#I worked on this 4 month with college burnout

[rubyshimmer0x]

What if Watcher in mlp au (vol 1.) I had fun doodle during month to month :3

Alt version of the substitute, he is a changeling, during the professor replacement:

[plantenjoyer]

I SWEAR I KEEP TRYING TO DO ART BUT THEN SOMETHING GETS IN THE WAY AND THEN I PROCRASTINATE AND THEN SIX MONTHS PASS

[threecheersforsuccess]

I've been yapping for too many years, so I need a living masterpost of the guides and blogs from my Tumblr and Instagram. I plan to create more long-form content in the upcoming months, and I will re-do some of the prompts listed. I feel some of my old work might be outdated, so please take my wording with a chunk of salt.

I'll update my with my content as I go.

Stuff from 2024

♡ What's in my bag? (2024)

My Motivation Education Video Series (2022-2023)

♡ Part 0: Something Much Needed Among Students: Motivation ♡ Part 1: Bare Bones Definition of Motivation ♡ Part 2: Self-efficacy, I think ♡ Part 3: Where is the control? ♡ Part 4: Reward or Autopilot ♡ Part 5: Determination to Continue ♡ Part 6: Personal Interest ♡ Part 7: Outside The Model ♡ Part 8: Where is the willpower? ♡ Part 9: Is stress even a bad thing? Note: I stopped because I did not like the short video format. I'm not sure if I may pick this up again, but I do think the lessons I learned from my readings are pretty neat :)

5am.Raining's Studying Challenge (2022)

Note: A challenge led by my cool mutual 5am.raining on Instagram. I slowly figure out how to make videos. It's a little wonky at the beginning, but I find my style! I made these posts in 2022 ♡ Poorly Filmed Day in My Life! ♡ My Studying Role Model... Haruhi from Ouran... ♡ Fave Leader in My Field: Carol Dweck ♡ What gets me in the mood to study? ♡ What I want to do with my degree... ♡ My Fave Reading Assignment ♡ Study Tunes ♡ How to get back into reading books ♡ Favorite study supplies ♡ Planning Routine (2022 version) ♡ Organizing My Desk ♡ What's in my backpack? ♡ Inspiring Film or Doc on My Field ♡ Imposter Syndrome ♡ "Study Buddy" ♡ Coping with Long Study Sessions

Flipd Productivity and Motivation Challenge Blogs

Note: I yapped so hard I won the productivity challenge. I wrote these around junior year of college (2021). ♡ Long-Term Destination, Short-Term Motivation: Living in The Moment ♡ Embedding Self-forgiveness in Your Self-Care ♡ Study Essentials ♡ The Importance of Play and Breaks ♡ Quote of Week Analysis: Self-Acceptance ♡ How I Plan My Everyday ♡ The Biggest Time Management Misconception I'm Trying to Get Over ♡ Recognizing Burnout (and Listening to Yourself) ♡ Building an Academic Support System ♡ Ways to Make Yourself Take Breaks ♡ The Challenges of a Positive Mindset ♡ How I Build Habits (based on James Clear's Atomic Habits)

Diana's Studying Challenge (2021)

Note: A challenge lead by my cool mutual dianas.desk on Instagram. I made these posts in 2021. Day 1: Challenge Introduction Day 2: What Gets Me Motivated Day 3: Cleaning My Desk Day 4: Study Tunes/Songs I Listen and Avoid Day 5: Current Books I'm Reading Day 6: Relaxation! Arknights Projekt Red Bullet Journal Spread Day 7: My Happy Place Day 8: Week Reflection Day 9: How I Plan Day 10: My Summer 2021 Work Routine Day 11: My Desk Essentials Day 12: Study Snack (Natto) Day 13: Digital or Paper Notes? Which is Better? Day 14: How I Self-Care Day 15: My School Bag Day 16: Proudest Achievement Day 17: Most Favorite Productivity App/Website Blocker Day 18: Work Buddies Day 19: Inspirational Quotes Day 20: My Favorite Place to Work Day 21: #MessyDesk Day 22: Guilty Pleasure Day 23: My Favorite Study Accounts Day 24: Study Methods I Do Not Like Day 25: Trying out a new place to work? Day 26: Part 2 of My Unconventional Study Tips (same as above) Day 27: My Outfit Day 28: Making a Gratitude List Day 29: My Aspirations Day 30: Today I learned… Day 31: September Goals

My Study Tips

Note: I wrote many of these either in 2020 or very early on (2017-2018). Super old stuff. ♡ Unconventional Study Tips Part 1 + Part 2 ♡ One Effective Memorization Tip ♡ Dealing with Bad Grades: What I Do ♡ How to get 800 on the SAT in Math and Full Points on Grammar ♡ Causes of Procrastination + Methods for Each ♡ How to Study When Unmotivated ♡ Making Your Discord Study Space ♡ Ways to Go to Bed Early ♡ My Super Ultimate Guide to AP Calc AB and BC ♡ Using Your Phone Productively (2018)

Journaling

♡ How I Journal (2017) ♡ How I Use My Notebooks (2018) ♡ How to Keep a Daily Journal (2020) ♡ How to Get into Creative Journaling (2022)

Dividers by @fairytopea

[delopsia]

Flowers In November (1/4) Rhett x Reader

Word Count: 12,705 ♡‧₊˚ AO3 Cross-Post ♡⊹˚₊ Flowers In November Masterlist₊˚⊹♡ Warnings: Fem!Reader. Briefly mentioned abusive relationships (not involving reader), improper disposal of a horse's corpse, l-bombs, oral sex, physical and verbal altercations, blood, unprotected sex, inappropriate use of a firearm, lying to a police officer, multiple mentions of food and cooking. Part 2 ♡⊹˚₊

Flowers.

No matter where you go, whether it be the big, bustling concrete city or the vast, unforgiving pastures of your hometown, there have always been flowers—poking out from cracks in the sidewalk, dancing like fairies in unkempt lawns and waving daintily from their pots and planters.

But you think this is the first time you've ever seen something quite like this.

When you'd gone to bed last night, the backyard had been green grass for as far as the eye could see. All was normal, not a singular sign to be found that you would wake up to this.

"I've never seen so many flowers in my life," your mother muses from where she stands in front of the sliding door, "and yet, not a single purple flower to be found."

