#memorial bench plaques

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

#Wooden Benches Uk #Remembrance Bench #Oak Garden Bench Uk #Platinum Jubilee Bench #Settle Bench #Oak Benches for Sale #Bench Plaques #Benches Uk #Brass Plaques for Benches #Plaques for Benches #Memorial Benches Scotland #How much is a Memorial Bench Uk #Memorial Bench Plaques #Bench Memorials #Rocking Bench #Memorial Decorative Benches #Bench Plaques Engraved #Garden Bench Oak #Memorial Plaques for Benches #Benches Near Me #Oak Garden Benches Uk #Stone Memorial Bench #Garden Bench Plaque #Bench Memorial #Memorial Bench Ideas #Jubilee Bench #Memorial Garden Benches #woodsman #Bench Engraved Plaque #Memorial Bench Flower Holder

[severalowls]

The bench at the bus stop at the big junction near me has conspicuously disappeared and I swear to god it had better just be in for repairs and not Gone.

#most of the benches around here also have like. memorial plaques dating from the 1950s and 60s #so naturally the wood itself has been replaced a few times but if they got rid of them #it would be a double whammy of anti-homeless bullshit hell and removing somebody's 'grave marker'

[s0upofthenight]

Please put why and give any details you'd like in the tags!!!

#I'm aiming for either natural burial or composting personally! #if I'm composted i want to be used to fertilize a peach tree planted in my memory with a little plaque and perhaps a bench under it #i love giving people food in life and i want to continue to do so in death

[ozzgin]

Pyramid Head x Reader

Featuring Pyramid Head and a reader with amnesia lost in Silent Hill. This is Pyramid Head as originally intended for Silent Hill 2, so expect a lot of game-based immersion. Warning: NSFW, dubious/non-consent, violence, gore

[Horror Masterlist]

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

You grunt and slap the wheel, hoping your defiant act of violence will somehow convince the car engine to start again. It remains quiet. You run a hand through your hair and sigh. The palm is mildly sticky with moisture and you realize you've been sweating a fair amount. No wonder, you're stuck in this shithole. You couldn't see a damn thing ahead with all this fog. The only discernible object was a rusty, run-down sign showing "Silent Hill". You've never heard the name before, but reading the letters and allowing the words to escape your lips has brought you an unexpected wave of panic. You quickly began hyperventilating and your arms involuntarily twitched and twisted, pulling the wheel of the car along with them and causing the car to swerve into a street barrier. And now it refuses to turn back on. Fantastic. 

You hesitantly grab the door handle. After a deep breath in, you open the door and step out. Given the car crashed sideways, you can no longer tell which way is back and which way is forward. You can only see the first few inches of the barrier in both directions, but everything else vanishes under the thick clouds of mist. You rub your temples, becoming increasingly upset with yourself.  What were you even doing, driving all the way to-

Wait. Where were you going in the first place? You recall leaving from...home? But where is that supposed to be? No, don't do this. Not now. You walk back to the car and open the glove compartment, angrily pulling out a thick stack of documents and spreading them out onto the chair. You scan over them, growing more impatient. You don't recognize anything. The names and words and addresses don't hold any meaning. You glance up to the rear-view mirror in an attempt to detect some trail of blood seeping from your scalp, as a concussion might explain your sudden memory loss, but your appearance is fresh. Almost as if you didn't just crash your car in a strange place in utter confusion. 

You check your phone. Even if you can't remember, there has to be someone in your contacts that will come to your aid. The screen glitches briefly when you unlock it and the menu is empty. No contacts, no messages, no apps. No matter, emergency will do. You type in the digits and lift the phone to your head, but quickly remove it when loud static assaults your eardrums. Why is nothing working properly? You're tempted to just slam the junk into the pavement, but find enough composure to stuff it back in the pocket for now. 

All that's left to do now is to find another human. You begin walking. The road has to lead somewhere, that's for certain. And soon enough the barrier is replaced with a different kind of fencing that you use as guidance. It seems to be a small bridge. Just a few steps further and you discover the first signs of modern, populated world: a bus stop. Behind the waiting bench is a brief map of the area and you trace the plaque with your fingers, mumbling the path to yourself. "Now let's see...This is Nathan Avenue...Rosewater Park ahead...Ah, the Silent Hill Fire Station should be very close."

You can't wait to be done with this mess. They'll call for a tow truck and get you out of here. You almost sprint to the next block, expectantly. In fact, you can already spot someone right outside the building. 

"Thank God! Listen, my car broke down before the bridge. My stupid phone is also...huh." 

Just as you mention it, the same static as previously erupts from the speaker. You're startled and fumble for your phone. You're about to apologize to the person in front of you, but upon lifting your gaze you instantly stop in your tracks. 

'Person' is a strong word for it. It resembles one, or maybe it was one long ago. What's crawling towards you, however, is not how you'd define it. The arms are melted into the torso, mimicking a straight jacket of skin. The bony, crooked legs are dragging themselves in an unnatural, unnerving way. The creature has no face, save for a gaping hole, a bizarre cavity deforming what should be a head. Your mouth grimaces with disgust, followed by fear. Terror. You have the choice of returning to your damaged car, or attempting to find actual help deeper into the town. You run ahead, praying that someone's out there. The dissonant sound of a siren can be heard, diffused into the persistent fog.  

By the time you reach the next building, you're gasping for air. You didn't expect to run this far. You went all the way around Toluca lake, avoiding the side streets. The center was swarming with those abominations. Each turn and each corner would eventually reveal its revolting murmur, that pathetic shuffle of disfigured limbs. Thankfully they're not fast, nor smart. A little distance and they lose their interest to pursue you. You fall against the brick wall of this small house and read the poster. "Silent Hill Historical Society". Doesn't look too promising, but it's surprisingly devoid of any monstrous being. At this point you'd be more grateful for emptiness. It's safer. 

You tiptoe your way in, wary of potential attackers. There's a faint buzz echoing from afar, but other than that no immediate danger. You examine the lobby and notice the paintings and old photos hanging from the decaying wallpaper. It smells slightly rotten. One of the art pieces catches your attention and you stop in front of it. "Misty Day, Remains of Judgement". 

The abstract character depicted on canvas reminds you of an executioner. The more you stare, the clearer you can feel some kind of guilt knotting inside your stomach. Your shoulders are heavy and you're overwhelmed by the same anxiety of a child about to be punished. Awaiting the belt. The calloused hand of an unforgiving father. Your throat is dry.

Your musings are interrupted by the static that - as you've since learned - warns you of approaching creatures. The rooms are cramped and the walls are narrow and you dislike the idea of calculating your escape within this claustrophobic maze, but it's preferable to being dead. You jog along slithering paths, unsure of where they lead. The threatening turbulence of your phone goes up and down, like a sine wave, with each turn into uncharted territory. In your frantic efforts to flee you don't see the large hole blocking your way, or at least not fast enough. By the time you figure out the outlines of this pitch black well, you're flooded with the light sensation of gravitational force, stretching and compressing your innards as you fall. Is this how you end?

It's not so easy. 

As soon as you open your eyes, a burning pain metastasizes through the head, digging deep into your brain. You grab onto your scalp and press your fingers over the skin, hoping for a small relief. In your debilitating migraine you don't hear the agitated flutter of limbs. They're minuscule, but so many. Thousands of sclerotized joints frothing around your limp form. You lift yourself off the rusted ground and yelp voiceless at the sight. Cockroaches. The pile of vermin lets out a deafening, high pitched screech with every movement. You drag your elbows in an attempt to get away, but the creepers almost ignore your existence. They seem to be running away from something, retreating in masses.

You don't have to wait long in order to witness their source of fear. Heavy footsteps, muffled by the grating friction of metal against metal. A corroded stench invades your lungs and you cough. Whatever is coming has instilled the utmost dread in your very bones. You want to get up and run, until your legs give up and your body collapses of exhaustion, but your limbs are petrified in panic. Your chest constricts and throbs, as if your heart is trashing to escape this prison condemned to unknown doom. 

Finally, the fiend comes into view. A tall, large man wearing a leather apron layered with grime and encrusted blood. His skin is scarred and discolored, and a bulky, dense pyramid structure rests on his broad shoulders, concealing his face. He seems to be dragging along a great knife of sorts, although on closer inspection it looks like a halved pair of oversized scissors. The edge is dulled and has splattered visceral leftovers mattifying its surface. You remember the painting you've seen upstairs. Is this what it is? Your Retribution? 

You lower yourself until your forehead touches the rusty floor. Like an animal awaiting to receive the final blow from its hunter, like a prisoner resigning to his fate under the guillotine. If only matters could be dealt with so simply! Your neck is clawed into a tight hold by the large gloved hand and you're crudely pulled back up so that you can properly face your Punisher. There's a vague grunt coming from underneath his bizarre helmet. 

He carries you to the nearest wall and slams you against it. The great knife drops to the floor with a loud crash, and the other hand, now freed, begins to search your lower clothing. You can feel the seams of the garments tear and snap with no resistance. You want to vocalize a protest, but your throat is crushed under the forceful pressure of his clasp. At best, you can exhale in what sounds like a whispered wail. His apron is nonchalantly flipped to the side and your thigh lifted over his forearm, so that his hand can adjust itself securely under your bottom for support.

Abruptly, a prickling ache crosses your entire body as if you've just been split in two. Tears automatically begin forming in the corner of your eyes and spill down your cheeks and over the pyramid that's now pressing tightly against your quivering form. It's too big and you want to push away, but with each renewed plunge you grow weaker. The small tears and rips that blossom around your abused intimacy turn into bleeding wounds. You want to sleep. 

A creature of pure instinct, serving as a reminder of human perversions and immoral desires. Travesty, corruption, sin. And what about it? Before you know it, a small moan escapes your dried lips. You throw your arms around your captor's shoulders. The sharp edges of the helmet scratch your skin, waking you back into consciousness. Your lower muscles start to relax around the massive member and allow for a smoother glide in and out. The numbness is gradually replaced by pleasant sensations. The throbbing reverberates inside your abdomen and your other leg wraps around the creature's hips, asking for more contact. Once your compliance is confirmed, the hand pinning you by the neck wanders to other parts of your body in starved desperation. Your voice returns and more lewd whines roll out one after another. If only you had a mirror so you could look at yourself in this moment. What shameless expressions are you wearing on your face? You're clinging to your violator in feverish depravity. And in return, the creature responds to your cravings with increased intensity. He seems to resonate with your wishes and stiffens his hold on you with newfound obsession. His thrusts become almost feral, with a certain possessiveness to it. 

As you're about to reach your peaks, your mind once again travels to the painting. You wonder if you'd be hung and framed just like the prisoners behind their executioner. Pleasure mixed with guilt. 

What sin is eroding your entrails? 

#silent hill #silent hill 2 #sh2 #pyramid head #pyramid head x reader #pyramid head smut #horror #silent hill x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #dead by daylight #dbd x reader #dbd x you #dbd pyramid head #pyramid head dbd #slasher smut #yandere pyramid head #monster x reader

[delopsia]

every storm runs out of rain | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 17,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: AFAB!Reader, Hanahaki disease, soulmates AU, childhood friends to lovers, alcohol, food mentions, vomiting, first kisses, thunderstorms, (temporarily) unrequited feelings, almost kiss, unprotected sex, eventual happy endings 🌹. Vaguely based on the Gary Allan song of the same name. Brief Summary: It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, and yet, your tattoos don't match. You're not made for each other.

It's hard to tell if the feelings started with the stuffiness in your lungs or if it's something that has always been there. 

An indescribable sort of longing that has flown beneath your radar for the better half of a decade. The kind of thing that has let you assume a false sense of comfort under the title of childhood friend. 

Best friend, if Rhett has a few drinks buzzing through his system. Two shining plaques with your name written across them in bold letters.

But neither of them are what you and your dumb heart crave. The pride of being called his significant other is a feeling you will never know, so long as your tattoos are around to remind you that they don't match. So, so close in nature, and yet, they're not the same. 

It's a cruelty you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. The perpetual ache of your heart, longing for a man who was never meant to be yours. Everything about him is as if he's made for you, so perfect he could fit into your life like a puzzle piece, and yet fate has destined him and you to fall in love with strangers. Not each other. 

Never each other. 

That tickling rises in the back of your throat. Snowballing larger and larger until you can no longer—

A horn blares. 

Your head jerks back toward the street just in time to see the passenger door of an old GMC squeal open. Rhett. Leaned all the way across his bench seat, hair in his face and all. 

"Y' comin' or not?" He chirps, already beginning to impatiently pat on the cloth seat, beckoning you in like he would a stray cat.

In this cold little town, your heart burns a little warmer.

How he got here so fast, you'll never know, but you've never been more thankful for it. Water splashes beneath your feet, darting toward his truck and away from the crowd of people raging on behind you. Up into your designated place in his passenger seat, slamming the door closed before you've even gotten settled, effectively shutting off the thumping music and flashing neon lights.

"How did you know where I was?" Because last you recall, you never told him about where you were headed tonight. 

Rhett just hums, the noise lost to the rumble of his truck engine. "Recognized the floor in the picture y' sent." 

Of course, that would be one of his many odd talents. 

"Being able to identify a bar just from the floor tile might mean you have a bit of a drinking problem, Cowboy," your eyes roll, shifting to rest against the door. 

"Listen," the streetlight catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a memory, "that checkered pattern is cute 'til your head stars spinnin'." 

He's...got a point. 

Ugh. 

The silence that falls into the truck is a comfortable one. It's the kind of quiet that lets you hear the impatient drum of his fingers, dancing to the soft drone of his radio set to an old country station. Backdropped by the sound of water spraying beneath his tires, washing away weeks upon weeks of built-up dirt from the ranch. 

His whole truck could use a good wash, but it won't see a bucket of soap and water until he scores another date with some no-name from the rodeo grounds. Or alternatively, you show up in the middle of the night and scrub it from top to bottom.

Your phone lights up with a text asking about where you went. Sent from some guy you cared so little about that you haven't even bothered to save his number in your contacts. But as you move to unlock the screen, it opens up to a different set of messages. 

You: Nothing quite like being stuck at a bar, waiting on your designated driver to decide she wants to leave. 10:47 PM

Rhett: What's wrong? 10:51 PM

You: I told a guy I didn't want to dance, and he 'accidentally' spilled his drink on me 🙄  10:51 PM

You: But my ride doesn't want to leave for another hour or two. 10:52 PM

You never noticed the message that was sent right after yours. 

Rhett: On my way 10:55 PM

Maybe not every man in this world has gone to shit. 

Rhett's hand bumps into your chest, some kind of gray fabric balled up in his hand, "here."

You've seen this old shirt before; it's the first thing he ever bought online, hadn't realized until it arrived that it was a few sizes too big for him. Not particularly ideal for a cowboy who can get caught on equipment, but perfect for your impromptu sleepovers.

"You still have this old thing?" You're already beginning to tug your damp T-shirt over your head. Potential onlookers be damned, you're ready to be free of the overwhelming whiskey bitterness reeking from it.

The back of his knuckles graze up your naked side, guided by the thin path of a decade-old scar. A branding from younger, brighter days; the ones when Cecelia would let you spend weekends on the ranch. Waking up at dawn to help Rhett with his ranch chores because the quicker things got done, the sooner you got to run down and play in the creekbed. 

"Still can't believe that piece of glass marred ya like that," Rhett mutters after a long moment. You can't see into his thick skull, but you've got a feeling that he's got a similar memory flickering through his mind. 

"To be fair, I did fall on it," slipping your arms through the clean shirt, you pull it over your head, and once again, that old scar is out of sight. 

That half-hearted chuckle sends a warmth rushing through your veins. The exact one that shouldn't be there. But he hasn't the slightest clue of the wildfire sitting next to him, back to tapping along on his steering wheel as he drives through the main stretch of town. Past feedstores, tourist shops, dinners, the grocery store, and every other little niche boutique hidden between. 

"Thank you." You hardly recognize that it's you speaking. Hadn't realized it was your voice until the sound of it met your ears.

It's a little too quiet in this truck.

But Rhett just reaches over to shake your shoulder. "Y' don't gotta thank me for shit like that," for a fleeting second, he's got just enough time to look away from the road and offer you a lazy smile. "'s what friends do, ain't it?"

Your chest feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Meek, you nod, attention suddenly on the floorboard and nothing else—nothing else to say. 

Yeah. That's what friends do. 

He doesn't make mention of it, but you've got the feeling that your SOS text must have interrupted another one of his dates. A pile of rose petals rests at your feet, scattered as if they've been swept off the seat in a hurry to make space. Caked in mud and the rainwater that tracked in from your shoes. Storebought, that much you know for sure.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. 

The next time you see him, it's planned. 

You have, for some reason, allowed yourself to become roped into the craze of Wabang's beloved Sugarbeet festival. Right smack dab in the middle of some old ranching land that the county bought some years back. It would have been a pleasant idea if the festival was hosted in spring or autumn and not in the blistering heat of summer. Not an ounce of shade to be found, nothing but cheap tents to protect you from the beating sun. 

It's the kind of misery that makes the outdoors feel like a goddamn oven, and heading out to start your car is its own kind of devil. The air jammed in your AC blasts your face with the boiling winds of hell itself. So damn intense that if Rhett's truck weren't crawling down your driveway, you would have canceled and called it a day.

