uhhh, we use cwayons. and we–"

"colors!"

your son yelled excitedly, his cheeky smile making him look like an exact mini version of sukuna.

"nami?" your daughter tried the name on her tongue while allowing you to guide her to the gates. her eyes watched yuuji rush to a man, and it clicked instantly. "nami..."

"someone has a crush already~" you murmured towards your husband, gushing over the interaction of your little girl and the kind teacher welcoming them.

but sukuna had already made up his mind.

"fuck no."

GETO FAMILY

"I don't want him to go to school."

your husband's sudden words made the three of you turn to look at him. each twin had their hand on yours while suguru had the baby attached to his chest thanks to the baby carrier.

"like, ever." suguru continued, patting the baby's tummy and smiling proudly. "I'll teach him everything he needs to know, and he'll be my pupil."

and at that moment, your son's face scrunched up in disgust, bursting into a crying fit five seconds later.

"I don't think he agrees."