At first glance, you'd thought they were Autumn leaves, freshly fallen from the old Oaks along the tree line, but those trees shed their leaves weeks ago. Overnight, flowers have decorated every inch of your yard just days before December's start. Coming in all possible variations of red, orange, and yellow.

"Would you mind filling a basket of them for me?" She asks, already reaching for the wicker basket she's just put away, "I reckon we could make a beautiful Autumn wreath out of these."

"Sure," picking flowers sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than packing belongings into cardboard boxes and loading them onto a Uhaul.

You don't think you've actually seen her make a wreath out of live flowers before, but again, you can't argue with such a deal. Not when your shoulders ache from days of hauling everything your family owns from place to place.

It would have been so much easier to hire a moving company.

"Do you want the basket to be completely filled?" You question, just to be sure.

"Please," folding up an old flyer for the local raffle. If you'd guessed three-hundred forty instead of three-hundred ninety, maybe she'd have the leather necklace printed on that paper, "keep an eye out for some purple ones, too."

Can't be too hard, can it?

Sliding your headphones up over your ears, you step outside, basket in tow. For as beautiful as it looks, it sure doesn't feel like it.

Frighteningly chilly wind nips at your neck as you walk across the yard, seeking the perfect spot to settle down in. The more you think about it, the more you realize that this is really, truly, weird.

This many flowers, three days before December starts?

Even the pasture in the front yard is full of them; from the looks of it, so are the lots all around you. An endless sea of flowers with absolutely no business showing up as abruptly as this.

You wonder if they'll come back like this in the spring.

A part of you wishes that you could be here just in case that day comes, wake up to a magical sea of brightly colored flowers marking winter's end. But that won't be happening. Not if the brightly colored for sale sign at the end of the driveway has anything to do with it.

Right by the treeline, you find the old tree stump, still stained from all those times you painted it when you were a kid. It's uncomfortable sitting on, but it's better than sitting directly in the flowers themselves.

Drowning your thoughts with the music from your headphones, you get to work. Picking flowers with the longest stems and placing them neatly in your basket.

This isn't how you pictured your gap semester from college going.

The plan was to come back home and take it easy for a few months, pick up a job waitressing at the local mom-and-pop diner, something simple until you could get over your rapidly worsening burnout. But your mom has her heart set on selling your childhood home and moving closer to the city, and that's a process that has had you working for months.

You never truly realize how many things need to be fixed in a house until someone comes in to appraise it. Replace this, replace that, so you'll finally get an offer worth accepting.

But it doesn't work. You've practically renovated this entire house, and not a soul has made an offer. You don't want to see the house sell, but Lord, is it frustrating, working your ass off, only for it to add up to a whole bunch of nothing.

At the end of the day, many people want to avoid buying a property with a not-so-pleasant history. A handful of times, your mother has mentioned that all this land belonged to a single family. Their daughter, the sole inheritor, disappeared in a storm. Your folks bought this place shortly after the final member of the family passed.

"How's it going?"

The sudden appearance of your mother has you jumping out of your skin, your heart rising into your throat.

"Baskets nearly full," you chirp, sliding your headphones down until they rest around your neck, "not seeing any purple, though."

She hums, reaching down to sift through what you've collected. To be honest, you hardly remember picking half of these. How long have you been out here?

"Well, I hate to interrupt you," she muses, still rummaging through the basket, "but dinner's ready."

Alright, so you've been out here for a little while.

It starts to rain the moment you step inside the house. It feels as if the clouds had been waiting for you to get out of dodge, the storm appearing just as quickly as the flowers had. The wind howls as it whips around the corners of the house, angry and threatening to break through even the tiniest of entryways.

Storms around this part of Wyoming are common. Usually, they don't last any longer than twenty minutes, but it only worsens. The wind only grows louder, buckets upon buckets of rain coming down in thick, white sheets that seem to wrap around the house, blanketing the outside world from view.

You're washing dishes, gazing out the window just in front of the sink, when you notice something bouncing around in the lawn.

"Is that an animal?" Thinking aloud, you lean closer to the glass, squinting. No, animals don't move like that.

Shit.

Swearing, you reach for the towel, dying your hands as you rush toward the door, "I forgot the flowers outside!"

That's what it is. Your mom's favorite wicket basket is bouncing around the lawn, back and forth, being whipped around by the wind like a ball.

Without much thought, you pull the sliding door open, and immediately the cold wind starts to painfully nip at your skin with its frigid teeth. It's only worse as you step outside; the tiny raindrops feel like needles as they batter you, but you can't let that old basket be blown away.

You can hardly see, stumbling blindly as you chase the silhouette of that tumbling basket, but the wind is making a game out of keeping it from you. Whenever you think you've got it, the wind picks up, ripping it away.

But the wind slows a bit, and in a last-ditch effort, you jump on the basket the moment you've seen your chance. Your foot catches on a patch of mud, and your back hits the ground with a painful thump.

But you've got the basket. It's mostly empty now, but you've got it.

All your collected flowers are probably miles down the road by now, blowing into who knows where. So much for making a wreath with them. Swearing under your breath, you push yourself back up, fumbling for purchase on the muddy ground, some kind of leverage to help you onto your feet.

"Huh?"

There, right in front of you, lies a dainty purple flower. Remarkably short, its petals fluttering in the wind. No wonder you hadn't found any.

It should be easy to pluck from the ground, but it's not.

No, the damn thing will not so much as budge from its spot in the ground. You change hands, supposing that one is weaker than the other, but it barely moves. Come on; this can't be that hard. Using both hands, you take hold of the flower's tiny stem and pull.

Just like that, the flower plucks from the ground, leaving a dark hole in its former resting place. Strange.

With the flower safely tucked into the basket, alongside the ones that have survived the wind's torment, you try to get up.

But that hole...it's starting to...grow larger?

You think it's just your mind playing tricks on you, but no, it's—that hole is getting bigger. Beneath you, your legs become nothing but jelly, near useless, as you slip around on the muddy ground, fumbling for footing.

One foot catches traction; you've almost got it, you've almost—

the ground disappears out from under your feet,

and you

fall.

You don't know how long you fall for.

Everything around you is pitch black, a blanket of darkness wrapped around you so tightly that you can barely tell if your eyes are open or closed. The sour bubbling in your bones is the only indication you have that you're moving at all. You've become weightless, fluttering through the air like a discarded feather.

All of a sudden, a strong gust of wind hits you from behind. Now, it feels like you're moving back up, like someone's just flipped this hole upside down.