And you're so glad that you didn't, because good lord. 

The last thing you expected was for Rhett to hop out in that unbuttoned flannel, broad chest on display for all to see. The sleeve falls just far enough from his shoulder that you can see the scar hiding below his left collarbone. 

"Quite the festival outfit you've got," you chirp, dragging your eyes away from his bull tattoo and over to a nearby tree, feigning interest. The back of your throat is starting to tickle, lungs tight as you fend off the urge to cough. Not here, not here, not here.

He laughs, "What, y' don't think I look good like this?"

You do, but he doesn't need to know that. Not in the slightest. 

"Its...certainly a choice," faking a grimace, you turn your attention back to your car, slowly but surely growing cooler the longer it runs. A pleasure that Rhett and his broken air conditioning unit haven't known since last summer. 

You don't mind the idea of it staying broken if he keeps showing up at your house looking like this. Even if that does mean that you become his ride on the hotter days, fearing an onset of heat stroke. 

The passenger door is silent as he opens it. No longer squealing due to whatever he and Royal did to it last weekend. Being friends with a family of DIY ranchers has its perks. 

Thunk_

"Shit." 

You blink. Was that...?

Yeah. 

It was. 

As if last time wasn't enough of a lesson, Rhett's got his knees pinned up against your glovebox, the seat too far forward for him and his big body to fit. Though this time, he isn't hurriedly pawing at the seat levers like he'll die if he doesn't get any more space. Instead, he's resigned to a frown. More annoyed with himself than anything.

"You alright there?" 

Rhett's sigh is so heavy that his shoulders visibly deflate. "Yeah," reaching off to the side, pushing the seat back as far as it can go. "Humbled, but 'm alright."

It's toward the end of your drive that you notice the flower petals sitting on your dashboard. Roses, you think. It must be what you get for leaving your windows rolled down all morning, vulnerable to adventurous squirrels and other varmints that enjoy trespassing into property they don't own. 

They're certainly not from you, and you would have asked Rhett if your destination hadn't come up so quickly. Fighting for a parking space in the withered grass is a bigger task than folks let on. Even with folks on the ground, pointing you to the perfect spot, someone will always try to steal it out from under you. 

For a festival in such a small town, there is a hell of a lot going on inside of it. Food trucks, concession stands full of sweet treats, craft booths, and cheap knick-knacks bought offline to resell under the guise of being handmade locally. Apple bobbing, the duck pond, and ring toss. There's a precariously placed dragon roller coaster and a horse carousel that Rhett tries convincing you to get on. 

Worse. There are so many people. Faces you recognize and those you've never seen before. Waiting in lines and shoving themselves between you and Rhett because the small gap between your shoulders looked like a good opening to get somewhere quicker. 

"'s a lil crazy out here, don't ya think?" Rhett's asking through a laugh, once again stepping over to you. Two kids dart between you, their hands occupied with bags of fake goldfish. 

Only took a decade for them to learn not to hand out live fish. You can still remember the three you and Rhett got when you were small. One didn't survive the drive back to his house, and the other two managed to stick around long enough to see New Year's. 

Rest in peace, Goldie Junior and Patches.

"I think it's always been crazy," tilting your head to cough into your elbow, dislodging that goddamn tickling sensation—you look away before you can see what it is. 

There's a girl off to the side, staring in your direction. Or rather, Rhett's direction. Long, wavy hair and a delicate sundress, the kind of woman who looks like she's walked right off the beach cover of a magazine. Her warm gaze has long since settled on Rhett; it's a look you've seen a million and one times at the rodeo. The one that gets him a little weak in the knees.

You look away as quickly as they flickered over there. If you don't make eye contact, maybe she won't come over to introduce herself. 

"We weren't that bad, though," but then, pausing to look at you, concern lacing his narrowed gaze, "...right?" 

Rose-tinted memories flicker through your mind. Rhett falling and breaking his wrist after taking you out on a green horse. Trespassing onto the Tillerson property to play with Luke and Billy, only to get hauled home in the back of a police cruiser, 'cause their momma didn't care much for you two. Getting busted, sneaking out your bedroom window to go spend the night with Rhett. All those times, you had to run through back alleys together because you'd been caught out after Wabang's curfew. 

"I like to think we were relatively well-behaved," concluding after a moment. Though your families may have a vastly different opinion on that. 

Laughter rumbles from you at the same time it does from Rhett, shoulders bumping together. Sends a little shock of warmth rippling through your bones, twisting around your heart like briars.

Maybe the conversation would have lasted longer if you didn't get distracted. Rhett lays eyes on a truck dedicated to a locally crafted beer, and the small frame of a self-serve station from the local candy shop catches your attention. It only makes sense that you would step aside and regroup in a few minutes. You're in desperate need of a breather before that girl works up the nerve to approach him and turns you into a third wheel. 

There's more to this little station than what initially met the eye. It's shelves full of caramel apples, peanut brittle, fudges of every flavor you can imagine, covered pretzels, cookies, and hard candies galore. And here you thought that it would have been wiped clean by the folks who came early in the morning before the sun could reach mind-numbing temperatures. Even your favorite candy is here, the last box left on the shelf.

The price is a little steep, but the flavor of them on your tongue is enough to distract from the pained cries of your wallet. If Rhett knew these were here, then he absolutely would have skipped out on beer in favor of convincing you to split them together—the candy mooch. 

But you must have taken too long to make your decision because you don't see Rhett. Not by the crudely decorated truck, and he said he would be waiting next to the old wooden bench under the oak tree, but it's entirely empty. Not a cowboy in sight. That stuffiness arises in your throat again. 

Maybe he's...

"Hey!" A herd of kids are darting around you. Like a bunch of cats scrambling from the bang of a tractor. One slams into the side of your leg as she rushes past. It doesn't affect her in the slightest, but your feet stumble. Knocked off kilter. Your open container of candy threatens to spill onto the dirt. 

 But then another kid is bursting through the crowd, and this one... 

You recognize this one. 

"Amy?" 

She doesn't need to say a damn thing. Her wide eyes tell all you need to know. 

The crowd is too tall for her to see over it, but as she tugs you along behind her, you've got the feeling that she knows exactly where she's going. Navigating the festival based on terrain alone, over thinly spread gravel, and down a broad dirt path. Her hand clings to your wrist so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. 

You don't know who she's bringing you to or what could have happened. But it has to be something. Perry could have fallen into another one of his rages. Rhett very well may be doing something dumber than getting a DUI on the back of a horse. Or, or—

It's both of them. 

Perry's clawing at Trevor like a goddamn cat. His teeth bared like an animal. Crazed. Feral. Someone's got him by the collar. But it's not doing anything. He barks something incoherent. Jabbing a pointed finger at Trevor. Amy's shoulders jolt. Squeezing your wrist impossibly tighter. 

Plaid shirts scuffle behind them. Cowboy boots and Prada sneakers kick up plumes of dirt. Two brick walls slamming into one another. Caught in a spiral until someone makes the first pull backward. Luke's fist connects with Rhett's jaw. 

Flower petals burst into the air. 

All of a sudden, Luke is jumping backward, his palms raised to the sky. A rare white flag. One that you didn't even know was in the Tillerson arsenal. "I'm sorry, man," is all he can say. Pale as a damn ghost. 

Almost pale as the baby pink petals fluttering onto the dirt floor. 

"Is that..." Amy's the one to break the silence, looking your way as if you hold all the answers. In a sense, maybe you do. "I thought it was a myth?"

Air catches in your windpipe. Feels like you're about to choke. "I did, too." 

What the fight was over, you're not sure. It couldn't have been something serious; they've dropped the issue far too quickly for it to be something worth fighting over. There and gone within the blink of an eye. The Tillerson brothers are dispersing into the crowd without another foul word, Rhett's wordlessly pawing at the fresh red mark on his jaw, and Perry's barking something you don't care to hear. 

Amy's long nails are biting into your skin, threatening to tear through and draw blood, but you can't ask her to loosen up or let go. The sting is half the reason you haven't unraveled like a loose ball of yarn. It isn't enough to stop your lower belly from twisting and turning, a bitterness rising in the back of your raw throat.

"Sorry," Rhett's voice comes so suddenly that you jolt. 

"I leave you alone for five minutes." Your tone comes out blander than you intended, doesn't match the roll of your eyes, deliberately avoiding the sight of flowers lying in the dirt.

He must catch onto it because his frown deepens. But he doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Only offering a wave and a forced smile when Amy ultimately ventures off with Perry for another one of his ice cream apologies. Those seem to be happening more and more lately. 

Hypothetically, someone should say something. Explain what the fight was about, how he got across the festival so damn fast. Was the beer any good? Want to share this candy before your jaw starts to ache like a bitch? The words are flickering through your head a million miles a minute, but not a syllable makes it to your tongue. 

"It's over someone at the bar," Rhett's admission comes in the tune of a guilty child confessing to breaking a vase. Meek. Like he'll fall apart if pushed any harder. "If that's what y' were wanderin'." 

Falling back into the character of annoying best friend is easy. All you've got to do is throw your weight into his side, not strong enough to deliver a playful shove. "So there really is another person stuck with that god awful tattoo," letting your mouth rise into a smile, almost thrilled to be pulling this off so well.

"Hey!" He's pushing you back, laughing, though he's careful not to knock you off your feet this time."'Least mine ain't a shoe."

Defiant, you raise your left arm, the tattoo on your wrist just as dark and bold as it was the day you were born. "It's a lucky horseshoe, thank you very much." 

And just for a little bit, you can deceive yourself into thinking you can still breathe.

You never do put the passenger seat back into its place. It's so far back that you catch yourself thinking it's not there at all; more than once, you clamber into the vehicle and think someone has robbed you of it. A part of you wishes it would happen. That some ridiculous bandit would break in and take that seat. 

It would be doing your dignity a favor; you're acting as if he's dead. 

You passed his truck on the way over here, parked outside the Handsome Gambler. If you weren't worried about wrecking, you would have tried to get a glimpse through the open door to spot him with his shiny new soulmate. 

A good friend would stop in and say hello; if she makes Rhett happy, then you should be happy. It should be on the forefront of your mind; you're three stores down from the bar, but your feeble heart jerks in your chest with a familiar sourness. Hand trembling, struggling to hang onto this little bag of chips. 

A good friend would be happy for him. 

But you're not a good friend. 

And if this cashier doesn't hurry up, you might also become a horrible customer. Your stomach is twisting like you're about to puke, something bitter rising in the back of your throat. Damn near dropping the receipt when she hands it to you, shoving it into the bag, and darting out the open door. 

You hardly make it to the edge of the sidewalk. Keeling over with a wretched noise. 

But the only thing that comes up is the shit that's been lodged in your chest all afternoon, stubbornly sitting in your chest with the weight of a damn elephant. Refusing to move, restricting your airway until you crack, and confess your feelings to a man who was never meant for you. 

"Hey!" 

Bleary, your eyes peel open. Really hope they're not talking to you. 

"I have your sidekick!" Sherrif Joy's voice cuts across the night air like a knife. Swift and straight to the point.

Turning your head might be the thing that puts you on the ground, vision spinning like your eyes have gone loose in your skull. Funny. You can almost deceive yourself into thinking that's Rhett she's towing along.

Maybe because it is him. Boots dragging against the sidewalk, shoulders so loose that they sway in the wind, eyes hardly open, simply led along by the hand Joy has on his bicep. You've got just enough time to paw at your mouth with your sleeve before she's close enough to notice that something may be off.

"I know he's not your responsibility," the glint in her eye suggests she's getting more amusement out of this than she should be. Probably because this wouldn't be the first, second, or third time that she's sought you out. "But he wouldn't shut his mouth when he saw you."

Rhett's grin is too bright for his flushed face. "Hi." 

You don't need to look at your phone to know that it's too damn early for this, and yet, you can't seem to muster up the slightest bit of irritation as you ask. "How are you already drunk at eleven at night?" 

"I—" Hiccup. "Been here all evenin'." Shreds of red rose petals cling to his lips, flaking off with the movement of his mouth and fluttering to the ground like rain.

Oh, Rhett. 

"If you don't want him, I can bring him to the station," Joy always says this, the same damn line over and over, as if she doesn't know what you will ultimately say, "it's no big deal for me." 

Looping your hand through the handle of your grocery bag, you reach out to take Rhett by the wrist. He comes to you easily, long arms reaching out to wrap around you, clinging like an oversized piece of velcro. 

"I'll take him," feigning annoyance is impossible when he's smiling at you like that. Drunk but completely and utterly happy to be with you. 

If only he looked at you this way when he's sober.

Getting him to the car might be the hardest part of this excursion; it takes you and Joy to get him into your passenger seat without banging his head on the roof like last time. But this isn't your first Drunk Rhett Rodeo; Lord knows it ain't Joy's either. It might even break your previous record of five and a half minutes. Not that you were counting.

"Where we goin'?" He chirps the moment you've clambered into the driver's seat. 

"Home." It's the only response you've got. Not entirely sure if he's got the capacity to follow long sentences. 

But his head cocks to the side like a goddamn puppy. "My home, or...home home?" 

Ice forms in your wrist. Suddenly caught before you can turn the key in the ignition. Is he...? It's gotta be. What else would he be referring to? 

"Home home?" More of a question than anything, but he's not sober enough to notice the difference. That grin simply grows a little bigger. His boots kicking against your floorboard, happy as a clam in high water. 

It doesn't fade, either. Even as you get the car going, and he fusses about leaving his truck behind, he doesn't lose the excitement that bloomed the moment he laid eyes on you. Content to sit here and let you drive, looking out the window and commenting on whatever he sees. The crazy lady on Second Street has added more flamingos to her lawn hoard, and someone's mailbox has been knocked over. What does that sign say over there? 

"So what's your soulmate like?" You ask, reaching to turn down the radio. "You haven't said anything about her." 

Rhett's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug so subtle that you nearly miss it. "They're alright," pause. Then, a weary laugh. "I jus' wish they'd like me back."

Yeah. You understand the feeling. 

He doesn't seem to notice the petals clinging to the lower strands of his hair and into his flannel, hanging off the edge of his pocket and accumulating in his lap. They're identical to the ones sitting on your dash, dry and shriveled from the sun, bouncing as your front tire hits a pothole. 

Now that you give it some thought, you suppose that's why he's drunk. 

"My throat hurts," he grumbles out of the blue, rattling you from the sanctuary of your thoughts. 

You hum, not entirely there. "Getting sick?" 

Quiet, he reaches into his flannel pocket, producing a small assortment of something green. Rose stems, their thorns stained with crimson. There's no way that he's...

Your tire smacks the edge of a curb. The steering wheel yanking out of your hands.

Shit. 

Right. The road. 

"You've been coughing those up?" Voice strained by your heart, sitting high in your esophagus. You're so damn lucky that was a concrete curb and not another car. 

And yet, you dare to peer at him through your peripheral. Those stems still resting in his big palm, as if he doesn't have the strength to put them away again. You reckon he's not sober enough to have noticed your mistake. He would have commented on it by now, making fun of it as if he's any better of a driver. 

"Fuckin' hurts," it comes out softly, a confession that his own ears are afraid of. 

And it's the kind of statement that echoes throughout your car for the rest of the drive. Rattling between the pauses between songs and bubbling to the surface at every lull of the music. Clouded over by too many wonderings of how long he's been quietly dealing with the roses growing in his lungs. A condition so extreme that the stems are beginning to come up, too. 

You would ask why he's never told you about this, but...

Rhett's head cracks against the window with a heavy thunk as you pull into the driveway. So sharp and sudden that you fear he's broken the glass. But the only wound to come out of it is the red spot on his forehead, the color already rising to the surface by the time you put the car in park.

"Did that hurt?" It's impossible to ward off the lightness in your tone; a smidgen amused. 

"Nuh-uh," but he's rubbing at it like it does. 

You shouldn't have believed him, either, because by the time you get him through the door, it's already begun to swell. Miniscule at first, but if you give it some time, it'll grow into a proper bump. One that he'll grimace at in the morning but will lie through his teeth when you ask if it's hurting him. 

If he were sober, he would be nipping at your palm for daring to venture near his face; you can hear it now, the prematurely yelped "'m alright!" before you've even opened your mouth. But he's not sober. Has to put his hand on your waist to stabilize himself, not entirely aware of how you're curling your hands around his cheeks, holding him still. 

You don't think this one will rise too horribly, but you've been wrong before. Like how you insisted the cut on your side was just a scratch and wound up needing more stitches than you knew how to count. 

"Will you let me put ice on it?" You find yourself asking, your fingers drifting up to smooth over the bump. 

Defiant, his head shakes. 

"What if I order a pizza? Will you let me then?" Trying again. But even at the prospect of his favorite drunk snack, he's not interested. 

"Ice cream?" No.

"A movie?" Wrong again.

"Two movies?" Nope.

"A promise to never speak of this again?" Nada.

Huffing, you let go of his face, throwing your hands in the air instead. "Is there anything I can bribe you with?"

His brows furrow. A thought flickers behind his eyes.

Slowly, he nods. 

