#oh to be the farmer’s daughter being seduced by the village cowboy

[recareels]

so anyway i ran out of hands to carry my plums up with me to the kitchen so i stuffed them in the front pocket of my overalls and all i could think about was running around the farm on a hazy, late summer evening with boothill, picking plums from the hardygold trees and stashing them in the bib pockets of your grass-stained overalls. 

you aren’t even supposed to be harvesting plums in the first place—these are for the market, not for personal use, and if Daddy catches you there’ll be a stern talking to (no doubt some hefty lecture all about that no-good damned cowboy you keep hangin’ around with), followed by a punishment of some sort. the two of you weren’t sent out here to frolic and play hide-and-seek between the orchard trees. 

but that’s never stopped you before. 

the sun has only just begun its descent, bathing everything in thick gilded light. dust motes and spritz of fruit juice shimmer in the atmosphere, procured by the snapping of stems and the piercing of teeth, sinking into soft yellow flesh. overhead, the rippled clouds look saccharine, dyed punchy strawberry and coral by the waning sunbeams. 

despite having a pocket of your own brimming to the rim with ripe lil topaz gems, you won’t stop stealing plums from his, dainty fingers playfully dipping into his bib pocket to snatch yet another, escaping his grasping hand with all the sly grace of a cat, slipping from his touch then leaping away enticingly, just out of his reach.

but eventually, he catches you. just like he always does.

your fingertips are stained sour-sweet from the fruit, a squeal of giggles twining through the tree branches as boothill finally captures your wrist and brings it to his starved lips, a simple don’t tell yer Daddy breathed out hot and humid against your skin. that’s all you get; a single, four-word warning before his tongue curls around your knuckles, siphoning syrupy fingers into the heat of his mouth and sucking, hard.