Where in the world are you? Are you halfway down to the center of the Earth, or are you somewhere else entirely?

A twinge of light appears in the distance.

It's faint, but it's there, and it's growing larger. You can't quite tell if you're moving toward it or if it's moving toward you. But it grows bigger and bigger, rapidly hurtling towards you until all you can see is a blinding light as it engulfs you.

All you see is a dark sky, but then, like a quarter, the world around you flips, and all you see is green as you come crashing down into it with a painful thunk. The impact is strong enough to knock the air from your lungs. It feels like someone's picked you up and thrown you against the ground.

Miraculously, your basket still contains its flowers, the tattered handle clenched in your weak hand. Your only sign that you just popped out of a...

...hole that has seemingly disappeared.

No, no, no, none of this is right. Where are you?

Instead of being once again surrounded by your childhood stomping grounds, all you can see is endless pasture hills. It's dark, still raining, but you can see enough to know that you've never been here before.

The ground squelches below your muddy shoes as you slowly stand. White-hot fire shoots up your right ankle as soon as you put weight on it. It doesn't look broken, but it's hard to tell when every bone in your trembling body aches.

There's movement up on the hill.

A woman. You can't see much of her, but her blonde hair is easy to spot as it flows in the wind, waving like a flag behind her. It seems she's seen you, too, because she's coming toward you.

"Hello?" You call out, shielding your eyes from the rain, "ma'am?"

She yells something back to you. Intelligible, borderline a shriek. No, that doesn't sound like the voice of someone coming to help.

"No, no, no!" She wails, "you don't belong here! You don't belong here!"

You have no time to question it. All you have time for is to turn and run.

Every step hurts. Your feet struggle to maintain traction as you race across the slick ground, left foot sputtering out from beneath you with every stride.

You don't know where you're going. You can't see anything. It's all pitch black and silvery raindrops and green grass, and you can't figure out how close this woman is getting to you. Her voice grows louder and louder with each passing step, chanting incoherently; how you don't belong here; this isn't right.

Lightning strikes the ground, lighting up the world around you.

There's a fence in front of you, the silver gate already halfway open. However, there's a black dot just beyond that. You haven't the slightest clue what it is, but you'll take anything over the woman that's rapidly gaining on you.

Come on, come on, come on, you're almost there.

Something heavy hits you from behind, and for the umpteenth time, you hit the ground with a painful thunk.

"You!" Her voice is so loud that your ears feel like they're going to bleed. Silver glints in the dark as you squirm, legs kicking out as you try to get back up. But she's faster than you, climbing up on top of you as that sharp silver glistens. Your nails find purchase on her scalp, clawing at a raised scar. It doesn't faze her. "You don't belong here!"

Black flickers across your vision, and just as quickly as she'd climbed on top of you, she's knocked off, landing flat on her back. She's still yelling, chanting the same thing over and over, but her voice is drowned out by a deeper one that booms through the dark like thunder.

Your throbbing ankle crumples out from under you as you try to stand, leaving you frantically scooting backward. Away from that girl. Away from whoever was crazy enough to go after her. No, no, no, you've just backed into the fence.

...and the fence steps out from behind you?

It's a horse. Black in color, concealed near perfectly by the blanket of the night. She steps out from behind you, feet dancing dangerously close to your face as she does so, and then she turns and...

It's enough of a sight to make you momentarily power through the pain biting at your nerves. Rising to your feet, you stumble for the open gate, each step feeling like it'll be your last.

That horse has three heads.

The man's calling after you, something that sounds like a rushed 'hey!' but you pay it no heed. Your heart hammers against your chest so loud that it drowns out everything else, beating in perfect synchrony with your racing feet. But that three-headed horse is coming after you, barely visible as she runs you down.

Something thin passes overtop of your head and cinches tight around your waist. The next thing you register is the sharp pull of rope, so strong that it stops you in your tracks.

"Hold on, hold on!" That deep voice shouts; it doesn't sound threatening, but it doesn't stop you from fighting the lasso cast upon you, squirming, pulling at the loop.

Maybe it's the rapid in and out of breath; perhaps it's the fear permanently etched into your expression, but something makes him get down from that monster of a horse. Dropping the rope in favor of kneeling and raising his open palms to the sky.

"'m not gonna hurt you," he breathes, speaking slowly, "a'ight?"

You don't know if you believe that, but as a scream echoes through the night, you realize that you don't have much choice here.

"Who..." your voice dies in your throat, "who are you?"

He's quiet like he's considering, and then, "'m Rhett."

Rhett.

You don't think you've ever met a Rhett before, surely haven't met a Rhett who smiled when you uttered your name.

Whatever moment you've just built up is shattered by the rapidly approaching yelling, the shrill voice of a woman who isn't happy about your presence. Rhett peers over his shoulder, then, turning back to you, "do you trust me?"

"Define trust," you blurt, shaking free of the lasso.

With remarkable speed, he stands and mounts that three-headed mare. "Either you play your cards with a woman wielding a handmade knife," holding out his hand, "or you let me help you."

Well, when he puts it like that.

His hand engulfs yours as you take it. There's some effort required, but he's strong and quickly pulls you up onto the horse with him. It's uncomfortable being crammed up here when this saddle was clearly not meant for two.

"Hold on to me," he tells you, peeking back at you, "don't let go until I tell you to."

Mayhaps it's because you're dripping wet, but as you wrap your arms around his waist, you learn that he's remarkably warm. And as the horse starts to move, he reaches down to tuck his arm alongside yours as if they'll slip away at any given moment. You're lucky that this isn't your first time on a horse.

As the fence line disappears from view, you begin to lose track of where you're going. Everything looks the same; everywhere you look, it's the same. It's starting to feel strangely similar to the lots for sale around your home.

There's no way that this is actually happening right now. This must be some wild, fucked up fever dream you're having. There's no way this horse has three heads, and there's not a damn logical reason behind that hole you just fell through.

Yeah. This is all just a vivid dream.

Rain begins to pick up, wind beats against you like it did before you fell into the hole. It feels a little too familiar as you cling to this strange cowboy, trembling under your wet clothes. But at least he's warm.

It's a while before a dark, rustic little cabin comes into view, looking strangely similar to the abandoned one across the street from your home. It bears the same log walls, cement filling in the gaps left between, but this one has a bite-sized front porch with a little white swing that sways in the wind.