You've got a bad feeling about whatever this could be, but God, it's too late for you to care. "What is it?"

Even if he would have let you go on for the next century, you would have never guessed that he wanted this. 

Here in the soft sanctuary of your cozy little unmade bed, nestled beneath the myriad of sheets and blankets that you swore you'd throw into the washer three mornings ago. There might be a few crumbs left over from your snack last night, too distracted by the video on your phone to notice the mess until it was too late. 

The state of it all would bother you under normal circumstances, but you reckon you're getting contact drunk. Head spinning at the sight of this cowboy, snug as a bug in your bed, his cheek squished against the spare pillow. His arm has wound up draped over your side, over the sheets, and you can't remember when your hand drifted to his face, thumb swiping back and forth over his scruffy, unshaven jaw.

For once in your life, you can breathe.

You've started to forget what that was like.

He's so unnervingly close that you reckon he can hear the hammer of your heart rattling against your chest like a caged animal. Furious. Determined to burst through and spill its contents for him to see. The devil on your shoulder suggests that you should let it happen; chances are, he won't remember any of this come morning. But the soft, whiney voice of the angel reminds you. 

Rhett's got a soulmate. And it isn't you. 

"What made you ask for this, anyhow?" The sound of your voice comes as a surprise; one of those thoughts that have journeyed to your mouth, rather than staying up in your head. 

Those sleepy blues peel open; maybe the slightest bit cross-eyed perfectly matches that crooked little grin. "'s like a sleepover."

There's a word you haven't thought of for a while. Probably hasn't surfaced in your vocabulary since your early teenage years, arising in arguments about how unfair it was that hitting puberty meant no more sleepovers. It was okay before, so why did it become a problem when your ages started ending in 'teen'? 

Hesitant, your attention drifts to the tattoo on your wrist—that not-so-lucky horseshoe. A symbol that only became a problem in your second year of high school when your heart decided that it wanted your best friend over a soul mate. "Like the ones we're banned from?"

"Uhuh," his foot juts out to kick your ankle, "'cause we're too damn old." 

You're kicking him back before you can think twice about it. Old habits be damned; you're not letting him get a shot in without getting one yourself. But he's already fighting back, socket feet smacking against yours. Tangling. Fighting to get one punch in over the other. His leg bangs against your knee. Your hands lightly shove against his chest. 

All of a sudden, Rhett's lurching forward.

The room spins.

And you're lying on your back. Caged beneath the broad frame of a man proven to handle animals over a thousand pounds heavier than you. His hands planted on either side of your head, knees straddling your hips. Long hair strays into his face, slipping out from behind his ears, but it's not enough to block your eyes from locking.

You're itching to reach up and tuck it back into place. To drift your palms across the roughness of his cheeks and trail a thumb over those thin lips. They're bitten to all hell, but try as you might, you can't imagine they're anything other than soft. 

Time itself might have stopped. 

God. You can't breathe. Don't know if it's from the infestation building in your lungs or the overwhelming scent of alcohol on his tongue. 

Or maybe...maybe it's because he's gradually growing closer. Minimizing the gap between your bodies, inch by debilitating inch. An image plucked right out of your own imagination, replayed a hundred and one times. 

But this version of Rhett doesn't belong to you. 

The one in your head didn't reek of whiskey and beer. 

"Rhett..." You're whispering as if anything louder will shatter you like glass. But he's still...he's still leaning in, and, and— "Rhett. You're drunk."

He freezes. Stiff as a board. Eyes so wide that his irises look tiny. 

"Shit," jerking away as if he's been burned, "sorry." 

This time, when his back hits the bed, your belly doesn't fill with butterflies. It fills with something much, much worse. 

It's the silence that eats at you the most. He's right next to you, and yet, not a word can leave your mouth. What if you hadn't stopped him? Did he confuse you for the pretty thing at the bar, wandering around with the same marking as him? Your heart lurches in your chest, tummy twisting sourly. God, why are you even entertaining this sort of thing? 

He's your friend. Friends don't think of each other like this, especially when one of them has a soulmate waiting on them. 

A funny feeling swells in the back of your throat, stomach gurgling so loudly that it's got Rhett tilting his head to look at you. 

"Are y—"

You're getting up before he can finish talking. Darting for the bathroom for the umpteenth time today. 

You wake to an empty bed. 

Sunlight trickles through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the freshly made sheets that Rhett once occupied, tucked in the best he could get it. He's been gone long enough for them to feel cool to the touch, but you can't hear him moseying around your house, either.

Your bare feet drift across the chilly, wooden floor, still frozen with midnight's temperature drop. Where Rhett would typically bump the thermostat up a couple of degrees, today, it sits the same as you left it. 

"Rhett?" Voice a smidgen too fragile for the hammering of your heart. 

All you receive is an echo, variants of your own tune. His boots are missing from where they once sat by the front door, and when you creep far enough to peer through the kitchen window into the backyard, you don't find him there, either. The ice pack has been resting in the freezer long enough to begin hardening again. 

And your phone left sitting on the counter overnight, contains a notification from everything and everyone, except for one man. Still the same text messages from three days ago, no matter how many times you refresh the page. But the magnetic whiteboard on the side of your refrigerator has a new smiley face on it. 

...and the marker is once again missing.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. 09:47 PM

It's not until after you've got a morning drink in hand that you recognize the tire tracks in your front yard. The grass flattened in the corner of your driveway in a fashion that only Perry Abbott can pull off. No matter how many times he's driven here, he's always overshot the turn and ventured into the lawn.

Your phone is still quiet when you cruise through town a little after nine. Rhett's truck is missing from its place in front of the bar, the space now occupied by a vehicle that the Abbotts can't afford. 

 On its own, your heart lurches in your chest. The tail end of a blue pickup is poking out from a streetside parking spot just down the main drag, and that's got to be him. You know this town like the back of your hand. There aren't many trucks that look like Rhett's. If you catch him now, maybe you can smooth things over regarding last night. Before the dust begins to settle and erode away at your psyche—

But Rhett's truck doesn't have stickers. 

This time, you don't make it to the bathroom before that damned sickness overtakes you. Spewing onto the side of the road at the only red light in town, right in front of the old cafe with its outdoor seating. 

A hangover would be more dignifying. At least then, a little old lady wouldn't be tilting her head at you, her kind, wrinkled eyes soft as she offers you a smile. You understand that look more than you'd like to admit. 

It's the same expression you carried when those petals burst from Rhett's mouth. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Yesterday.

Odd. Usually he responds fairly quickly, at least when it comes to him hijacking one of your belongings, but maybe he's busy. Summer has never been kind to the Abbotts, between blistering heat and cattle who love to take down the southern fences to get at the neighbor's grasses. Judging by the forecaster rambling on the news, things aren't about to get easier, either. 

You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. Two days ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. 07:33 PM

No dice. 

How are you meant to leave reminders in the kitchen when a rogue cowboy has pocketed your only marker? It's barely been three days, and you've already started to forget things. Today was laundry day, but now you're standing here, swaddled in Rhett's oversized shirt because it's the only clean thing you have left. Maybe there is a benefit to not returning his clothes. You were meant to go get a spice for this new recipe but didn't remember until you were halfway into working on it. Come to find out, that recipe really, really relied on it. 

You can try to blame your lack of an appetite on your cold, unseasoned dinner all you want, but it only goes so far. Heart lurching in your chest, as the screen lights up with a text.

Autumn: Still coming with us Friday night? 👀 07:51 PM

 You: Hey, cowboy, you've got something of mine. One week ago.

You: I'll give you a hint. It writes in purple ink. Five days ago.

You: I'm going to call a bounty hunter if you continue this hostage situation. Three days ago. 

You're getting sick of feeling your heart twist every time you look at this damn screen. But that stupid son of a bitch still hasn't—

"Excuse me," a lady whispers, squeezing past you, "I'm sorry." 

The entrance of Odessa's probably isn't the best place for you to be checking your phone, now that you think about it. 

That's alright; you're already sliding the device into your back pocket, reaching to catch the door before it can close behind her. You've wasted enough time for your friends to have already secured a spot at the Handsome Gambler. It's a wonder nobody hasn't given you a ring to make sure you weren't nabbed off the street. 

Stepping outside does nothing to ward off the drone of multiple shop televisions. All of them moan about how another wicked storm is due to ravage Wabang and every town around it. Same channel. Same woman talking. Same obnoxious blue background. It's a tale you've heard so many times that you can nearly quote it word for word. 

There's a serious storm rolling in tonight. Tornadoes and hail are possible. Here's what to do in a tornado. Do not do these five things in a tornado. Download the news app to stay connected. Tune back in soon to find out if the forecast has miraculously gotten better or worse! 

Looking overhead, you can already see the dark accumulation in the distance, a humid breeze tickling your neck as it drifts past. It feels just like the night you and Rhett rode out into the west pasture to watch the storm roll in. 

Sitting in the grass, watching those dark gray clouds roll closer and closer whilst the horses relaxed behind you, their attentions focused solely on the greenery below. You can still hear the tune blaring from the speaker of his phone. He'd really thought he was clever, playing that Gary Allen song about how every storm runs out of rain. It wasn't so cute when the south pasture flooded. 

A laugh cuts across the evening air. Sharp and pitchy enough to have your head tilting in the direction of it. Right behind you, on the corner of the block. 

Maria Olivares. That's a face you haven't seen in a long while. Wasn't she off to medical school, a couple hours away from here? Who in the world could she possibly be...

You know that cowboy. 

Puzzle pieces click into place. The darkened mark gracing her inner wrist. Too small for you to make out. How she giggles and batts her eyes up at Rhett, as he talks about something in that wonderfully deep voice of his. 

Of course, Rhett's soulmate would be Maria. How could it not be? No wonder why he was so crazy about her in high school; they've got the same damn marking on their bodies. 

As if to spite you, a muscle spasms in the juncture of your wrist. Sourness bubbles in the back of your mouth, but for once, you're able to swallow it down. Not here. Not when either of them can turn their heads and realize that you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring like some kind of creep. Even coming from a childhood best friend, that would be weird. 

"Are you in line?" 

You jerk backward. Wide eyes landing on the wirey frame of some middle-aged man standing in front of you. He motions, with the brim of his hat, toward the door. The Handsome Gambler. Your destination.

"Distracted," you blurt, scurrying to grab the handle before he can, "sorry."

"There you are!" A glass of beer rises from the opposite end of the bar. Autumn. "I was fixin' to come looking for you!"

You have to wait until you're within earshot before you can respond to her, squeezing past the group of cowboys crowded at the corner, watching a PBR ride on someone's cellphone. "I was eavesdropping," You supply, can't keep a damn thing to yourself these days, "Maria Olivares must be Rhett's shiny new soulmate."

Autumn's jaw slackens, eyes so big they might comically burst out of her skull, "are you kidding?" 

One of her friends, you forget her name, gives you a gentle nudge with her arm. You suppose Autumn has already filled her in about your situation. "How did you find out?" Her tone is gentle, nearly washed over by the music blaring from the stereo. 

"Saw them laughing together in the street." There's more to that statement, context, and a reason behind why you've come to that conclusion, but Autumn is taking a brightly colored drink from the bartender, passing it your way.

The Handsome Gambler and mixed drinks do not go hand in hand; there's always too much or too little of something. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see the door opening, two familiar frames entering the bar, the happy new couples themselves. 

Tonight, you don't give a damn what these things taste like. So long as it makes you forget the sour twist in your chest, lungs tightening as if all the air has been sucked from them. Without second thought, you bring the glass to your lips.

It doesn't leave until it's halfway empty, and that's only because the need for oxygen has grown superior. 

The lady behind the bar lifts a freshly cleaned shot glass. You've got a feeling that she's overheard your ramblings. "Need something stronger?"

She doesn't need to say another word. "Absolutely." 

One shot. 

Fuck this town.

A second. 

And fuck Rhett Abbott. 

You're feeling delusional enough to ask for a third, but Autumn's nudging you a glass of water instead. It doesn't have the same bite, but it's equally unpleasant against the back of your throat, still raw and sore. 

Next to you, Autumn and her two friends are already delving into a new conversation. Something about the oddities going on around town and how some old man says he walked into a cave and saw a mastodon. You suppose there must be some inside group dedicated to continuing the claim because it's a rumor you've heard every year. 

A smile fights its way onto your face. You and Rhett used to gear up and go mastodon hunting up on the old trails behind the Abbott property. Royal loved to ask what y'all planned to do with it once you caught it, but you and Rhett never thought that far ahead. 

Your gaze follows the bartender, ready to ask for something sweet, but she's on the other end, gathering a dozen beers for a party that just walked in. Someone leans onto the bar. His head blocking part of your view. But then he looks over, and—

Rhett's eyes widen at the sight of you. By the feel of it on your face, the expression is mutual.

At least, it is for a second. That sourness jumps into your throat. Lower gut churning with a fervor unlike ever before. 

"I'm heading out back," you blurt, hand rising to cover your mouth, "you don't wanna follow." 

The girls frown, but they're certainly not making the risk to stop you. Autumn's already reaching for your drink, accepting your nod as a sign that she can finish off what you've got left. A voice jumps across the blare of the music. Almost sounds like the call of your name. But you don't have the luxury of stopping and looking. 

Your feet are barely falling into line. Rushing to push through the men gathered by the back exit. Past the blasting jukebox. There's that tightness in your lungs again. A thick sensation rising higher. Higher. Higher in your throat. There's the door. There's the door. Your hands are reaching out. Grappling at the handle. 

Hinges squeal open. Shoes scuffing on the concrete. 

Vivid purple petals burst past your lips like goddamn confetti. Stems and all. Ripping past your already battered windpipe and sticking to your tongue, little bits of purple carrying in the wind. 

Those three-petalled flowers were pretty until they started growing in your lungs. You can't stand the sight of them, but you've got no choice but to cough more of them up. As if any amount of effort will make them disappear. 

 A bundle of them have caught in the back of your mouth, stubbornly thwarting your ability to breathe. Light as a feather, your head spins, feet stumbling as you scurry to one of the chairs, sitting against the wall. The plastic groans under your weight, so brittle that it ought to give away at any moment.

Lightning flickers as another wave of flowers rain to the floor, and it's a wonder you can get these out at all. 

The back door opens with a screech. Music pours through the gap, an incoherent tune so loud that you can hardly hear the thunder rolling through town. Someone in boots stumbles out, keeling over.

A bloodstained rose tumbles to the ground, pink and red petals dancing behind it, landing amongst your mess of purple. 

When you lift your head, you know what you're going to see. But that doesn't make the look in Rhett's eyes any easier to bear. Some kind of hellish cross between horror and bewilderment that manages to look akin to a wounded puppy. 

Not a word leaves his mouth. Doesn't get the opportunity to, for that matter, another plume of petals forcing their way past his lips before he can do anything about it. Just the sight of them has that tickle building in the back of your throat, but for the time being, your tank is empty. 

Thunder booms as Rhett falls into the chair opposite you. His hand dips into his flannel pocket, producing...

your marker. 

"'m sorry," he mutters, sentence broken by a cough, "Didn't realize I stuck it behind my ear 'til you texted me."

"Which time?" You can't help the bitterness seeping into your tone, plucking the little writing utensil from his outstretched hand. 

His eyes dart away. 

The tension in the silence doesn't come from the storm. Wind howling around the corner of the building, rustling through the trees. Lightning flickers, illuminating the world around you for the briefest of moments, and just like that, rain begins to fall. Coming down in a thick sheet, so strong that even under the awning, it manages to reach you, mist tickling your skin and dampening your clothes.

Idle, your fingers twist the marker back and forth; it's still warm from where it rested in his pocket, snug against his chest. A part of you wonders if he always runs this hot or if your hands are just cold from the Wyoming air.

"So you and Maria, huh?" Even with the roar of the storm, your voice is too loud; a megaphone in the library would be more tolerable. 

"Nah, I just ran into her 'bout a half hour ago." Rhett's head shakes, eyes on the floor. "We were both goin' to the same place, 'n that was about it."

"Damn, and here I thought she was your soulmate." You hate that a selfish part of you floods with relief. So overcome with it that you can feel the way your shoulders drop. "It would have made for the perfect story."

You could have been the perfect story, too.

"I don't know why I liked her in high school," he's continuing, running a hand through his hair, fingers visibly catching on a tangle, "'s like talkin' to a fuckin' wall."

Of all the things you've imagined him saying, that wasn't even close to making it on the list. Though, you can't say he's entirely wrong; ever since that time you got paired with Maria for a history presentation, you haven't been able to see what's so interesting about her, either. Nothing but one-word answers and giggling with her friends while you worked on the assignment by your lonesome. 

It may be petty, but you're still bitter. 

"I'm sorry, I..." Rhett's talking again, caving to the silence that you've unintentionally put between you two. His hands fall into his lap, clasping together. Then, break apart just as quickly, one of them reaching up to rub at his forehead. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you the other night."

"It's alright—" your tongue pauses before the rest of your sentence can follow. I wanted you to. But you're looking down at your tattoo, and it's still the same horseshoe. It doesn't match Rhett's. 

It will never match Rhett's. 

Finding your voice is damn near impossible, but you do it anyway. "You've done stranger things while under the influence." 

