#godofkisses

[silkscream]

💌 talk about arvin babe. i know you wanna

I LOVE HIM i love southern gothic i love his bruised knuckles and how he smells like cigarettes. he’s like an ethel cain song come to life. my goddddDDD. it’s like i made him up myself.

he loves long drives because all he knows is dirt roads. he’s been tasting asphalt all his life, knows all too well how it feels to graze his knees on rubble while blood flows from his shins. he’s known it since before his daddy even died, back when things were okay and he still had his dog, too.

he hates small talk, coffee with too much sugar, cops, leather boots without the steel toe. he loves his gun, his pack of lucky strikes, the way the light falls on the lake at 7 pm in july, pecan pie, you.

he really fucking loves that look you give him when you’re in the passenger seat while stopped at a red light at 10 pm. your daddy would have a fit knowing you’re in a car with a boy this late at night, but he’s too busy getting drunk at the bar anyway. and you’ve got this little babydoll dress on with bell sleeves, scuffing up the dashboard with your red cowboy boots. arvin teases you, reaching forward to get you to stop, but he ends up grazing the taut skin of your bare thigh and you giggle. and his amber eyes are glazed over the whole length of you, streetlights casting a shadow of your long lashes over your cheekbones. and so he leans in, the lovesick motherfucker, until the car behind honks at him incessantly. 

“it’s fuckin’ green, asshole!” a voice yells from behind, and arvin scoffs, licks his tongue over his teeth in a way that makes him flex his sharp jaw. you’d blossom right there next to him if you weren’t on the street.

he says nothing, steps on the gas as hard as he can as he cruises through the green light with a calloused middle finger out the window.

“you’re gonna get me in trouble, darlin’,” he smirks. he smacks your thigh lightly right under the hem of your dress. he doesn’t plan on pulling his hand away the whole ride home.