The horse stops just in front of the porch steps, and it's only now that you realize you've just about frozen to Rhett. Muscles and bones stiff with imaginary ice, struggling to detach yourself from him.

As soon as you've let go of him, he's hopping off the horse, spinning around with outstretched arms, "God, you're fuckin' cold," he hisses from the moment he touches your numb hand, "you're lucky you still have these things attached."

Beneath you, your legs feel like sticks, completely numb as you let him guide you up the stairs. The door is partially ajar, easily kicked open with his boot, but the house is warm. Hot, even, feels like the heat that first washes over your face when opening an oven.

A little kitchen sits just to the left of the entryway, but the only thing you can focus on is the crackling fireplace directly in front of you. Rhett walks you right to it and places a thick blanket around your shoulders as you sit on the floor next to the dancing flames.

With two thick fingers, he pinches the sopping wet clothing from your shoulder, chewing on his lip as he visibly thinks. Then, he ventures off through a door on your right.

The fire is hot, and you think you can feel the coldness melting from your skin, but it's hard to warm yourself when you're practically wearing a block of ice.

"These are probably too big for ya," he remarks, remerging from what you assume to be his bedroom, "but it's better than nothing."

There are folded clothes in his arms, what looks like a shirt, a pair of flannel lounge pants, and some plain socks. He sets them on the footstool just behind you, careful not to ruin his near-perfect folding of them. The way he speaks to you makes you feel like you're a pair of old friends, like this isn't the first time you've met.

"If you want to get that mud off," pointing off toward the room he just came from, "there's a shower just around the corner; help yourself to whatever you need in there."

Then, without much else, he heads for the door and mutters something that sounds like an "I'll be back in a minute" before the door shuts behind him.

It takes you approximately half a second to decide that you'll take him up on that offer.

You were right; this is his bedroom. Looks just how you'd imagine any man's bedroom to be, plain navy blue comforter, bedside table devoid of anything but a lamp, a phone stand, and what looks like an obscenely large belt buckle.

Fluffy white towels are on the bathroom sink, neatly arranged into a stack of largest to smallest. You don't think you've ever met a cowboy that was so meticulous with arranging clothes and towels.

Thunder rolls as you step under the water, the lights briefly dimming, but they don't go out. The sound of the shower barely conceals the howling of the wind, angry, daring you to venture out and face its frigid wrath once more.

You think you spend a good fifteen minutes scrubbing the mud out from every crevice of your body. Just as you believe you are finished, you find another patch, caked to your skin like glue, refusing to budge. God, it's even in your eyelashes and behind your ears. A part of you wonders if this three-in-one wash has anything to do with how hard this is to remove.

In the light, you can see that your ankle has swelled up. Not too much to be of concern, but it's a visible difference from the other one, puffy around the joint and sore to the touch. Must have injured it during one of your many falls tonight.

Come to find out, he's given you an option of two shirts, a plain black tee, and a soft, long sleeve pajama flannel that matches the pants he's given you. The shirt you choose engulfs you, the pants a little loose in some places, but they're warm, dry, and not caked with rainwater and mud.

As you lift your dirty clothes up, something hard hits the ground.

Your phone.

Huh. How long has that been in there?

It's got no service; the battery is only at half charge, but aside from that, it hasn't been affected by your escapades in the rain. The time though...how is it eleven thirty at night? It was barely seven just earlier.

Rhett's moseying about the kitchen with a basket of laundry. Perking at the sight of you. "Y'almost look like a different person," he muses, holding the basket out for you to place your soaked clothes. You feel like a different person, to be honest.

"Now, if you don't mind me askin'," making off toward the laundry room, just past the kitchen, "how did a lady like you wind up in our west pasture?"

Well...

"I'm still figuring that out...?" Because you're still processing it all yourself. Surely this is just a horrible dream; maybe you banged your head and hallucinated all of this.

Rhett's head pokes out the laundry room door, eyebrows furrowed, but he doesn't say anything. That look was enough of a statement.

Calling your mother's phone doesn't work. It doesn't ring, only displays your call screen, and does nothing more. The frustration must be evident on your face because Rhett fishes his phone from his pocket, "y'can try mine," he offers, holding it out for you to take, "service is patchy out here."

But you receive the same outcome, except his phone won't even accept the number as valid. The longer you struggle, the closer together Rhett's eyebrows knit, tongue poking around in his bottom lip. On your third try, he comes over, peering over your shoulder.

"You're still missing some digits," he says after a moment.

"No?" Lifting your phone for him to see, "I have all ten."

You don't understand why he's looking at you like that, absolutely perplexed by what you've just said. He squints at your screen, reaching out to tap and expand one of your contacts. Ten digits. But then he opens his contacts, and you see...fifteen.

What the hell?

Hesitantly, your mouth starts to move, "I can tell you how I wound up there," your voice wavering, "but I don't think you're going to believe me."

But Rhett is all ears.

And so, you tell him from the strangeness of the flowers that chose to appear toward the end of November to the flower that opened up a hole to your unceremonious arrival to his west pasture. As you tell it, you realize that you've lost your flower basket somewhere in that field; the one thing you have to back up your statement.

Somewhere during your retelling, you wind up on the couch, sitting across from one another as you recount your tale. Rhett doesn't say a lot, nodding his head every once in a while, like this happens every Tuesday.

"That may explain the strange noise from earlier," he recalls, gaze fixated on the fire as the flames twirl and lick the air.

Lifting your head up from where it was resting against the couch, "there was a noise?"

Again, his head nods, slow, "my brother sent me a video of it, hold—shit."

He recoils with a pained groan, squeezing his eyes shut as he reaches behind himself, rubbing his right shoulder blade. Is that...

The image of that silver blade flickers through the darkness of your mind.

"Did she stab you?" It's more of a statement than a question; it's hard to mistake the red stain on his jacket for much else.

"Maybe," speaking through his teeth.

Still, he doesn't fight you as you reach over, urging him to turn so that you can see it better. It's easily missable, but there's a thin cut through his jacket, maybe four or so inches long, slicing through two layers of clothing and deep into the meat of his shoulder. Most of the bleeding is concealed by a bit of mud caked onto his shirt, you suppose, from a fall.

"This needs to be cleaned," how long has he been quietly putting up with this? "It's going to get infected."

"Nah, it's alright," poorly concealing his wince as he stands up, "not like I can reach it, anyhow."