"Like gettin' a DUI on the back of a horse?" He says it so bluntly that you can't help but sputter. 

It's easy. Dissolving into laughter. Peering at each other through smiling eyes. Yeah, getting a DUI on horseback is much, much worse than trying to steal a kiss. You've still got the voicemail from when Joy called you in the dead of night, asking you to come get Rhett and his horse. 

White flashes. Lighting up the world for the briefest moment. An ear-splitting crackle erupts from above. So loud that the town lights flicker in unison like a bunch of candles nearly blown out by the squealing wind. 

"'s gettin' pretty bad out here." The sound of Rhett's voice is nearly lost to the ringing in your ear. 

"Tell me about it," you lean forward, peering over at the miniature river that runs down into the alleyway, carrying with it a parade of purple, pink, and red flower petals. "The road'll be flooded by the time Autumn decides she's ready to leave."

Rhett's head tilts to the side. "You didn't drive?" 

"Couldn't." Shocker, you know. "I had a hot date with a shot of whisky."

"Two from what I saw," so he was watching you do that, huh?

You wink. "I would have made it three if I knew you were watching."

Something crackles in the distance. Maybe a tree struck by lightning, bits of bark falling like rain. A little too close for comfort, whatever it was.

That tickling rises in the back of your throat once more. Forces another cough out of you. The purple petals catch in the wind before they can hit the ground, soaring off like tiny planes. Rhett's eyes follow them until they're out of sight. 

All of a sudden, he rises to his feet, spurs chiming with the motion. Must have forgotten to take those off again. "Need a ride?" Offering his hand. 

You take it before you even realize what he's asking. 

A part of you is beginning to suspect that Autumn can see into the future because she's hardly phased when she turns her head to see you meander back into the bar, hand in hand with Rhett. Her white teeth flash you with a smile, perhaps a little too interested in whatever Billy Tillerson is babbling into her other ear. With their hands intertwined, you can hardly tell that they've got timers imprinted on their wrists, bearing identical numbers.

Autumn doesn't need to ask when you hand her the twenty from your pocket; in the time you've known each other, you've proven to be a creature of habit. Instead, she offers you a wink, not a word said. 

Rhett's already by the door, working his beat-up wallet back into his jeans before he can set it down and forget that it's there. "Y' ready to get wet?" He chirps once you're within earshot. 

You're not, but there's no stopping the rain now that it's coming down. "Ready as I'll ever be." 

The door creeks open. A gust of wind rushes in through the gap. Slams you with the force of a freight train. Damn near strong enough to knock you on your ass. But Rhett's grabbing hold of your wrist and him hauling you forward is the only thing keeping your feet from being swept out from under you. 

Freezing rain splatters against your skin like a million tiny bullets. So sharp you think they might pierce through and come out the other side. A sheet of white blinds you. Forced to lower your head and prey Rhett's hauling you the right direction. The sidewalk is already flooded. Splashing up to lick your ankles. Soaking through your shoes. 

You're moving. You know you're moving. But you might as well be on some hellish treadmill because it doesn't feel like you're going anywhere.

All of a sudden, Rhett's pulling you to the right. Toward the curb. Reaching for the handle. Yanking so hard you can hear it over the rain. 

It opens. You're inside within the very same second. Clambering into the cloth passenger seat, pulling your legs in, just as Rhett slams the door shut. Through the blurry dash, he's only identifiable as a big blue splotch, travelling around the front of his truck. His door rips open just as quickly, the vehicle rocking as he all but throws himself inside.

"'s fuckin' cold!" He sputters, blindly jabbing the key at the ignition. Miss. Miss again. Another miss. He tilts his head. It slides home. 

It's been a minute since the last time you heard this old truck roar to life. Even longer since you've last felt your skin go this numb. Shivering like a leaf, nerves so ruthlessly beaten by the elements that they're shot. There's a texture to this seat. You know there is, but you can't feel it. 

A weary hand darts out. Wavering back and forth. Narrowly misses the little heat dial.

"Ain't got heat, remember?" Rhett almost sounds guilty, though you can't say for sure. It's hard to get a read of his face when he's focused on putting the truck into gear, looking straight ahead as he pulls onto the road. Though you're not entirely sure why, he's still got that old—

...no. His spare shirt is still sitting in your clothes hamper, next in line for a wash. Even if you had miraculously known to carry it with you tonight, there's no way it would have done you any good. Not with how soaked your clothes are, dripping like you've just gone for an impromptu swim in the coldest river you could find. 

Your arms rise to wrap around yourself, clinging to what little body heat you've got left. A jacket. Why didn't you think to carry a jacket? Lightning flickers. Crackling so loudly that you can feel it travel through the ground; almost sounds as if it's laughing at you. 

Even in the safe confines of this truck, the win threatens to wriggle in and get ahold of you. Screaming around the truck. Whipping past light posts. Rattling them so hard that they sway back and forth. Something is telling you that a power outage is in your near-to-distant future. With how you can look out the back window and see it ravaging the main part of town, there's no way it's not going to take out a power line. One little mess up is all it takes to plunge this little town into darkness. 

There's already a tree down. Its long branches obstructing part of the road, forcing Rhett onto the other side to squeeze past. 

"'m I over far enough?" He sounds like he's got a handle on it, head tilting back and forth, drawing the truck closer and closer to the edge of the road. 

Your eyes squint. Struggling to see through the window. "I think so."

It's an obstacle easily overcome, but as you begin to pick up speed once more, a new problem arises. Those poor little windshield wipers can hardly keep up with the rain. Coming down in sheet after sheet, splattering against the glass quicker than it can be swept off. Driving in the ocean would have better visibility.

"Can't fuckin..." Rhett's talking to himself. You hope he's talking to himself because you can't hear him over the chatter of your teeth. Trembling like some kind of exaggerated cartoon character.

The truck gently veers to the right, off into some kind of gravel space on the side of the road, grinding to a halt.

"The— the wipers can't go any faster?" Tongue limp in your mouth. Impossible to move.

Rhett's head shakes. "No, they don't..." 

His eyes lock onto yours. Even that might be enough to eat away some of the ice forming in your bones. His jaw softens. Eyelashes fluttering with an incoming thought.

Slow, his arm rises from his side, extending your direction. "C'mere."

Your breath catches. Is that...no, you....you shouldn't—

"Promise I won't kiss ya," his fingers tap your shoulder, "'m jus' gonna warm ya up."

Another bolt of lightning flashes. 

You're scooting across the bench seat before thunder even has the chance to arise. Slipping beneath his outstretched arm, helpless to do anything but fall into his big chest, equally soaked as you are, but he's warm. A big furnace, wrapping around and squeezing you into him. 

He shifts the slightest bit, leaning against the door, opening himself up for you to properly squirm into his side. With such little space in this truck, it's a squeeze, but you fit nonetheless, cheek resting atop that old bucking bull tattoo, the scruff of his jaw tickling your forehead. 

Another rumble rolls through, wind slamming into the side of the vehicle, rocking it back and forth like some kind of giant cradle. Rhett's legs shift, properly rising up onto the seat, knees knocking into yours as they settle. There's no way that you can feel his body, not with those thick jeans in the way, but a part of you swears that you can. So certain of it that you think the ice in your bones is beginning to thaw.

A big, warm hand runs up and down the expanse of your arm as if to create a little friction there. "Can y' still feel your hands?" He murmurs, voice rumbling against the top of your head, and you think that's the tip of his nose bumping into you.

You're wiggling your fingers, can see them moving in the darkness, but hardly any sensation comes of it. Feels as if you're operating a separate object and not a part of your own body. "I don't know." 

He reaches down, both hands wrapping around yours, and immediately, it's as if you've been set ablaze. Fire burning in your frozen joints, sensitive to even the slightest change in temperature. Rhett's thumb swipes against yours, a rough glide, his skin weathered by a lifetime of labor on the ranch. 

They're so much bigger, too, dwarfing yours in comparison, long and thick with muscle and built-up callouses. He must be noticing it as well because he's sliding his index finger down next to yours, and even in the dark, you can tell that he's at least twice the size. So big that you can hold just the four of his fingers, and not even need the rest of his hand.

You don't know why you're doing this or why he's letting you. 

Careful, your gaze crawls upward, roaming over the wet fabric of his flannel, up his damp neck, and the dripping curls resting at his nape. And he's...

he's already looking at you. Half-lidded eyes fixated on your face, the corner of his lip twitching upward for the briefest moment. A tickle rises in the back of your throat. Nothing comes of it. Lightning lights up the world like a light switch flicked, but you don't hear the thunder that follows. 

His nose bumps into yours. Breath fanning out against your skin. 

This...you shouldn't...but...

Those blue eyes drop down to your lips. Then back up to you. His eyelashes flutter. You think yours might, too. He's so close. Can feel the stubble on his chin brush against you, a fleeting thing that you can somehow still feel, even after the contact breaks. A breath trickles out of your chest. The slightest little movement that brushes your bottom lip against his. And he's not moving away, he's—

An ear-splitting boom tears past the truck. Rattling it back and forth. Sends you and Rhett jumping. Your head bangs against the seat cushion. His elbow hits the horn. 

"The hell..." he grumbles, with a shake of his head. "Was that s'pposed to be thunder?" 

"Is that what it was?" Parroting him, looking toward the window as if that could possibly give you an answer. 

The rain has slowed into a slow trickle that is easily swept away by the windshield wipers, unveiling the world around you once more. You recognize where you're at now, just two or three miles down from your house.  So damn close, and yet...

"Let's get you home," Rhett's sitting up, and you've got no choice but to do so as well. The scoot to the passenger side is almost shameful, the cold, soaked seat squishing beneath you like a sponge. 

A thick collection of petals swell in the back of your throat as Rhett's foot finds the gas pedal once more. Were you about to kiss him? What the hell were you thinking? That isn't how this works. You're not soulmates.

Somehow, the air has grown even colder without him wrapped around you, his very presence haunting you like a ghost. Lingering in the back of your mind so strongly that you can almost deceive yourself into believing that you're still snuggled into his side. But no matter how hard you focus, you can't force it to manifest into reality. 

Cruel is what it is.

Even as the rain picks up once more, it's not enough to pull you over again, swept away from the windshield as quickly as it lands. There's another tree down, but it has barely made its way into the road, such a simple obstacle that only takes a second or two to get past. And just like that, your porch light is emerging in the distance. A golden glow that grows larger by the second, like a tiny sun rising to greet you.

The gravel driveway crackles beneath the tires; it's usually a pleasant sound, but today, all it does is cause your stomach to sink. Such a sour feeling that it rises, flower petals tickling the back of your throat until you cough. Little bits of purple scatter across your lap. Rhett's foot jumps to the brake pedal, a soft squeal emitting from beneath the vehicle as it comes to a stop. 

You've never been so disappointed to see your front door. 

"Thank you," barely a whisper as it leaves your mouth. Anything louder might break you.

He nods, eyes darting from your lap and up to your face. "Yeah." 

The only sound in the truck is that of the frozen rain pitter-pattering on the metal roof. Nothing more. Nothing less. With a forced, tight-lipped smile, you reach for the door handle. It opens with a groan, creating just enough space for you to slip out, the oversaturated ground squelching beneath you. He doesn't say anything as you shut the door, so neither do you. 

Resigned to silence, you trudge through the rain. Wind rips past, determined to lift you up off the ground and whisk you into the sky. But you don't lift off the ground. You don't even slip. Your feet find the front steps of your porch, hand fishing into your pocket and producing a set of drenched keys.

The confines of your home are so much warmer than it was outside, and yet, as you toe off your muddy shoes, you can't help but compare it to Rhett. Your heater may be strong, but it doesn't wrap around you the way his arms did. Big. Secure. The kind of thing you thought only existed in your daydreams. 

Strange, you don't hear his truck pulling out of the driveway. You know he hasn't; that old GMC runs far too loudly for it to slip by unnoticed. Curious, you hook your finger into the blinds, pulling them down.

No, he hasn't moved at all.

...what's he doing out there? Even from here, you can tell that the storm is picking back up again, rustling through the trees, swaying them back and forth. 

Nothing has fallen or otherwise obstructed the driveway, and something couldn't have gone wrong. Not that quickly. Unless he's suddenly developed the ability to hear your heart hammering against your chest, wordlessly begging him not to leave your driveway, there's no reason for him to still be parked. 

The cab light flicks on. Then off again. All of a sudden, he's rounding the back of his truck. You're opening the door, socked feet stepping out onto the cold, wet porch. His spurs chime, boots thumping up one stair. Two. Three. Four. No, no, something must have happened. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack, looks half scared to death. 

But he's not stopping. 

"Rhett—"

"I forgot somethin'." One more step, and he's leaning down, and, and...

It's the simplest of things, merely pressing against each other for a long moment, but heaven itself cannot compare to the feeling of Rhett's lips against yours. His nose crushed uncomfortably against your cheek, big hands cradling your cheeks like you'll break if he doesn't. 

Just as quickly, he draws away, soft blue eyes meeting with yours. Lightning flashes, but even the following slam of thunder cannot stop you from grabbing a fistful of his flannel and yanking him in once more. Lips crashing together, feet stumbling with the force of it. One of his arms is wrapping around your waist and your hands are sliding up into his hair. Bold. As if this is familiar, something you've done every day of your lives. 

The press of his mouth and the stubble of his chin are so much more than your imagination ever could have crafted. Warm and scratching against you so deliciously that your head goes quiet. Soul mate markings be damned. This is where you're meant to be. Right here. Twisting your fingers through his unruly curls, gasping against him. Drowning as he kisses you again, and again, and again. 

Your head is spinning. Stumbling blindly as he leans into you, forcing you backward. Your heel catches on the doorway. "Rhett—" But you don't fall. You can't. Not with that strong arm around you. "Cowboy!" 

"You're the only one that's ever called me that." He breaks away, kicking at the door with his foot. There's no doubt a mud stain on the white frame now, but you've hardly got it in you to care. 

"What?" Your nose bumps into his cheek. A little too close.

"Cowboy." He mutters, lips brushing against yours. So, so close. 

A breath hitches in your throat. "Should I stop?"

"Never." And he's kissing you again. 

Muffled thunder rumbles outside, and you're pretty sure the power has gone out, but you can't open your eyes to check. Helpless to do anything but tug on his hair, drinking in his deep grumble like you're starved. You should be embarrassed. Shouldn't be this desperate over a first kiss. 

But Rhett's got it just as bad. Pushing you backward until you're bumping into the wall. His big, calloused hand is venturing beneath your soaked shirt. God, and you're letting him. Back arching as his fingertips trail up your spine, chest pressing into his. Gasping against his lips like you're trying to put on a show. 

More. You want more. Reaching down to toy with the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one at a time, shaking fingers struggling to push them through the holes. Too eager to feel the expense of his chest beneath your palms. 

"You're gonna have t' stop me," Rhett's speaking against your lips, batting your hands away. Makes no effort to finish your handiwork as he yanks the flannel off his shoulders, the final three buttons snapping off and scattering across the hardwood floor.

Before you can stop it, your hand drops to his belt, pulling him closer. Earns you an affectionate chuckle that echoes throughout the house. Those hips of his press forward, obnoxiously large buckle digging into your belly, not an inch of space left between your bodies. 

"Why would I stop you?" It's too early for you to be reaching down to grab at the hem of your shirt, but you don't care. You want this damn thing off. The soaked fabric stubbornly clings to your frame, heavy as you drag it over your head. It hits the floor with a wet thunk, a mess for the future version of you to handle. 

Those deep blue eyes might eat you alive. "Good point." 

It's hard to tell who makes the next move. All you know is that you're leaning in to kiss him, noses crashing together, and his hands are appearing on your ass, squeezing until you get the hint to jump. It all happens so fast. The thunk of your back against the wall. His hips slotting between your thighs. 

"Y' feel what you're doin' to me?" He grunts, and he doesn't need to specify for you to know what he's talking about—heavy bulge straining against his jeans, pressing perfectly against your core, igniting a familiar heat there. 

"Uhuh," is all you're capable of. Greedy hands sliding across his chest and up his shoulders, feeling over all the little freckles and marks that have haunted your imagination. Fuck, and he just lets you. Too busy leaning in to steal a kiss off you. One. Two. Three. Before he shifts to the juncture of your jaw, stubble tickling as he kisses down your neck.  

Your hips buck forward. 

"Fuck," Rhett's voice tickles your ear, "shoulda let me kiss you earlier, sweetheart."

A shiver ripples down your spine. That's new. 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Finding your words is a task in of itself. Hard to do much of anything when his lips find the soft spot beneath your ear, sucking lightly. 

"You were drunk," voice strained, wound too tight in your throat. 

"Felt pretty sober in the moment," He hums, tongue poking out to wet your skin. Fuck, you wonder what that would feel like in other places, thighs squeezing impossibly tighter around his hips, works a groan right out of him. 

Thunder booms outside, but it's not enough to stop your lips from crashing once more. Teeth clattering, hopelessly grinding down into him, and even these layers of clothing can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches. 

It's all a blur. 

One moment, you're up against the wall. The next, you're on the ground again, socks sliding against the floor as you stumble down the hall. Hands tangled in his hair. Gasping against his lips. Moving blindly, too focused on each other to spare even a second. You don't know you're in the bedroom until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, falling backward with a yelp. 