"Well, I was gonna offer to do it for you," it shoots out of your mouth before you've even had the chance to process what your reply was going to be.

Your words make Rhett stops in his tracks, arms limp at his sides. Quiet, dead silent, actually, to the point that you're just about to retract your words when he looks back at you, "...okay."

He disappears into his bedroom, and through the wall, you can hear him shuffling around in there, searching, sifting through cabinets and drawers. But eventually, he comes back with a wet cloth and a white plastic box, the little red plus sign so faded that it's barely visible. Looks vintage.

It's heavy in your lap, full of all the supplies you could ever need. Bandages, creams, sprays, tweezers, safety pins, a strange assortment of oddly shaped bandaids. Everything you can think of is in here.

Rhett's jacket hitting the floor regains your attention just in time for you to get an eyeful as he removes his shirt.

Good Lord.

Those muscles in his back could go on for days, rippling under his pale skin with every movement, a display sent straight from the heavens above. Are you drooling? You think you might be drooling.

Red soaks his right shoulder, blood dried and stuck to the skin there, and it's just about what you'd pictured the moment you laid eyes on the slice through his jacket. But damn, are you glad it's not a cut on his chest. You don't see much of it, but you catch just enough to know that you'd definitely be distracted.

He sits on the floor, back to you, granting you ample access to his injury. The wet cloth does most of the work as you gently wash away the dried blood, careful of his still-open wound.

A strange sound plays through the air, loud, like a rusty gate creaking open, only deeper, unnatural. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. "What is that?"

Rhett lifts his phone from his lap, "that's what the sound was." Did that sound come from...you traveling through the hole?

"That sounds like something straight out of a horror movie," your remark earns you a dry chuckle, a slight, easily missable noise that dances around your ears like the sweetest music.

"I was convinced we had a troll on our land again," Rhett barely winces when you touch the antiseptic wipe to his open wound. Still, you can hear the pain in his tone, words becoming tight, higher in pitch. Falls quiet as you clean it properly, removing the mud and a stray piece of grass that wound up there. "Didn't expect to run into a pretty little thing like yourself out there."

Oh.

You have no reason to smile at that, you really don't, but you find your lips twitching upward.

"I—I'm sorry," evidently, your silence is getting to him, "I didn't mean to..."

"You're fine," you can't help the laugh that leaves you; at least he's not being weird about it, "I'm just too focused on your shoulder to think of words right now."

Intentionally vague, leaving him to fill in the blank incorrectly because right now, you're only focusing on how these muscles feel under your hands. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. At least this wound of his doesn't look like it needs stitches, just a bandage.

"Thank you for doin' this," he says, after a while, "I don't think anyone's ever actually..."

"No?" Holding two bandages beside the cut, internally debating which one is big enough. Hm. Seems the one on the right is the better option. "I take it you don't get hurt very often, then."

"Naw, I wind up with a new injury every week," he drawls thickly, "that there is my bad shoulder anyway."

To add to his words, he lifts both arms above his head, and you can see exactly what he's referring to. His right arm looks normal, but his left one fails to go up all the way, falling short by an inch or so.

"How did you do that?" Inquiring while you open up the packaging. His left arm is slower, too, and takes a little more time to drop back down than its companion.

His shoulders shake with a half-hearted sound, nearly making you put a crease in the bandage, "Thought I could make a livin' bein' a bull rider," the bitterness of the memory so thick that you can taste it in the air, "dislocated it in the finals. Went from first, straight to last."

With the bandage applied, he rolls his neck back and forth, cracking the joints, shoulders doing much of the same. From here, you would have never been able to tell that his left shoulder had anything wrong with it. Those muscles twitch and flex all the same, putting on a simple little show that's got you mesmerized.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long because he soon gets up. Disappearing with his dirty clothes and the bloody cloth, leaving you to pack the first aid kit back up. He isn't gone long, reemerging into the room, pulling the ends of a black tee down over his gently defined belly.

Selfishly, you wish that he only owned two shirts. The one you're wearing and the one that was just ruined.

"Look, I know this ain't...ideal," he mutters, scratching his neck, "but how 'bout you take my bed for the night."

Your mouth opens, protest heavy on your tongue, "I don't...you don't have to give me your—"

"—and my momma taught me never to let a lady sleep on the couch," his voice firm, but his face soft, "I washed the sheets this mornin' if that makes you feel any better."

This argument was over before it even started.

As you rise to your feet, the ache in your swollen ankle blossoms into something sharp, enough to make you wince. It's barely a reaction, a squinting of the eyes at most, but Rhett's already caught it. Eyes already trained on the way you mind your foot.

"No, no, don't you even say a word," effectively killing your protests before they've had a chance to open your mouth; Rhett heads over to his fridge, "I coulda sworn you were limpin' when I found ya."

"I'm not sure what I did to it," you admit, sheepish. You really don't have any recollection of it happening. It hadn't been hurting when you fell through the hole, but adrenaline is a deceiving mistress.

Which could explain why it hurts even worse than it did while you were showering. Putting pressure on it only makes matters worse; nerves feel like they're burning hotter than a blazing wildfire. Still, you make an effort to walk back towards Rhett's bedroom, hopping along to avoid any more usage of it than necessary.

"You sure you ain't part bunny?" Chuckling at the sight of you, Rhett slowly follows after you, armed with an ice pack.

It could be the pain and exhaustion that makes this bed feel so comfortable; even sitting on the mattress feels like a cozy dream. Rhett kneels in front of you as soon as you're off your feet, taking your foot into his large hands. One on the back of your heel, the other gently manipulating it in his grasp.

"Not broken, at least," he observes aloud, "probably hurt it when you fell, and the adrenaline kept you from feeling it until later."

At least his theory is similar to yours.

He's quick to leave you in peace, passing off the ice pack and letting you know that you can find painkillers in the second drawer of the bedside table. Before you know it, he's made off with a pillow, and even from here, you can see his feet propped up on the edge of the couch. Stacked, one on top of the other.

The sheets are warm and soft against your skin, so freshly cleaned that all you can smell is the fresh linen and vague smokiness of the fire. It's almost as good as your bed at home.

Almost.

You're still figuring out if this is all real, if this is really happening, or if it's just a vivid dream. This bed, this place all feels real; even Rhett feels too real to be a figment of your imagination. But a magic hole? And that...woman?

No, that doesn't make a damn bit of sense. None of this does. If these magic holes were natural, they would have been documented long ago. They'd be common knowledge.

But the drowsiness pulling at your eyelids, weighing them down, feels pretty real.

The next time your eyes open, you feel like you've stepped into a new body.

Eyelashes flutter, momentarily blinded by the bright morning sunshine peeking through the blinds. The air is warm enough so that you aren't burning up under this nest of sheets. You don't want to move, your head full of clouds, your body as light as the comforter nestled on top of you.

Your eyes adjust. This isn't your bedroom. This is...Rhett's.

Sitting up, it all comes flooding back to you in the form of watery memories, vague and fuzzy around the edges. The flowers, the hole, the strange woman, the cowboy, and his three-headed horse. There's a peculiar squishy material under the blankets: the ice pack.

No, no, no, this isnt—

your mom's flower basket sits on the floor next to you. Battered, strands of the material stick out, the handle crushed and deformed, but it's the basket. Flowers and all. There aren't many left, but a handful of orange and yellow have survived, accompanied by some flowers you don't recall picking. Three daffodils and a handful of daisies. Rhett must have added these.

On the very top, though, lies that purple flower.

Pale petals with a darker center, with three red stigmas standing proudly. A fourth one has been crushed, lying bent alongside its companions. The little flower that your mom would have loved.

You wonder if time has passed the same for her. Selfishly, you hope your disappearance has stopped time, wherever she is. You can't imagine how worried she'd be, knowing that her daughter disappeared in a horrible storm, leaving little to no trace of where she'd gone. There has to be a way for you to get back...but how?

Considering the horse...maybe Rhett will know. Thinking back, you don't recall a trace of disbelief as you recounted the night's events to him. If the three-headed horse you saw last night was real, surely this place can't be normal.

This time, your ankle doesn't hurt as badly when you put weight on it, but it stings and is still somewhat swollen. It hurts enough to affect your stride, limping toward the bedroom door.

"Rhett?" You croak, voice echoing about the house. No response.

You can properly take in the room with the sunshine creeping through the windows. It bears the same white horizontal wood paneling as the bedroom did. Two long brown couches on either side of the fireplace and a matching, short sofa in between them. The kitchen is tiny and feels more like a hallway than anything.

Barely any decor, aside from a tall cabinet that stands next to the bedroom door, decorated in trophies, awards, and little knick-knacks of all things Western. The golden bull wearing a cowboy hat is your favorite.

"Rhett?" You try again; maybe he didn't hear you the first time.

Nothing. Must be outside. Your shoes sit in the gap between the fridge and the front door. They've seen better days, but they're dry, slipping over your feet like they always have. The door squeaks as you open it, painfully loud compared to the silence leading up to it. It takes a little effort to shut; the door a hair too big for the frame.

There's an old wooden barn off to your left, not far from the house; everywhere you look, you find nothing but rolling green pasture. In the distance lies the same snowcapped mountains that surround your childhood home, identical. Is this the same location?

"Rhett?"

Again, nothing. But at least a bird chirps in response this time.

A little dirt path leads to the barn, worn down from years of walking the same route until the grass has died and refused to return. Beside the barn sits a GMC Sierra, looking a little worse for wear and desperate for a good scrub. So thoroughly covered in dirt that you have to wipe away some of it to see its actual color.

Blue. Like his eyes.

The barn doors are wide open on either side; it feels like a tunnel, dark inside, with light pouring in from the entrances. Horse stables line the room, maybe twelve in total, with a big back room to your right and what appears to be a feed room to your left. Something's rustling around near the doors on the other side. What that could be, you're not sure you want to know.

Three-headed badger?

A portion of you wants to investigate. Maybe it's Rhett or an adorable barn cat that deserves some head pats, but rationality reminds you that you may not like what you find. The rustling growing louder is what makes up your mind.

Not today.

Turning on your heels, you leave. You've had enough life-altering escapades for the foreseeable future. Lord only knows what else you may run into, given your current luck. But walking away from the barn means walking away from your only viable idea of where Rhett could be. Glancing at the endless fields surrounding the house, there's no telling how hard it would be to find the guy.

A strange sound resonates from behind you, metal on metal. The hair on the back of your neck stands straight.

"Make any sudden move, and I'll put a bullet right between your eyes."

That's not Rhett's voice.

"Turn around."

In your chest, your heart hammers so hard that it feels like it'll throw you off your feet as you slowly turn, raising your palms to the sky. Innocent. Mean no harm.

You find yourself in the middle of Rhett's dirt driveway, staring down the barrel of a gun.

"What are you doing here?" Growling, the man steps closer. Words fail you. Stunned stupid by the gun that bumps into your nose. "You here to take Amy too? Huh?"

Stammering, your feet tangling as you try to step back. Who is this guy? Who's Amy? He won't get the gun out of your face. The barrel pressing into your trembling flesh. You step away. He steps closer.

"Answer me, bitch!" He barks, spit hitting your cheeks.

"I—" gulping, "I was looking for Rhett."

The gun doesn't lower.

"Don't you bullshit me, girl," his words drip with so much venom that it makes him tremble, "I'd know if my brother brought one of his bitches home."

Brother.

Your tongue evaporates. Language forgot. Sweat beading on your forehead. Rhett's brother clenches his jaw, breath whistling through his teeth. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I—"

"Perry!" Barking so loud that it sounds like it's come down from the heavens above.

The world goes dark.

It takes you a moment to realize that you're looking into the back of a jean jacket with a rip down the right shoulder, exposing the plain white shirt underneath. Even longer for you to catch on to the fast-paced bickering, words hurled back and forth with such malice that they burn your ears.

"How about you quit waving that gun around like it's a fuckin' toy?" Rhett's nose to nose with him, teeth bared.

"This bitch is trespassing on our land and saying she knows you," Perry's stepping back and forth, a caged dog trying to get around him.

Rhett's always a step quicker. "They have a name, Perry," he hisses, "and you'd know that if you were decent enough to ask before you put a gun in their fuckin' face."

The argument is over. Not because of a loss but because Rhett walks away from it. Whatever words Perry has to add to the pot go ignored.

"Y'alright?" He's slow to approach you, allowing you to close the space if you're comfortable. When you do, he reaches out to rub dirt from your nose using his thumb, likely from the gun.

"As alright as I can be, considering the past twenty-four hours," his touch tickles, a welcome sensation to distract from the spasming of your gut.