Fuck, you shouldn't be doing this. There's no reason for you to be letting Rhett Abbott climb into bed with you and slot his big, warm body between your legs. He's your friend. You've known him since you could walk. And these tattoos. They don't match. You're not soulmates. 

Rhett's hand rises, pinning yours to the mattress, fingers slotting together. Must know what you're thinking about. "Who gives a fuck 'bout soulmates," he whispers, leaning forward to bump his nose against yours, rubbing them back and forth. "A damn stranger ain't gonna make me as happy as you do."

And you don't...you don't know what to say. 

Maybe you don't need to say anything because he kisses you like he's heard everything your heart has to tell him. Stealing your breath away, plucking every little flower from your lungs, so dizzying that your legs have to curl around him to keep from floating away. As if you could possibly escape the big, warm arms that have settled on either side of your head. 

Slow, his weight settles on top of you. Bellies snug together. So close that you can hardly grind up into him, reduced to a needy squirm, whining high in your throat. 

"Shh," he coos. A big hand curling around your cheek, thumb stroking the thin skin there. "I'll take care of you."

He's already making good on his promise, pulling away to kiss down your neck once more. Hot tongue poking past his lips, running over a vein, leaves behind a glistening trail as he makes his way to your collar. One of his hands dips behind your back, pinching the clasp of your bra, opens it so easily that it almost surprises you.

The last thing you expect is for him to gasp when he pulls it away. Awestruck by the sight of you, bare, for his eyes only. "So fuckin' pretty," whispering, as he kisses down your chest. Too eager to run his tongue down the swell of your breast, so content that his closed eyes seem to smile. 

Oh, that's...

"Rhett..." Heat swells in your lower belly. The feeling of his tongue swirling around your nipple is...truly something... 

Just as quickly, he's darting to the other one, all too excited to feel the little bud harden beneath his touch. Sensitive. Only takes the slightest bit of suction to make you jolt. But he must have noticed something even more enticing because he's pulling away from that one as well, a big hand rising to toy with it as his head dips down lower. 

A delicate kiss presses to the scar on your left side. 

Then another. And another. And another. Loving on the old wound, as if he can possibly reverse the damage if he gives it enough attention. Maybe just one more kiss will do it. If not, then surely the next one can make it happen.

"It was nobody's fault," you say softly, reaching to run your fingers through his hair once more. Truly, it wasn't. Nobody could have anticipated that shard of glass. 

"I know," the rumble of his voice tickles, pausing to run his tongue up the expanse of the mark, "jus' wish it didn't hurt ya like it did."

Gradually, he draws himself away from your side. Kissing his way down your belly until he meets the thin, delicate band of your underwear. His eyes peer up at you with a silent question. Your answer comes in the form of lifted hips, allowing him to pull the material down your legs. Then, he reaches for his belt, pinching it open with mesmerizing ease.

One boot thunks against the floor. Then the other. You really hope he didn't track mud all over your hardwood.

"You and that obnoxious buckle," the comment slips off your tongue before you can stop it. Too busy watching him undress. It's unfair how well the fabric clings to his thighs, fitting him like a damn glove. 

He laughs, kicking his jeans off his feet. "What, don't think it looks good on me?" 

"If I answer that, your ego will go through the roof." Your eyes roll; the last thing you need to do is tell him that, yes, you do like it. Lord only knows he'll run himself through four more rodeo seasons, trying to score an even bigger buckle. 

"Already has," he winks, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his boxers.

You don't know what he's got to be so confident about until...

"Jesus, Rhett."

"What?" He grins. Absolutely fucking obnoxious. But you can't formulate a single word. "What?"

Your thighs cinch together, hiding yourself from view. There is absolutely no reason why that should be springing up from its confines, so heavy that it smacks against his hip, unable to stand up against his belly. So wet that even in the dark you can see him glistening.

"Naw, y' don't gotta be shy," Rhett's hand travels up your knee, slipping between your closed legs, callouses dragging deliciously against your sensitive skin, "'s just me." 

A little too easily, you fall apart once more, feeling a little too exposed as his hungry eyes rake down your body. Every imperfection and curve is on full display. An exhibit of the life you've lived. And Rhett just might be your biggest admirer, his warm frame slipping between your legs, big hands gliding up your sides, pressing lazy kisses as he settles on top of you. 

"Rhett..." you don't know why you're saying his name, thighs curling around his sharp hips. His cock head bumps into the meet of your thigh, sends you jumping before you can realize what's happened.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya," uttering beneath his breath, a sentiment meant for your ears only. "I promise." He reaches between your bodies, gently guiding himself to—

Your head tilts back with a gasp. That's new. The delicate drag of Rhett's cock, gliding between your folds, the underside of him nudging at your clit. Hadn't realized you'd gotten this worked up until now, so wet that you can almost convince yourself that you don't need any lube at all. Not a hint of dryness to be found, sliding so, so easily against you.

But then you're gathering the courage to peer down between your legs, and even the darkness can't hide how big he is. Thicker than your daydreams have ever depicted, just a hair longer than any of the toys hiding beneath the bed.

"Bedside table," you blurt, heart fluttering in your chest. Walking is a privilege you'd like to keep. 

An unforeseen positive to letting your best friend between your legs is the fact that he knows exactly what you're trying to say. No need for questions as Rhett reaches off to the side, hand disappearing into the drawer. Comes back with the bottle, then delves back in, producing some tiny, round hunks of plastic.

You don't recognize them until he flicks one on—the tiny, fake candles from a few Halloweens ago.

"How romantic," there's a strangeness to this that you didn't expect; oddly casual, even with this newfound situation. 

"What?" He asks, innocent as can be, like you have a choice in the matter, already putting one flickering candle off to the side. Another, next to your hip, and he's still got four or five of them left to turn on. "Ain't in the mood for some mood lightin'?"

Lying to yourself is fruitless. The soft golden glow is a welcomed addition to this dark little bedroom. Highlights the room just enough for you to catch the way he drizzles the lube into his palm, reaching down to spread it over himself. That big hand almost tricks you into believing his cock is smaller than it really is, the flushed tip nudging at your cunt with every upward glide. 

They say monsters hide in the dark, and you know you caught sight of one between his legs. 

Two fingers press into you. No warning to be found, the thick digits easing in like they've done it a million and one times, crooking upward, dragging against your walls. There's the slightest hint of a stretch, a soft ache that—

You suck in a breath, a soft noise escaping past your lips. 

Rhett's cock twitches against you. "'s that it?" 

Weak, you nod. Don't trust yourself to speak. Not with him gradually beginning to move, shallowly pumping those long digits into you, never pulling out far enough to make you feel empty. But it's so hard to stay quiet when he continuously rubs up into those little nerves, nudging them on every pass over. 

"Rhett..." hips writhing against the bed, not sure if you want to lean into it or squirm away. 

That must be all that he's planning to give you because all of a sudden, he's drawing away. Wet fingers glisten in the candlelight as he reaches for his cock once more, guiding it back between your folds. Not entirely the same as what you had before, but the drag of his cock head against your clit is so, so worth the exchange. 

His warm chest settles against yours once more, lips finding your cheek, scratchy jaw tickling the skin there. Sounds like he murmurs your name as he travels to the corner of your mouth, pressing another kiss there. Finally. Finally, he meets you for a proper kiss, almost immediately broken by the swivel of his hips, reformed just as quickly.

Your hands are on the move. One in his hair, the other on his naked shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and ripple beneath your fingertips. Strong from a decade of bull riding and all that time spent on the ranch, chiseled and perfect in every way you can imagine. Fuck, it's like he was built just for you and this. Rutting between your legs like he's in heat, dragging against your needy clit until your hips twitch off the mattress, pressing into him. 

Swallowing down his groan is enough to put you up on cloud nine. 

A pressure appears at your entrance—the soft nudge of his tip. Your antics must have caused him to wander a little too far down. But you're pushing down onto him like it was your intent all along, and by God, he's not trying to stop you. 

Rhett stiffens. "You want me to...?" Muttering against your lips, unable to draw himself away any further. 

"Yeah," it's the easiest thing you've said all night.

It's all the encouragement he needs, mouth meeting yours once more. Slow, that pressure between your legs begins to grow, his blunt tip spreading you wide. There's a part of you already beginning to wonder if you should have asked for more lube, but his incessant lips are so damn distracting. Tangling with yours, drawing you into a captivating dance, spinning your head round and round, drawing your mind away from the burn. 

His head slips into you with a soft 'pop,' such an odd little feeling that has you gasping into his kiss, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades. Now you can really feel him. The delicate drag of his length gradually filling you, centimeter by debilitating centimeter. You'll be waddling come morning. You can already feel it.

There's no way you won't be. Not with how your pussy aches with the overwhelming stretch of him.

"Y' want me to stop?" Rhett's low voice rumbles against your bottom lip; when did the kiss break? 

Thunder rumbles outside, your only reminder of the storm that looms just past the thin walls of your home. Even the memory of running with him in the rain feels like it was forever ago. There were flowers filling your lungs just a few hours prior, but as you draw in a breath, you can't feel a shred of evidence that they were ever there.

"Yeah," nodding, your nose bumping into his, "you're just...a lot." 

God, you shouldn't have said that. 

But it's too late. There's already a wild grin emerging onto his scruffy face, so pleased with your words that his eyes seem to sparkle. As if the sight of you struggling to take his cock wasn't enough of a boost to his ego. 

"'s that it?" Speaking through his smile, still has the audacity to sink even further into you. "Ya never had anything big as me?" 

Your eyes roll so hard that they might get stuck.

All at once, his hips are flush with yours, not an inch of space left, your legs tightening around him as if there's a risk of him pulling back out. But that's not happening. Not with the way he's blindly nuzzling his nose into you, so lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him that he can't hold his eyes open.

"Y' alright?" His eyelashes tickle your cheek as they flutter open.

"Uhuh" is the best that you've got at this given moment. It's so hard to speak when you're so full. Couldn't take another millimeter of him, even if he begged you to. "You can..." pausing for a breath, "you can move."

In perfect synchrony, your attentions flicker down to where your bodies meet. A sight lit by the golden glow of the artificial candles, illuminating the slow withdrawal of Rhett's cock, where you're stretched so wide that you don't think your smaller toys will ever satisfy you again. 

"Shit, look at that," there's no reason why Rhett, of all people, should be so mesmerized by this, but he is, and it makes you fucking dizzy. "'s fuckin' hot."

And then he's sinking back in and—

"Fuck," it's too early for you to be whimpering so high in your throat, but his blunt tip is dragging right against the sensitive nerves hidden within you, and it's so, so much. 

This close, it's hard to miss the way Rhett's breath hitches, "'s that the spot, baby?"

All you can do is nod. Nails biting into his shoulders as he draws back once more, rubbing past that little spot once more. Toys don't normally get this sort of reaction out of you, but there's just something about it being Rhett that's getting to you. Your childhood best friend. The man that your weary heart has yearned for since high school. Eye candy at every rodeo he's ever set foot in. 

His lips find yours, tangling lazily, humming all the while. A part of you wonders if he always demands this many kisses. If he makes a habit of smiling into them. The rest of you knows that he doesn't because otherwise, he'd know that the heavy thrust of his hips would send your teeth clattering together.

"Ow," he's jerking back as if he's not the main culprit behind it. 

His cock head drives right up into those nerves. Sends your back arching up off the bed, pussy spasming around him, and you don't know which of you cry out louder. 

"There, there, there," you're babbling like a fool, but he's already missing it again. Such a minuscule thing that every correction is an overshot. 

Rhett's brows furrow, focusing so damn hard, and yet, "I can't...shit, that ain't it either." 

But you've got an idea.

Without a word, you begin to lean up, foreheads bumping together as Rhett tries to follow along, his big blue eyes so wide that they glisten in the light. Slipping out of you entirely as he falls onto his haunches, looks like a big puppy when he's confused like this.

"On your back," your command is soft. It could easily be bent if he really wanted to, but he's already following through on it, twisting and falling back onto the bed without a fuss. 

Settling into his lap is a feeling you've imagined a million and one times, and yet, somehow, it's unlike anything your mind has ever come up with. Warmth radiating off him like he's a damn heater, broad chest making your hand look impossibly tiny, as you lean on him for balance. He's already one step ahead of you, carefully guiding his cock back to your dripping cunt; all you've got to do is sink down and—

A pair of gasps tear through the room. Louder than the storm raging outside.

"Y' look so fuckin' beautiful on top of me, baby," Rhett sputters, peering up at you as if you've hung the moon and the stars in the sky. 

Already, you're beginning to move. Knees digging into the mattress, palms firm against his chest as you lift yourself up. The curve of his length alone is enough to make your thighs shudder.

"You're not so bad yourself," you're breathless already, hips swiveling, searching for that deceptive little angle. Maybe if you...lean a little further forward...

There it is. 

A tingle ripples up your spine, clamping down around Rhett's cock, and he must feel it because his head rolls to the side, lips parting with a groan that ought to make your head spin. Those big hands settle onto your thighs, gripping like he'll fall off the bed if he doesn't.

"Is that—oh fuck,"  his hips jerk up off the bed, leaking tip kissing those little nerves head on, "is that it?"

You can't answer. Palms shivering against his chest, already fighting to keep yourself upright. An ache blooming in your thighs with every rise and fall, head tilting back, a familiar heat beginning to bloom in your lower belly.

Rhett must be feeling it, too. There's no way he isn't. Head rolling from side to side, back arching off the bed, unable to keep himself still beneath you, a whiny mewl escaping his parted lips. And all it's doing is jostling his length inside of you, sporadically tapping against all those sensitive spots.

A calloused thumb appears on your clit. Not sure when he started reaching down, but it's damn near got you collapsing onto his chest, a tremble setting into your exhausted bones. 

"Fuck, Rhett!" You're squealing, poorly built rhythm already beginning to fall apart. 

Again, his hips snap upward, heavy balls smacking against your ass. "'m sorry, I'm not trying to buck my hips. I just..." he doesn't get to finish that because you're falling forward into his chest, face burying into his shoulder. It's too much. It's too much. 

Big hands settle on your hips. Gripping tight as his knees bend, feet digging into the mattress to pump into you properly. Lewd smacks of skin on skin echoing through the room, artificial candles bouncing with his every motion. 

"Anyone else ever fill your sweet pussy like this?" He rasps in some rumbling, guttural tone you've never heard before. "Hm?"

Your head shakes, but it takes a moment to realize that he can't see what you're doing. Not with you nuzzled up under his jaw. "N-no," whimpering right into his ear. 

Those hands are moving again, gliding up your back, big arms securing themselves around you like a hug, the only damn thing that keeps you from bouncing further up the bed. Your forearms settle on either side of his head, shivering as you try to lift yourself up, but you can only go so far, barely able to meet his eyes.

Lips clash, so loose that it hardly even counts as a kiss. Drinking down Rhett's feeble whine. Makes your head spin so much more than the alcohol ever did. Heat pools between your legs, pussy tightening like a vice around his pistoning cock, thick tip rubbing into those nerves over and over and over. 

You're close. 

"I love you," it slips out of him so quietly that you nearly believe it's a figment of your imagination. "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

One of your hands delves into his hair, noses colliding. Think you might be whispering it back, but you can't hear what's coming out of your mouth. Overridden by the blood rushing to your head and the slap of his skin against yours, and, and, and...

Spots appear in your vision. Body going taut as you cum around him without the slightest warning. Crying out high in your throat, forehead knocking against Rhett's, an invisible flame racing across your skin. Every thrust pushes your head higher into the clouds, could damn near float up to the ceiling if his arms weren't tightening around you, his hips stalling. A melody of whimpers bubbles out of his throat, orgasm washing over him like a tidal wave. 

You think you can feel it. The spasm of his cock and the warmth of his cum painting you white, flooding your pussy so full that you think it's already beginning to pour out of you. His hips jerk up into you, punctuated by a sickening squelch and his own broken moan. 

And yet, somehow, you've got the strength to meet his swollen lips, lazy tongues poking out to twist together like a greeting. Wet and messy as can be, saliva running down your chin, drooling like dogs in the summer sun. Rhett twists beneath you, and you're vaguely aware that the world around you is spinning, falling into the mattress beside him. 

A tickle rises in the back of your throat, forcing a cough out of you. Two purple flowers dance out onto the bed, obnoxiously vibrant and dainty. They've always been small, nothing compared to the roses Rhett's been choking up, but they look even tinier in his sweaty palm.

"Spiderwort," he murmurs after a moment, running a fingertip over their petals. Bleary blues peer flicker up to you, half-lidded and turned upward by his dumb smile.

They've always been his favorite. 

"So there was no girl at the bar?" You ask, hand wandering onto his cheek, curling around it like he's the most delicate thing on this planet. 

His head shakes. "Never." 

There's still a storm lurking outside, rattling the house, lightning and thunder striking the ground with an unmatched fury, but you hardly notice it. Too distracted by the warmth of a cowboy, his legs tangling with yours, uncaring of the mess you've made together. Kissing just for the hell of it, wandering across cheeks and peppering over old scars, musing about the memories attached. 