"Are you really pretending I'm not here right now?" Perry huffs, raising his hands up, gun-free.

Rhett tilts his hat, effectively blocking his brother out, "were you the one callin' my name earlier?"

Nodding, "I can't exactly remember why I was looking for you, though."

You're only just now recognizing that his horse is off to your left, one head idly sniffing at the sparse ground below her feet. It's hard to tell what the other two are doing.

"'ts alright," chuckling, he nods toward the house, "was about to come checkin' on you myself."

If only for a moment, the two of you step back inside. Rhett's fridge is the definition of baren as he rifles through it, but he produces two breakfast rolls, says he made them this morning. They don't taste how you expect them to. At a glance, you figured they must have been some gross concoction of ingredients, but biting into it is like biting into a dream.

"Not as bad as you thought, huh?" Rhett grins around a bite of his, "I saw that look you gave me."

Has it always been this warm in here? "Only because I don't know if the food here is different." Lie.

Glancing up from his phone, "is it?"

You pause. Now that you think about it..." it's better," you conclude, and with that, you finish it.

"Good," his chest rising and falling with a silent laugh, "don't tell my mom I stole her recipe."

Rhett doesn't have the answers you're looking for, but he suspects that his father will know something. Based on the way he phrases it, it sounds like strange things happen all the time here. What kind of place is this? The cowboys where you come from would not be as calm as Rhett is.

"Takes too long to drive," Rhett explains as he walks you to his horse, "Isabel won't mind a second passenger, though."

Isabel.

Despite her unearthly appearance, the horse isn't as scary as you expect her to be. She happily accepts the pets you offer her, leaning into your touch like any other horse. In fact, everything about her is absolutely normal, aside from the head situation and her massive size.

You've ridden horses enough times to know how to get on their backs, but Isabel is so tall that you need Rhett's assistance. It's a miracle that you fit up there last night, all things considered. Once you're up there, though, it's alright. Especially not when you're graced with the opportunity to wrap your arms around Rhett. Snuggled close, your head tucked below the brim of his cowboy hat, perfectly blocking the sun from your eyes.

You learn that there are four pastures. Rhett lives in the north, Perry in the south, and their parents reside in the south pasture. He says nothing about the east one.

There's something shiny moving in the pasture as you ride through it. Too far for you to tell what it is; its location is only given away by the way the sun glints off of it. You struggle to piece it together as you ride directly toward it.

But then it clicks. "What the hell is that?"

While you can't hear it, you feel him laugh, vibrating against your skin, "you ain't got cows where you come from?"

"Of course, we have cows, genius," you retort, "but we don't have cows with shiny gold horns!"

You can't believe what you're looking at. A herd of maybe forty cows, black in color, bearing long, golden horns. At first glance at those horns, you'd thought they were longhorns, but they're much too fuzzy. The animal equivalent of cotton balls.

The words that left your mouth are enough to make Rhett look over his shoulder, eyeing you, "no?"

What kind of world is this?

A good portion of you expects to see miniature elephants next, somewhat disappointed when you don't see them. The only other animal you pass is a singular bison relaxing in the west pasture. Just beyond lies a marvelous, towering mansion. The close you get, the bigger it becomes until you can no longer comprehend if this is a house or a stadium.

"Good lord, Rhett," choking the words out, "are you sure this is a house?"

His hand squeezes one of your arms like he's trying to make sure you're still there, "still decipherin' that myself, actually."

An older woman is sitting on the front porch, a stablehand at her side who wordlessly takes Isabel off to a paddock next to the house. For the longest time, she doesn't speak. Not when she leads you inside, not when she has to pry an adventurous kitten from your pant leg, not even when Rhett asks if she's alright.

The inside of the house is just as ridiculous as the outside. Towering white walls, vaulted ceilings, glistening chandeliers, and sculptures that cost a pretty penny. A variety of kittens scamper about, tiny, too young to be taken away from momma just yet. Paintings of cowboys and horses hang along many of the walls, accompanied by pictures of Perry with a blonde woman and an equally blonde daughter.

But try as you might, you can't find any pictures of Rhett. Even when his mother leads you into the living room, you fail to come up with anything. No embarrassing school pictures, no baby photos, no nothing.

"Rhett," her voice firm, quiet, like she's afraid of being overheard, "what have I told you about bringing women home?"

Rhett begins to speak, but an older man steps into the room before he can get the first syllable out. Dark, graying hair, an equally colored beard, and a hat nearly identical to Rhett's. This must be dear old dad.

"Rhett, can I speak to you alone?" he says, smiling, but it fails to make the statement sound any less cold.

For a moment, Rhett hesitates, gaze flickering between you and his parents, until you nod and motion for him to go ahead. Then, albeit reluctant, he leaves the room without a sound.

Friendly family.

"Listen, honey," his momma begins, "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but..."

Tilting your head to the side. "But...?" Where is she going with this?

She sighs, loud, exasperated, "I know you must like my son. He's a good man. Exactly who I raised him to be."

You have no idea what she's trying to tell you, but you force a smile, pretending that you do. Sure hope Rhett is gone for a while.

"But he's a bit of a casanova; he's darn near slept with every young woman in this town," oh, that was...not what you expected her to say, "I just want you to know that before you go and get your heart broke."

With that said, she scoops up a gray kitten from the floor and leaves the room.

You feel like you've just been slapped.

What the hell just happened?

It's probably a minute or two, but you must sit there for an hour, staring at a picture frame containing a pressed flower as you try to comprehend her words. Does she think you're Rhett's girlfriend? Did Rhett not tell her how you got here? You wish you were here all for a pretty cowboy, but you're not.

Just as quickly as they'd left, Rhett and his father return. You're thankful that Rhett sits next to you again. Even though you don't know him very well, the familiarity is much welcomed after the uncomfortable experience you just had. His dad carries a large book, the binding so old and tattered that it barely holds together.

"So, Rhett tells me that you...came out of a magic hole in my pasture last night?" His father inquires after a minute.

"Picked a flower, a hole opened up, and now I'm here," you get the feeling that you're going to become sick of recounting this.

For the longest time, he stares at you as if you've grown three heads yourself. Gaze hard, but his eyes wide with unspoken recognition. Then, carefully, he begins to flip through the book's pages. You squint, trying to read the pages, but you're too far away.