When you fall asleep, you're not sure, but you wake snuggled into his naked chest, his big arm looped around you like a blanket. Sunshine peeks through the gap in the curtains, the shrill tune of a bird singing her song, and for once, it's dreamy rather than irritating. 

On its own accord, your fingers drift across his sleeping face, warm and maybe the slightest bit flushed. Wandering over the scruff clinging to his jaw, finally at that length where it's grown soft to the touch. Drifting around the minuscule scar above his brow, the only remnant of the night you snuck out together and wrecked the four-wheeler. 

As far as you're aware, Royal never did find out why it started making that funny noise.

...or maybe Rhett was never asleep to begin with because when you look back down, his eyes are open. 

"Keep doin' that," he grumbles, voice deeper than the rumble of last night's thunder, leaning in to press his lips against your forehead. You don't need any further encouragement, trailing your fingertips across his face just for the hell of it.

There are things you should be saying. Discussions to be had about where this puts you and what you are to each other, but the upturn of his lips tells you a million and one words. Seriousness can wait. For now, all you want to think about is this next kiss he's planting on you.

And then another between your eyes, and another on your left cheek, one more on the tip of your nose. Slowly but surely sprawling across your face, peppering you with them so quickly that it feels like the wings of butterflies fluttering against your skin.

"Rhett!" You squeal, pushing at his jaw, but it's no use. He's rolling on top of you, and you're helpless to do anything but squirm and cry out, forced to endure all these kisses. 

As quickly as they start, they stop. 

You're half anticipating them to begin the moment your eyes peel open, but he's not even looking at you. Too focused on something next to his face, just past your wrist.

Or maybe...

"What?" You're not following. 

He leans back, brows furrowed as he looks down at his arm. 

You don't get it. What, was he expecting the tattoos to change overnight? It still looks the damn same to you—

...oh. 

That's not the same marking that has marred your skin from birth. And Rhett's turning his arm to let you see, and it's—

It's the same. Rhett's old bucking bronc, your shoe flying behind its upturned feet. It was never meant to be identical; they were meant to complete each other's picture. 

"Are you serious?" You're sputtering through the smile emerging onto your face, so wide that it shapes your eyes with it. 

And Rhett's not doing much better. Red-cheeked. Grinning from ear to ear. "We just been wrong 'bout it the whole fuckin' time."

This time, when he leans down to kiss you, there isn't a single flower to be found in your lungs. No roses. No spiderwort. Just you and him collapsing into these messy sheets, tangled together as one, matching tattoos at all. 

Separation is only temporary. Breaking apart just long enough to venture into the shower together, uncaring of the tight fit, so long as Rhett's hands are gliding along your body. Tangling together in the kitchen, waiting on the microwave to beep, feet knocking into each other beneath the table like you're five years old, and sharing breakfast at the Abbott house again.

He kisses you in the hallway while mopping up the mud he tracked in. Peppers them along the side of your neck when you stumble out onto the porch to find that a tree has fallen, blocking your driveway completely. Perry says he'll come by with a chainsaw tomorrow afternoon; he could be here within the hour, but you've got the feeling that he's already caught on to what's happened. 

In the middle of summer, you begin to suspect that some familiar flowers are beginning to grow around your home. Vibrant little buds sprout from amidst the dewy grass, nestled against the foundation of your home and roaming out into the lawn, running rampant now that the storm has run out of rain.

Roses don't grow in Wabang. Unless, of course, they're accompanied by spiderwort. 

A few kisses from a cowboy are all they've ever needed. 

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #oneshot #afab reader #hanahaki disease #soulmate au #friends to lovers

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Bittersweet Goodbye - Jaime Reyes X GN Reader

Title: Bittersweet Goodbye

Jaime Reyes X GN Reader

Additional Characters: Some OCs (Mentioned), and Jaime's family (Mentioned)

WC: 3,311

Warnings: Pre Blue Beetle, some google translate was used, bittersweet duh, nicknames, crying, teasing, cursing, goodbyes, mini angst, and fluff

Walking hand-in-hand, you and Jaime wandered down a pebbly path that led away from campus and into a small park. The sun was shining down upon the two of you, the air was nice and warm, and you could hear birds chirping in the distance. Looking up at the trees looming over you both, you took in a deep breath before letting it out. Jaime turned his head slightly so he could look at you, smiling softly as he watched you breathe deeply. You looked absolutely beautiful, he thought, as you gazed up into the blue sky above, light glinting off your hair. He couldn't help but admire how pretty you were. 

Feeling his stare, you met his gaze, tilting your head slightly, "It's nice being here," You said, "Isn't it?"

He nodded in response, "Yeah," He replied, looking out around him, "It really is." You were both a bit too busy to go back to the small park, with tests, finals, and planning graduation popping up.

You hummed, leading him over to a familiar bench. The bench was pretty old, made of dark wood. A silver plaque was placed on the middle of the backrest, with the words, ‘I’ll hold you in my heart, until I can hold you in my arms.' Harold Jones to Samantha Everdean.’ You always wondered about the bench’s backstory. Why was it made, what was the story behind the plaque? What couple used to sit here, like you and Jaime did? "It's been a while since we've been here." You spoke up, turning your gaze to the small pond where a couple of ducks swam.

Jaime nodded, letting out a small sigh, "Yeah," Looking around, he took in the scenery before turning to you, his soft voice grabbing your attention, "Graduation's right around the corner..."

"Yeah," You let out a small laugh, your smile turning into a melancholy one, "Tomorrow... We'll be Pre-Law graduates." Your eyes began to well with tears at that statement. "I’m excited." You finished, lightly clearing your throat, your fist pressing briefly to your closed mouth.

You and Jaime had been together ever since the beginning of both of your second years of college. Instantly there was some sort of connection, you couldn't get over how compassionate and wonderful Jaime was. His gentle nature and caring heart had always intrigued you so much; chivalry wasn't dead, that's for sure, he proved it daily. And Jaime loved how real you were, always happy and trying to help others; he just loved how much you cared, how witty you were; your little jokes always brightened his day. It didn't take long for Jaime to finally get the courage to ask you out on a date a couple weeks after your first encounter... And well, the rest was history.

Sitting in the peaceful, yet bittersweet silence, you felt yourself begin to relax into Jaime's side; your head resting on his shoulder, the overwhelmingly beautiful scent of his cologne engulfing you. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting, warm embrace. Jaime rested his chin atop your head, taking in your sweet scent; he’d never forget it. After a few moments, he finally spoke up, "Remember when we first met here?"

"Of course," You let out a breathy laugh, your eyes wrinkling in the corners at the memory, "That was the day that you accidentally bumped into me when you were running late, papers flying everywhere," You bit your lip briefly, a grin on your face as you remembered a nervous Jaime trying to help you pick up all of your papers, "You wouldn't stop apologizing, even though I told you not to worry about it..." You chuckled lightly, "I remember that all I could do was think about how gorgeous you looked, hair all frazzled, eyes wide in a panic..."

Jaime smiled playfully, nudging his nose into your temple, “You thought I was gorgeous?" You only nodded in response, Jaime’s heart hammering inside his chest at your confession, "It was very embarrassing, I'll have you know."

You fiddled with Jaime's free hand, pulling it over into your lap, absentmindedly fiddling with his fingers, "I'm gonna miss this place,"

"I'm gonna miss you," Jaime answered with a soft voice, letting you bury your face deeper into his chest. You felt him gently kiss the top of your head, making your heart flutter, "And I will come and visit you, I promise."

You gave him a nod, your cheek brushing against his white shirt, your arms wrapping themselves tighter around his torso, "You better, or I'll come over to Palmera City myself and tell your family about that one time you got locked inside your dorm and had to crawl out the window. Even though you didn’t need to." You mischievously muttered, your ears picking up the soft pitter-patter of Jaime’s heart. 

“Not my best moment.” A chuckle escaped him, reverberating throughout his chest, "And I will, Dios mío," He sighed out as you felt his nose gently nuzzle into your soft hair; you could practically hear the smile on his face, "But seriously. Promise me you won't forget about me too, okay?"

"Of course not," You responded softly, feeling yourself begin to tear up again; eyes burning, "I don't plan on forgetting you anytime soon, Jaime Reyes." You let out a shaky exhale, your own heart racing at this point, "I don't think I could forget you... You're- You're like a part of me at this point," You paused, "You're the only one who truly understands me and the only one..." You squeezed Jaime tightly, unable to finish your sentence. You pulled away, wiping away the stray tears that had managed to escape. You were going to miss him so much. 

After graduation, Jaime was heading back to Palmera City, and you were staying back in Gotham. You didn't want him to leave, but you knew he had to go back to his family. His family was everything to him, but so were you. But he promised that he'd come back to visit, and he was a man of his word. He had never broken a promise to you, and he wasn’t going to start now. Even if something comes up, Jaime would do anything to come see you; just as he promised.

Jaime's hand around your shoulder gently caressed the back of your neck, sending sparks throughout your body, but calming you almost instantly. His fingers slid through your hair, untangling small knots and easing the tension in your shoulders, "No more tears," He muttered, not only to you, but to himself too; his own eyes were a bit wet. Pulling you back so he could look you straight in the eyes, he gave you a reassuring smile. You nodded slowly, blinking back the leftover tears that burned in the back of your eyes. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. This wasn't a quick and desperate kiss; this was a slow, loving kiss, one that you instantly melted into as you always did. Your hands grasped onto his shirt as you moved closer to him, his hands coming up to cup your warm, slightly tear-stained cheeks. Neither of you wanted to pull away. Neither of you wanted this moment to end. But eventually, you would both need to breathe.

Pulling back from each other reluctantly, you both rested foreheads together for a couple of seconds before you spoke, "Will you say 'hello' to the family for me?" You asked him softly, pulling back to look into those chocolate-brown eyes of his.

His smile faltered for a moment, "Of course, I will," He said, brushing a few strands of hair out of your eyes, "I should give you Milagro's number, she's been wanting to talk to you more."

Your expression softened as your eyes widened slightly, "Really?" You asked, tilting your head to the side in curiosity, "Did she like the present I sent her for her birthday?"

"She did," He confirmed with a nod, "She said in her last call that half her wall is covered in polaroids of the family; won't put that thing down." He let out an amused laugh, shaking his head before he continued, "I just hope she runs out of film before I get back so she doesn't take any of me." 

"Well," You began, taking both his hands into yours, your thumbs brushing over his palms, "If she does, you better send one to me."

Jaime couldn't stop his lips from curving into a fond smile, "Well, if that's the case, then I'd happily pose for the camera, mi amor." Shaking your head, you looked down, feeling your cheeks heat up at his statement, only to hear him speak up once more, "Which reminds me..," He trailed off, pulling his arms back to grab at his backpack sitting by his feet. Riffling through his bag, he hummed some song that you remembered was a favorite of his before he let out a little 'a-ha!'. Pulling out a small Amazon cardboard box, you smiled at the haphazardly placed clear tape that was holding the two cardboard folds down. "I couldn’t find a bag or anything… This was the best I could do…" Jaime explained, handing you the box; he was obviously nervous, licking his bottom lip as he watched you set the box in your lap.

"Jaime..." You sighed out, your fingers brushing over the cardboard exterior, "You didn't have to get me anything. I appreciate it, but-"

"Nonsense," He interrupted, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, "I wanted to get you something... And don't worry about the cost or anything, since that face that you're making tells me that you are,"

You shook your head, and you let out a chuckle; pulling the tape up carefully, "No, it's just that I don't have anything for you..." You paused opening the box halfway, looking up at Jaime, "If I only knew-"

"Mi amor, you don't need to get me anything." He cut you off, placing his hand over one of yours on the top of the box, "All I need is you. Just being in your presence is a gift." 

You only let out a laugh, eyes closing briefly as you tilted your head to the side, “Damn right, my presence is a gift,” 

He laughed along with you, squeezing your hand gently before adding, "And..," He smirked slightly, "I think you'll like what's inside."

Narrowing your eyes playfully, you moved your gaze back down to the box, returning to opening it. Pushing the two flaps away after getting rid of the tape completely, your eyes widened before blinking a couple of times. Reaching inside, you pulled out a very familiar green zip-up hoodie. You suddenly looked up at Jaime, confused, a bewildered smile on your face. "Jaime... Your jacket..."

Jaime gestured to the box, making you look down. Upon seeing a bottle of his cologne, you let out a huff, "I wanted you to have my jacket and my spare cologne so you could pretend I'm here with you. You know," He shrugged, looking off to the side bashfully, "In case you miss me, you could just wear it, or something."

You threw your arms around his neck, hugging him close, the jacket laying on your lap. You kissed his jaw repeatedly before nuzzling into his neck, whispering into it, "Thank you."

Jaime wrapped his arms around your waist as he hugged you back tightly, his cheeks burning hot. "Anything for you," He mumbled, digging his face into your neck, and kissing the skin there softly. You couldn't help but smile at his words. As cheesy and corny as they sounded, you couldn't help but feel extremely grateful to have him in your life. The two of you stayed like this for a few moments until you felt a light breeze hit your body, causing you to shiver. Pulling back, Jaime grabbed the box and stuffed it back in his bag, and you did the same for the cologne, making sure it was safe as you slid your arms into the green jacket’s sleeves; zipping it up somewhat. Jaime watched, a grin on his face at the sight of you wearing his clothes, looking at you as if it was the first time he saw you all over again, "You look beautiful."

You flushed at his compliment, "So do you," You replied sweetly, reaching up to tuck a dark, loose curl behind his ear, "Do you want to get some lunch with me? Maybe after we can go back to my dorm and watch something… We still haven’t finished watching all the ‘Shrek’ movies…"

He nodded, offering you his hand, and you took it, lacing your fingers with his, "Sounds good to me," He said, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

~~~

Rushing through the airport, you held your small gift bag to your chest, eyes raking across the large crowd of people, trying to find the face of your boyfriend. Feeling a bit out of breath, you pushed through, weaving through people and heading to the giant board with all the flights, their destinations, and gates. You quickly scanned the board, eyes landing on Jaime's flight before rushing off in that direction. Passing a few more people, and almost running into a little kid with one of those scooter-suitcases, you finally made it to his gate. Seeing him sitting in one of the many black chair-benches, on his phone, you let out a sigh. Looking at the clock on the wall, you were right on time. 

Rushing over to him, you dropped into the seat beside him. Jaime immediately looked up to see who had just sat next to him, only to see you. A large, toothy grin appeared on his face as his eyes flickered over your face in surprise, "Mi amor! What are you doing here?" He asked, taking your hand in his as you mirrored his excitement, "Not that I'm not glad that you are here, but why are you here?"

Shrugging your shoulders sheepishly, you laughed slightly, "I wanted to see you off. And I brought you a going-away-present!" You lifted the gift bag a bit; the shiny, metallic blue bag glittering in the sunlight that came through the large windows behind you.

"Mi amor..." Jaime began, taking the bag from you, his smile softening as he inspected the bag; his fingers brushing against the small, silver bow that was stuck to the side, "You didn't have to..."

"Nonsense," You mimicked his words from three days prior, "I wanted to give you something. And you better open it before you have to go."

Jaime only continued to smile, shaking his head lightly before setting the gift bag on his lap; feeling a rush of excitement as he peered inside. His eyes widened as he pulled out a small book, it was only a little bit bigger than his hand. "Is this..?" Flipping through its contents, Jaime chuckled a little, "Oh, Y/N," He whispered, flipping through a few pages of dozens of pictures, all featuring the two of you together. Flipping to one page, there was a picture of you and him at the movies, posing in front of a poster of the movie you were seeing. Another picture of you sitting on his lap, the both of you making funny faces into the camera - a thing the two of you did together. Jaime's eyes then landed on a photo booth snapshot; the first of you trying to use his hair as a mustache, the next of the two of you just smiling, the third being the two of you blowing kisses toward the camera, and the last one was the kiss. Jaime remembered that day well, that kiss left him with such feelings in his heart. On that day, he knew that you were it for him. Which only made leaving you hurt so much more. "This is perfect, cariño." Jaime murmured, placing the album back in the bag before he turned his head up towards you, "And thank you." 

"It's my pleasure, honey," You replied, eyes twinkling with unshed tears, "Now if you ever miss me, and for whatever reason can't call me,” You teasingly rolled your eyes, “You can just look at these and-”

"Flight 437, Gotham City to Palmera City is now boarding. Flight 437, Gotham City to Palmera City is now boarding." A voice spoke through the loudspeaker, causing you both to jump a little. 

Both standing, Jaime was quick to pull you into one last kiss, his hands coming up to cup your soft cheeks. You responded instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his body flush against yours, deepening the kiss. Jaime moaned gently, deep within his throat, before breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. Smiling brightly at each other, Jaime whispered softly, "I love you so much..." He breathed against your lips. "Don't forget that." He added quietly.

“I won't," You promised, "And I love you too." Nodding, Jaime leaned away, grabbing his suitcase and your gift bag; making his way to the line, looking back towards you every couple of seconds as he got into the line.

You watched, occasionally brushing the tears from your cheeks, once he got his ticket checked, he gave you one last smile and a wink before heading through the tunnel. You let out a breath, your shoulders dropping as you brought your hands up to rub your face. Sitting back down in the seat, you stared out at the plane, you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, blinking back more tears. Letting out another sigh, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Reaching into your pocket and pulling out your phone, your sad smile brightened as you saw the text notification. You looked at your lock screen of Jaime holding a piece of pizza, a big smile on his face before you unlocked your phone.

Opening the text, you couldn’t help but giggle, covering your mouth with your free hand. Jaime sent you a picture, him sitting in his seat, a funny expression on his face - one that always made you laugh. That alone made you feel a whole lot better, and you quickly sent back your own funny picture just as the plane began to leave the gate and head down the runway. Tapping to your homescreen, you exhaled out your nose and let out a hum at the sight of your home screen photo; you and Jaime, both in your graduation gowns, with beaming smiles on your faces.

Turning off your phone, you knew that you would see him again. You would see his charming smile, the sparkle in his eyes, and the way his hair would fall perfectly on his forehead when he would lean his head against his hand. You thought about everything that happened. All of those times spent talking and laughing, all of the things you learned and loved about one another, all of the stories he told you, all of the memories you had made together…

You’d see him soon.

Standing, you began to head down to the parking garage, finding your car. Getting inside, you leaned back against the seat, letting out a deep sigh. Taking a moment, grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, sliding it on before you started the engine, the radio starting up in tandem.

A smile began to grow on your lips as one of your favorite songs began to play, "Seeing you there, across the room," You sang along, your voice coming out in a whisper as you began to drive home, enjoying the song, the smell of his cologne, and the sun shining down brightly, "I don’t know why, but I can’t keep my eyes off of you…"

#cute #fluff #slight angst #x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #x you #x y/n #x gn reader #jaime reyes #jaime reyes x reader #jaime reyes x gn reader #jaime reyes x you #jaime reyes x y/n #blue beetle #blue beetle x reader #blue beetle 2023 #blue beetle movie #pre blue beetle

[fairycosmos]

my ex girlfriend died a month ago. i've always found a lot of peace and recognition in what you've written about your grief but especially now, losing someone so young and who's bound to you in a different way than anyone else you've lost has been hits different and i get that now. she was 24. sending you lots of love and know that your presence on here has brightened my current darkness

i'm so so sorry to hear this. the one thought i consistently have about grief is that there are no adequate words to describe or comfort it, but still, i'm so sorry. i know exactly how unbearable it is, especially when it's still all so extremely raw and fresh. you just have no clue how you're going to get through it, and honestly you don't have to. focus on getting through minute by minute. this must be so awful for you and everyone who knew her - 24 is really no age at all. you're right, it's a very specific type of mourning. it's the hardest thing in the entire fucking world honestly. nothing really helps but if you can talk about it - whether it's with a friend, a grief counsellor, whoever - or write about it, then that sometimes enables you to process things a little more clearly. and with a smaller sense of loneliness. i sincerely hope you have good people around you who can help you through this, and that with time you're able to come up with small ways to honour her memory and keep her presence alive. at the moment i'm working on trying to find more ways to keep my sister around - like dedicating a plaque on a bench to her, and trying not to numb myself to the memories i have with her. which is hard, because it's so difficult to remember her. but i'm trying to keep her here and let her be felt everywhere, and i hope you find your version of that too. your ex was incredibly lucky to have been loved by you and you by her, and i'm glad you got to experience that, even if the inverse of that love is this. if you'd like to talk about her or discuss some of your favourite memories with her when you're ready, or even just talk about something entirely unrelated to the grief/her, please drop me a message any time. i'm glad me being open about my own grief has allowed you to find some sense of recognition and catharsis. i'm going to leave some resources for you to come back to as far as daily coping mechanisms go - they may be useful, they may not be, god knows they're certainly not a cure to the immensity of what you're going through - but they'll be there for you if you ever feel like you're truly at your wits end. sending so so much love back your way. i will be thinking of you and your ex girlfriend and keeping you both in my heart. x

bereavement and grief self-help guide / coping with grief and loss pdf / coping with grief pdf / healthy vs unhealthy coping mechanisms for grief / strategies to cope with grief / death is nothing at all by henry scott holland (a poem i come back to)

#aestetikeren-genfoedt

[channoticedmeuwu]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂. 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐍

tsk — who were you? what were you? that's all 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐍 thought about when you stood next to him on the auditorium stage, smiling at the dozen school photographers and fingers holding a plaque that now belonged to both of you. How dare you; disrupt Part-Time Perfect's chance of being the one and only. How dare you; try to make your way into being the face of the school next to him, after being someone he watched from afar for years?

and how dare you look so fucking hot while doing it

W — mention of hospitals. otherwise none?

A/N — a small kiss to the cheek to distract from the fact that this series isn't ending too fast bc I absolutely refuse to let it just end.

you two sat outside the hospital, sitting on one of the benches near a garden where many patients sat, watching the huge fountain hum lazily. the night was growing on, stars twinkling in the sky as the both of you absorbed the night.

"you seriously didn't have to," soobin was protesting, stacks of completed homework answers in his hand as he stared at you with his pleading eyes, "y/n, I can't take this!"

"why not?" you only pushed it back into his hands, "you're the only one who doesn't beg me for homework answers. you kind of deserve it."

"but..." his voice trailed off after he noticed the heavy stack of answers had little doodled hearts and sea animals on the corners, and instead, he broke into a laugh. "thank you."

something about your little additions to what you gave him warmed him from the inside. he found himself just staring at you, going dumb in the head while the reflection of the moon peered onto your features.

you only hummed in response, staring at the night sky as the wind blew your hair into your mouth. "ugh!" you exclaimed.

soobin just giggled underneath his breath, watching you ruffle your hair and settle them down. every strand you touched curled between your fingers. he wanted to know what it felt, maybe, just maybe, to run his hands through your hair, to listen to you breathe against his chest. he wanted to know what it felt to match each others breathing, to hold hands and dissolve in each other's warmth....

"soobin!" you snapped your fingers infront his lost eyes, "this is the third time I said your name, smartass."

and then he saw your face. oh, your face, eyebrows raised, eyes bright and lips wearing your signature teasing smile. he pursed his lips, memories of the tight space back on the rooftop during the trip returning. oh, how you were magic. the way you left him craving you, your eyes staring at his lips, your mouth parted and eyelashes fluttering— you were practically asking him to kiss you on the spot. and it was shameful, to say the least, that he wanted you to get closer, to shut the space between the two of you, to feel your lips on his own.

he found himself swallowing as your lips curled into a smirk. flowers of adrenaline started nipping at his knees. he felt himself going lightheaded, staring at you like he only wanted to kiss you. shit, soobin, not now!

"what's wrong, soobin?" you inched closer on the bench, causing soobin to lean back. "y'know," you began, "you get awfully quiet staring at me these days."

"force of habit," he huffed out, looking the opposite way, "you make my mind go blank."

and then he realized how that sounded out loud. fuck, why did you say that, soobin?

you blinked at him. now your mind was going blank, "oh." silence followed you two as you fought the burning sensation in your chest.

the fountain continued to hum. the night continued to grow.

"well," you tried to force out something, anything, "here's seri's gift," you felt a smile creeping to your lips as you met soobin's darting eyes.

"uh—thanks, but you didn't have to."

"shut up."

you stood on your feet, "I better get going. it's getting late and you should get some sleep."

soobin just mumbled protests, giving you the same guilty look he gave you on the rooftop as he involuntarily laced his fingers with your own, begging you to stay. he tilted his head at you, studying your movements, as if to say just a little bit longer?

you smiled, trying to forget what soobin blurted as you bent closer. although you were better at masking it than soobin, you've been observing his fidgeting fingers, his bitten lips, his messy hair, his eyes tenderly gazing at you like you had something he wanted—you.

you felt butterflies hitting against your stomach walls as you repressed the urge to stay. you stared at him, at his tired eyes from staying up too long, at his burning ears from just being with you, at his permanently pink cheeks— feeling yourself grow warmer, fonder.

"try not to overwork yourself," you said, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. you heard his breath hitch as you felt his fingers tighten around yours. you realized he still hadn't let them go from when you stood up. but he didn't protest, letting out a slight hum, or a gasp, or both—of relief, as if you finally awarded him for being so composed around you.

his eyelids threatened to close, finally finding sleep seeping into his eyes for the first time in days. he felt your warmth spread all through his body. his grip tightened. you ran a hand through his hair, his features melting to your touch.

"it wouldn't really work if this co-president thing became solo, would it?"

41 — crew love

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TAGLIST (OPEN) — @flowerjun @yeonboy @chesh1re-cat @radiorenjun @captivq @forever-in-the-sky2 @l0ve-joy @yangwaa @sunoosfavsposts @chocorenchin @kaiswifeblog @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @myknifeyourlife @banyuew @soobsfairy444 @sadsadandmad @luvsoobs @suzirumas @obeymeharemowner @vixensss @aestheticsluut @rikizm @realigot7 @cha0thicpisces @satan-223 @aloverga @alpha-mommy69 @lani-heart @koeuh @bangchansbae @impureperhaps @anitatvd @soobinsgirlfriend @sooooob@ariannavivianna@aerxz@jeonsfizz

#soobin #choi soobin #choi soobin scenarios #choi soobin smau #soobin scenarios #soobin smau #soobin social media au #soobin suggestive #soobin soft thoughts #soobin soft hours #choi soobin fanfic #choi soobin fic #choi soobin fluff #soobin fanfic #soobin fluff #soobin fake texts #choi soobin x you #choi soobin x reader #soobin x reader #soobin x y/n #soobin x you

[hannahssimblr]

The low, blue light from the tanks is relaxing, meditative, even, and though the aquarium is loud with the sounds of small children rushing about and pointing out fish to one another, it’s still peaceful. Maybe it’s womb-like, I don’t know.

We stare at the turtles for ages and laugh about the description plaque, stating that all of these turtles were donated by families who no longer wanted them as pets when the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle craze passed. 

“They’re a bit like me,” Jen says, “my parents kinda donated me to Michelle’s family when the novelty wore off.”

I don't know if she wants me to laugh, but I don't think it's funny. The smile slips off my face and suddenly these turtles are tragic figures, metaphors for the cruel, shallow nature of humanity. We just toss living creatures aside and flush them down toilets as soon as they are no longer trendy. Usually Jen would be impressed that I had such a liberal thought without first seeing it somewhere on the internet and adopting it as my own opinion, but I can sense it’s not really the right time to start a discussion about consumerism, or whatever. 

“I’m sorry about your mam today,” I say, “I would have expected she’d at least have the decency to say hello.”

Jen pauses for a long moment. I let the silence go on, and am beginning to think she won’t answer at all when she says, “I don’t know what I expected, to be honest.”

“It’s probably normal to expect your own mother to acknowledge you in public.”

“I just wonder if she’s missed me at all in the last two years.”

I don’t know what to say, “...I’m sure she has.”

“I doubt it, to be honest,” She stares dejectedly into the tank, “She’s had a lot of chances to reach out and make up, I just feel like she won’t do it if she hasn’t done it by now. I think that part of me thought she’d care more, I suppose, but then again I’m not really surprised that she doesn’t. She only had kids because people would have thought it was weird if she didn't.”

“Yeah but if she didn't then I wouldn't have a best friend.”

“You'd be best friends with some other loser if I didn’t exist.”

“Well, I'm glad it's you, is all.”

“I just think it’s a pity when… when love is supposed to be, like, unconditional, but it isn’t. You’re meant to love your kids no matter what, so I just think that if you’re going to give up on them as soon as they do, or… or are something that you don’t approve of then why would you have them?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Ugh,” she shoves me lightly and turns to sit on a nearby bench facing another tank of fish, “Obviously I know, I was just saying.”

I join her, “I know, I feel the same way about my parents, sort of.”

“Well, I mean, it’s different too, isn’t it? Because Chris and Colette actually do love you.”

I hesitate, “I think they love what I do for them and all, how convenient it is for me to be around and helping with things at home, but I don't know if that's proper love.”

“That’s probably not everything you are to them, like, yeah, you help your mom out with the parenting thing when your dad refuses to be involved with it and that’s hard, but I don’t think they’d ever kick you out of the house and try to forget you were ever born. They brought you with them, didn’t they? When they moved to Ireland, and they didn't have to do that.”

I wish they didn’t. Sometimes I wish they’d just abandoned me at aunt Maureen’s house and let me grow up like the normal American kid I was on track to be, doing normal American kid things like blissfully finger painting awful, shit butterfly pictures in elementary school and going to summer camps with campfires and raft building activities.

Memories of the desert are lit up in technicolour for me now, so clear that I swear I can still taste the air. It was drier, sweeter than the air here. It smelled different too, carrying some indescribable scent that only snapped back into my consciousness when I visited again two years ago and I've had a hard time not yearning for it since. Everything was beautiful. At the house that I used to call my home I would carry my breakfast out to the terrace, hopping on flagstone scorching already from the sun, and just look at the distant mountains, jagged blue, for ages, while the Rio Grande shimmered like a mirage in the dust land below.

It's because of Ivy that we left, though I still don’t know why my parents thought that bringing another child into the world, on purpose this time, would somehow fix all of the tears in the fabric of their marriage. And what about me? What kind of real, genuine good was lifting me out of the place that was making me so happy? But I know it's too late to waste time wondering, and if I ask them they'll just repeat what they've always said about how raising children would be better in Europe, as if they would even know.

“Yeah,” I say to Jen, “I guess that proves they love me.”

“I know what your problem is,” she says, and I’m curious enough about hearing it summed up that I look at her, the tanks throwing moving shapes and colours across her face, “You’ve just forgotten how to talk to them, like, how to really talk about how you feel, and they’ve forgotten how to do the same with you.”

“Hm.”

“You and I are good at talking, I think. We can talk about anything, even really hard things, even when we get upset about it, so I know you have it in you to do the same with your parents, you just won’t. You’re just too awkward now because you’re used to the way that it is, but I think if you just tried to change your habits then you’d probably find that they’d do the same with you.”

I nod. I don’t really know what she’s saying, but it sounds wise in that oh-so-very Jen way. 

“Maybe your parents want to be close to you too,” she continues, “you really don’t know. Maybe they’re just scared that you’ll push them away, and I know you’re scared of the same thing so you’re all just walking around on eggshells trying very hard not to get hurt.”

“Do you think so?”

“Well, they could have just not had you, but they did. They got married because of you, and they wanted to bring you here with them. They still take you on holidays and buy you school supplies and nice clothes and fancy gifts, and even though you are the worst behaved boy of all time you don't get punished half as harshly as you should. Mine learned I was gay and changed the bloody locks,” she sighs, “You’re a lucky boy, actually, like it or not.”

It's always hard to talk about her parents, not just because they were awful, but the casual way that Jen speaks of the event, like she's just repeating some bland school gossip she heard in the locker room. I know it hurts her. It must. The destruction they have done to her is immeasurable, and Jen has become so good at covering it all up, but I know her better than anybody. She’s vulnerable, sensitive and easily hurt, and even when her face doesn’t show it her eyes do. She knows I can tell, which is probably why she refuses to look at me for several moments and turns her face towards the shark tank to her left. 

As for my parents, maybe she’s right, maybe I don’t know how good I really have it, and if I tried to talk to them more I’d be pleasantly surprised by the things they have to say. There are worse parents than mine, evidently. 

We don’t speak again. I just sit close to her in silence while we watch the fish swim and weave between the rising bubbles in their tanks, fluid, free, mindless, until it is time to catch the DART home again. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2009 #name drop moment lmao #I like the way this aquarium looks but omg the stress of trying to figure out how to get actual fish into it? #and you can barely see them lmao #ain't that the way #tw: homophobia

[lingthusiasm]

Lingthusiasm Episode 91: Scoping out the scope of scope

When you order a kebab and they ask you if you want everything on it, you might say yes. But you'd probably still be surprised if it came with say, chocolate, let alone a bicycle...even though chocolate and bicycles are technically part of "everything". That's because words like "everything" and "all" really mean something more like "everything typical in this situation". Or in linguistic terms, we say that their scope is ambiguous without context.

In this episode, your hosts Lauren Gawne and Gretchen McCulloch get enthusiastic about how we can think about ambiguity of meaning in terms of scope. We talk about how humour often relies on scope ambiguity, such as a cake with "Happy Birthday in red text" written on it (quotation scope ambiguity) and the viral bench plaque "In Memory of Nicole Campbell, who never saw a dog and didn't smile" (negation scope ambiguity). We also talk about how linguists collect fun examples of ambiguity going about their everyday lives, how gesture and intonation allow us to disambiguate most of the time, and using several scopes in one sentence for double plus ambiguity fun.

Read the transcript here.

Announcements:

In this month’s bonus episode we get enthusiastic about the forms that our thoughts take inside our heads! We talk about an academic paper from 2008 called "The phenomena of inner experience", and how their results differ from the 2023 Lingthusiasm listener survey questions on your mental pictures and inner voices. We also talk about more unnerving methodologies, like temporarily paralyzing people and then scanning their brains to see if the inner voice sections still light up (they do!).

Join us on Patreon now to get access to this and 80+ other bonus episodes. You’ll also get access to the Lingthusiasm Discord server where you can chat with other language nerds. Also: Join at the Ling-phabet tier and you'll get an exclusive “Lingthusiast – a person who’s enthusiastic about linguistics,” sticker! You can stick it on your laptop or your water bottle to encourage people to talk about linguistics with you. Members at the Ling-phabet tier also get their very own, hand-selected character of the International Phonetic Alphabet – or if you love another symbol from somewhere in Unicode, you can request that instead – and we put that with your name or username on our supporter Wall of Fame! Check out our Supporter Wall of Fame here, and become a Ling-phabet patron here!

Here are the links mentioned in the episode:

Wikipedia entry for Everything Bagel

'Shel Silverstein's hot dog and the domain of "everything"' post on Language Log

Wikipedia entry for 'Scop' (an oral poet)

'New publication: Reported evidentiality in Tibeto-Burman languages' post on Superlinguo

Wikipedia entry for Tom Swifty

'Bench in honour of Nicole Campbell, who never saw a dog and didn't smile' post on All Things Linguistic

WALS entry for Feature 144B: Position of negative words relative to beginning and end of clause and with respect to adjacency to verb

'A few notes on negative clauses, polarity items, and scope'

'I didn't ask you to kill him' Learning English post on sentence stress and meaning

'I didn't ask you to kill him' sentence stress example in action by @dheanasaur on TikTok (⚠︎warning, loud sound)

Non-manual Markers in ASL / NMM's

'The Impulse to Gesture: Where Language, Minds, and Bodies Intersect' by Simon Harrison

'Quantifier Scope Jokes' post on All Things Linguistic

'Caring for your baby since 1890' ambiguity post on All Things Linguistic

You can listen to this episode via Lingthusiasm.com, Soundcloud, RSS, Apple Podcasts/iTunes, Spotify, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can also download an mp3 via the Soundcloud page for offline listening.

To receive an email whenever a new episode drops, sign up for the Lingthusiasm mailing list.

You can help keep Lingthusiasm ad-free, get access to bonus content, and more perks by supporting us on Patreon.

Lingthusiasm is on Bluesky, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Mastodon, and Tumblr. Email us at contact [at] lingthusiasm [dot] com

Gretchen is on Bluesky as @GretchenMcC and blogs at All Things Linguistic.

Lauren is on Bluesky as @superlinguo and blogs at Superlinguo.

Lingthusiasm is created by Gretchen McCulloch and Lauren Gawne. Our senior producer is Claire Gawne, our production editor is Sarah Dopierala, our production assistant is Martha Tsutsui Billins, and our editorial assistant is Jon Kruk. Our music is ‘Ancient City’ by The Triangles. This episode of Lingthusiasm is made available under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike license (CC 4.0 BY-NC-SA).

#linguistics #language #lingthusiasm #episodes #podcast #podcasts #episode 91 #scope #ambiguity #scope ambiguity #linguist humour #SoundCloud

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Do you think Levi ever visited Eren's grave?

Yes....

The Last Time

He comes to him as often as he can, though not as often as he’d like.

Not to the marble mausoleum in Mitras, with the cold alabaster bust that stares out across the memorial plaza with blank unseeing eyes. Levi went there once, but there is nothing for him there. The cenotaph is empty. Empty as the banal platitudes of those who once damned him as the devil.

But here, here is different. Everything he ever lived for is here. In this quiet corner of the small cemetery behind the old Survey Corps headquarters. There aren’t many graves, so few come here. So many, many died, but the remains were few and those that returned were fed to the fires, their ashes scattering on the wind to join the countless other soldiers who had fallen before them.

But he is here, and that’s all that matters. The Commander’s last resting place, a simple grave, with a simple headstone, inscribed with only his name. Erwin Smith.

This was Levi’s choice. Of course it was. It was Levi who went back for him. Levi who carried him home, a pitifully small bundle wrapped in a cloak. Levi who laid him here to rest.

[Continue reading on AO3]

The Permanence of the Young Men

The paved path that leads to the Survey Corps cemetery is new, there is a plaque on the white picket gate that reads “Survey Corps War Cemetery. Maintained by order of Her Royal Highness Queen Historia Reiss.” Beneath the inscription is a crest, not the ubiquitous emblem of the Yeagerists, but the blue and white wings of freedom. The small cemetery is better maintained than the last time Levi saw it, over twenty-five years ago. The grass is neatly trimmed, the trees and shrubs pruned, and the headstones free of moss and creepers. Historia is clearly committed to honouring her fallen comrades. Rather than taking the chair, Levi insists on walking down path, supported by his cane on one side and Falco on the other. Gabi walks beside them carrying a bouquet of white lilies. Erwin’s grave, marked by a simple headstone bearing only his name, lies in a secluded corner of the cemetery beneath the spreading branches of a great beech tree. Levi carried his bones back from Shiganshina and laid him here to rest himself. The late afternoon sun casts dappled shadows through the leaves of the tree, and the grass is studded with the small blue flowers that have always grown here in the summer. It’s a beautiful spot, quiet and peaceful, the perfect place to rest. Beneath the beech tree is a bench, a new addition that Levi is grateful for, as his leg is aching badly and the short walk from the car has already left him breathless. He settles on the bench, as Gabi places the lilies on the ground in front of the headstone, then she and Falco quietly retreat, leaving him to his reflections. As they make their way back to the car, Gabi slips her hand into Falco’s and squeezes it tightly. They both have their own ghosts, but they also have each other, and for that they are grateful.

“Hey,” Levi says, as they walk away, his voice barely audible over the quiet rustle of the beech leaves. “It’s been a long time, but I’m back now.”

[Continue reading on AO3]

Also please enjoy this beautiful and heartbreaking art of Levi leaving Erwin's graveside by @ackermantihora

#asks #i still get so emotional reading these #eruri #levi ackerman #erwin smith #the beech tree is a call back to the beautiful fic “the boy and the beech tree” by elivra #lostcauses fic #ackermantihora #snk

[classicmemorialbenches]

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[babyjakes]

ever green, evermore | 1. prologue.

〈 disclaimer: this blog posts content not suitable for individuals under the age of 18. minors are strictly prohibited from viewing, sharing, or interacting with this blog. for more information on this blog's commitment to protecting minors, read our full statement here. 〉

series masterlist | next chapter →

summary | loving husbands jake and ari had always believed they were all each other could ever want or need. but one unusual summer, when their world is turned upside-down by an uncanny girl from down the street, they find that having someone to love, nurture, and care for together is the missing piece that finally completes their perfect family and lives.

characters | caretaker!jake jensen, daddy!ari levinson, wrenley beauchamp (original character)

warnings | mentions/depictions of domestic and sexual violence, mental health themes: anxiety/panic disorders, trauma and post-traumatic-stress, eating disorders (restrictive subtype), therapeutic methods and tools: exposure, age regression.

If asked the question, he would be lying if he denied it; in his life, Jake Jensen had everything he wanted. There was little more that he could ask for and he knew it, and he was never ungrateful. Things hadn’t always been so easy for him. He consistently felt like an outcast growing up, a loser, but his late twenties and early thirties had thankfully been kinder to him, most importantly gifting him the one thing that held everything in place in his idealistic reality: his adoring husband, Ari. Jake had never met a man so kind, so patient, so upstanding to his core. At first, he was hesitant to love; he had never let anyone see too deeply inside of him out of fear of rejection and abandonment, but the older man made it easy for him. With Ari, Jake knew his heart would always be safe. Ari was the husband of his dreams, always doting on him and caring for him, never letting him want for anything. Everything the man desired became his, and his wishes in life were simple. A stable marriage. A good, rewarding job. A house of his own to make memories in. Neither of the men particularly wanted children, so they settled on a loving housecat, affectionately named Socks after the midnight-black creature’s set of charming white paws. That’s how the couple ended up in their beautiful farmhouse on a quiet gravel road in rural New Hampshire, surrounded by beautiful fields of wildflowers and golden rolling hills. 

And when one winter morning Jake, wide-eyed and sheepish as he ever was, asked Ari for a garden, he was once more left with little time to wait for his dreams to be realized. By the time spring came, the front yard had been tranformed into the most splendid garden imaginable, the effort his husband had put into the project more than Jake could have ever expected or hoped for. Instead of any ordinary patch of dirt, Ari had taken it upon himself to build custom flower boxes by hand that were carefully lined up in rows, providing all the space his husband would need to grow any plant or flower his heart desired. Additionally, the brunette had crafted a custom shelving unit that housed rows of boxes, providing a spot for partial-sun varieties that could find shade during times of the day when their positioning would shield them from the sun. Ari made a gardening table as well, stocking it with all the tools needed to run a fruitful garden. And with the final addition of a few decorative pieces such as a vined bird bath and a lovely cast iron bench with a custom plaque reading “Jakey’s Garden,” the place truly became the younger man’s haven of safety and joy; there was nothing that made him feel more loved than spending time in his favorite place, made just for him by his favorite person. 

His job as a tech specialist assisting covert government forces was mostly remote, allowing him to complete his tasks from the comfort of his shared home office as Ari sat as his own desk just feet away, working tirelessly at his collection of theses. The older man was a renowned doctor who specialized in psychology; after achieving great success running his own practice, he had decided to put a pause on seeing patients when he and Jake moved out to the countryside, wanting to turn his focus more to research and development of the field. Spending most of their time together in their beautiful home, the pair couldn’t think of a better arrangement. Only occasionally would Jake be called away to accompany his team on important missions, a difficult though necessary part of the job that both men understood was for the greater good. During these missions, which usually lasted several weeks to even months, the man had no choice but to abandon his prized project in the front yard, entrusting Ari with following a minimum routine to at least keep the plants living. The doctor did his best to water and tend to it, but there was no denying that the state of the garden deteriorated in its owner's absence. Until one unusual summer, when to his surprise, the agent returned from a month-long assignment in Yemen to find that during his time away, the plants hadn’t seemed to suffer at all. Actually, he thought, it looked as though the garden had been graced by a touch of new life.

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#egem #egem: prologue #eun's writing #ari levinson #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson au #the red sea diving resort #daddy!ari levinson #ari levinson x oc #jake jensen #jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen au #the losers #jake jensen x oc #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #ari levinson series #jake jensen series #hurt/comfort

[chiwi-la-capybara]

Snape & Luna

I like to think Snape checked in on Luna as much as he could while she was a captive at Malfoy Manor, and that they had many odd conversations.

“I will ensure you escape from Malfoy Manor before I die.”

“Oh, are you planning to die so soon?” Luna asks.

Snape makes no reply but shakes his head slightly as if the prospect of his death is an irksome fly.

“Where would you like to be buried?”

“What?”

“We’ll have to put you somewhere. We can’t let the gernumblies take your corpse," she says airily. "Who knows what they might do with it.”

Snape considers. He supposes it is a serious enough question at bottom. His first thought is that he would like to be buried next to Lily, but he won’t be accepted into that particular plot. He wouldn’t mind being buried near Dumbledore either but his body would never be permitted on the school grounds.

“There’s a muggle playground not far from my house on Spinner’s End. Perhaps I might be buried there. The muggles don’t have to know.”

“A playground?”

“Yes.”

Luna giggles. “A sort of strange place for you to want to spend your afterlife, given your struggles with misopedia.”

"Misopedia?"

"The phobic hatred of children. Probably the after-effect of possession by faeries. It’s more common than you’d think."

Snape scowls. He’s not sure why he entertained this nonsense.

Luna pats his shoulder kindly. “Oh, don’t look cross. We could have a nice memorial bench with a little plaque on it. 'Here lies Severus Snape. He would have hated every one of these children had he met them.'”

“That’s very touching Luna," Snape says drolly.

"I think so." Luna says in a grave tone, and her protuberant blue eyes meet his with uncharacteristic seriousness.

#pro snape #severus snape #luna lovegood #snape fanfiction #my fic #snape fandom #snapedom #snape community #harry potter

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Me too, Barb. Me too.

[image is a photo that was recently shared by Lucas A. Meyer on Threads and that my research shows was originally shared by Phil Clifton (@philclifton) on the artist formerly known as Twitter back in April. The photo is of a memorial plaque on a park bench. It reads, “For Barbara, who was awful when hungry but otherwise pretty solid.”]

[Diary of a Mom]

#signage #park bench

[catholicism-connoiseur]

St Augustine's

Following the experience of confession in St Peter's, I was naturally curious to see how other local churches treated the sacred practice. The next church by distance was Saint Augustine's Catholic Church; colloquially "the Augustinian". A smaller church, far from the cathedral-like scale of St. Peter's, the Augustinian hosts a far cozier and homely atmosphere than the imposing stone structure that maintains a centrepiece of the town. It hosts a significantly more community-focused and welcoming mass than most that I have seen elsewhere, and includes (by comparison to most churches' narratives, quite radically) forward thinking themes and choice interpretations of scripture in its teachings. They even have gluten-free communion bread!

In matters of exterior presentation, the church features a Victorian Gothic façade established at the same time as the church itself, in the years 1859-1866. The church has no such grand spires that reach great heights as other churches in town, rather is a humble and unobtrusive structure that sits neatly on Shop Street between an antiquated bar and a local clothing store. A gift shop inhabits part of the church's entrance, providing an information desk as well as sale of religious paraphernalia.

Entering the church, one can feel a stark and noticeable contrast in the environment to that of St. Peter's, St. Mary's and many other churches. Simple changes in interior decoration make enormous difference to the ambience: for example, the carpeted floors and cushioned pews create not only a more directly comfortable and welcoming place of worship, they also aid in removing the cold air and echoes found in more barren, abstemious churches that seem to almost pride themselves on their lack of comfort. By comparison, the Augustinian's interior is akin to walking into someone's (albeit massively spacious and oddly furnished) home. The air is warm but not stale; the lower ceiling creates an easier space to heat than enormously tall cathedral-style roofs, but maintains enough height for good circulation. (A more extensive catalogue of the church’s interior and exterior architecture can be found at the National Inventory of Architectural Heritage, including specifications on the nave, roof, walling, gables, rafters and most every other facet of the building.)

One attribute that draws attention though, is the unique stained glass windows adorning the church’s front face and behind the altar. Best seen from the inside to fully appreciate the use of colour and the intricate idiosyncrasies of the craftwork, one of the church’s windows depicts an elegant visage of the titular St Augustine as well as St Monica. The Passion Window, fitted in 1928 and restored in 1994, was created by a Harry Clarke, an acclaimed Irish artist of stained glass. Before his untimely death in 1931, Clarke had crafted over 130 stained glass windows, many religious but many others secular: his expression was not solely based in Catholicism and often featured flora, fauna, commentary on social issues and macabre characters and details that even juxtaposed traditional Catholic stained glass depictions. His work featured in the Augustinian is a beautiful, complex piece and is a treasure to the parish and town alike.

Another feature that grants this church a more communal and welcoming atmosphere is the adjoined Garden of Remembrance. This secluded garden adjoining the church's southern wall is found through a (wheelchair accessible) walkway into the main patio, where stand five stone slabs surround a water feature memorial. The slabs, and a portion of the southern wall too, hold plaques bearing names of loved ones to those in the parish, be it family, friends or pets. The area can be visited as a tranquil and sacred place to honour and remember those who have passed. There are wooden benches and soft lighting that creates a cozy and comforting atmosphere. Lush foliage adorns the enclosure, including holly, juniper and some fruit trees among many other aromatic plants. The garden is also a frequent haunt of the church's resident cat, Monica (after the Saint).

Continuing to the Confessional portion of this review, though: A dark marble plaque at the entrance informs of the church's mass, vigil and confession times. Inquiring at the small shop inside the church, I was advised to arrive punctually, as confessions tended to be busy, and so the next Friday at noon, I sat quietly in line behind a half dozen or so people. As the priest approached and the line began moving, I was admittedly elated to see that the confessional booth built into the wall of the church was in fact being used! This brought into question why, despite having a booth present, the previous church, St. Peters, elected instead for a face-to-face confessional. But for the moment, my own turn had arrived, and I entered the booth.

The box was small but not too restrictively so. A short kneeling bar on the floor faced the panel through which one speaks to the priest. It was dim and slightly difficult to see, but I figured this to be largely intentional to maintain the environment of anonymity and confidentiality. I confessed my "sin" to the priest, and was met with a decidedly calm and composed response. He seemed somewhat amused at the tameness of the sin in question, and prescribed but a single Hail Mary as penance. Funnily enough, this remarkably lax repentance granted some credulity to the idea (proposed during the drunken group brainstorming session) that perhaps those who frequented confessionals would go to one church over another for a lighter penance.

To conclude, the Augustinian is a church that many could take notes from. With such a mass exodus (pun intended) from the faith in recent decades, it's become more clear than ever that in our modern social climate, staunch rigidity to dogmatic doctrine and antiquated ideologies is pathetically ineffective at maintaining a dedicated following, much less at encouraging greater numbers to join. Some churches around the town (and country) have even been repurposed into art galleries and secular community halls due to insufficient patronage. For the religion to find any kind of long-term support from this and future generations, the path to follow is that which the Augustinian seems to set out. A church that serves and uplifts the people, not the reverse.

St Augustine's Drogheda Church gets a solid 8.5/10. Hell yeah.

#catholicism connoiseur #catholiscism #confession