"Strange things happen on this land all the time," Rhett elaborates, "our family has been documenting it for generations. If it's happened, it's in that book."

Explains the age.

You don't like how long his father looks through it. Flipping through it once, twice, gradually becoming faster with time. Rhett looks at you. You look at him.

You're still looking at each other when his dad says, "Books got nothin'."

Your expression drops. A million and one worries flicker through your psyche. Rhett's jaw tightens, the muscles flexing under the effort. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," his dad's voice raises, "what, do you not believe me?"

"Couple of months ago, Perry said a hole just like that appeared on his land and swallowed up half his kelpies," Rhett chides, leaning forward, "now, according to him, you handled it and got them back."

So this has happened before.

Abruptly, his father stands, the book falling to the floor with a resounding thunk, "how many times have I told you to stay out of Perry's bullshit?" He howls, going from zero to one hundred in the blink of an eye.

Not backing down from the fight, Rhett stands and steps off to the side, away from the couches. Leading the argument away from where you're sitting. "You only say that shit when it's convenient to you," hissing, an octave deeper, "but you involve me in his business when you want me to do his work for him."

"Because it is your job as a younger sibling to cover for him while he's grieving!" Words shouted so loud that they echo, bouncing down the towering hallways of the house, shaking the paintings and the house's very foundation.

Rhett scoffs, incredulous, "it's been nine months, pops. Nine months."

As if on cue, they both yelp, stumbling away and rubbing their ears. Rhett's mom stands between them. "That's enough!" She bellows, a completely different woman from before, "Rhett, I think it's time for you to leave."

You wish you had your phone; you could definitely use the twisting of the ear technique in future ventures.

Rhett barely waits for you to catch up to him on your way out of the hose. Winding through hallways, past rooms that you know you've passed but have no memory of, everything looks the same, but it's all different spaces. He holds the door open for you, though.

"Did my mom give you a...talk while I was gone?" He inquires as you step past him out onto the porch.

Nodding your head yes, "she practically told me you were the town whore, if that's what you're asking about."

That seems to be the statement that he's looking for because his eyes roll. "She keeps telling that to every woman I so much as glance at," shutting the door behind himself, albeit a bit too hard, "I haven't slept with anyone since I was twenty-three."

"And how old are you now...?" Please don't be a hundred years old, please don't be a hundred years old, please don't be a hundred years old.

"Twenty-six," tilting his hat downward.

Oh. Well, that's a lot more palatable than what you were afraid of.

"Wow, a whole three years without sex," melodramatic as you can manage, "how have you ever survived?"

"It's easy when you don't get nothin' out of it," you can't tell if that's bitterness or jealousy leaking through his tone, drenching it.

"Get nothing out of it?" You parrot as if it'll help you decipher what he means.

"Nope."

So much for elaborating.

On your ride home, it starts to rain.

It's hard to do much of anything. Even with the weather, Rhett still has work to do, leaving you alone in this strange, unfamiliar house. Without a working phone and hardly anything to distract you from the situation. There's a television above the fireplace, but the remote is nowhere to be found.

Chores are your only escape for a while. Washing the few dishes left in the sink, making the bed, and sweeping the floors until it's pristine, without a single flaw. But even then, it's difficult to silence your thoughts. You think about your mom, your disappearance, all over again. If time passes, the same for her, and if she saw what happened.

Your head is torn between hope and horror. If Rhett told the truth about the hole, you can find a way home. His father doesn't seem keen on helping, though. What if Rhett's wrong? And wait, what happened to that girl last night? And his brother, what's up with him?

Oh, what if there's another variant of you here, and what if she's why Perry was so hostile towards you?

This is getting out of hand.

Your only option to stop your racing mind is to make a game out of organizing the shoe rack that sits by the front door. It's a disaster; shoes piled onto its shelves with little to no care. Once you're done with it, though, it's picture-perfect. Boots, dress shoes, and sandals are carefully arranged into appropriate sections, ranging from tallest to smallest.

Come to find out, the remote was also in that mess.

You don't even realize it's a remote at first. Rather than being built vertically like the remotes where you come from, it's horizontal, like a keyboard. Fitting somewhat strangely into your hand, but it turns the television on just fine.

At least Rhett has a few streaming services, all with familiar logos but different names. Prime Pictures, Hoop, and something named...Kibble. But who would have thought that this world had the same shows and movies? There are so many things to rewatch. Are they going to be the same? Different?

It's too easy for one movie to become two, and soon you lose track of how many you've started.

"Where the hell did you find the remote?"

Words as sudden as a thunderclap send your heart into your throat.

Rhett. Dripping from head to toe with rain water, cheeks covered in a thin sheen of dirt.

"Over in the shoe rack," nodding toward the door, "not sure if I want to know why, either."

He turns, casting a long glance toward his newly organized shoes, then a sheepish grin works across his face, "I uh..." rubbing his chin, "I tend to reorganize the house when I'm drunk."

You laugh. His face blossoms into a bright cherry red. Unable to form many words all of a sudden, he fishes out his phone, telling you to order any pizza you'd like while he takes a shower.

Pizza boxes are circular here.

"The fuck you mean they're square?" Rhett sputters, so shocked by your words that he has to put his slice down.

"They just...are?" You think it's got something to do with cost-effectiveness, but you're unsure. "I'm being serious; we don't have round pizza boxes where I come from."

With how he looks at you, you're not sure he believes you.

"I need to see one to believe it," that sounds like intrigue laced around his tone.

"Well, if we can figure out how to reopen the hole," you say, leaning forward, "then I can show you all the square pizza boxes in the world." And...you know, go home.

"Deal," Rhett grins like a cat, "we need to look around the west pasture and figure out where you came out at, anyway. Mash two potatoes with one fork."

Mash two potatoes with one fork. That's different.

An aggressive slam of the front door wakes you around three in the morning. The sound startles you awake, and as you sleepily call out for Rhett, you get no response. He's not on the couch, his blanket and pillow lying in a messy heap on the floor.

You expect him to be mulling around the house when you wake up around eight. Or to at least be within the vicinity of the place. Nine o'clock is the time you've set to go and visit the west pasture because his father tends to have visitors that will get in the way if you wait until any later.

That time comes and goes with no sign of him.

You shower, hunt down a vase to place your slowly wilting flowers inside, reheat some pizza, and still, nothing. This was his time suggestion; he was the one that insisted that you go early, and now the blue-eyed bastard is late to it.

If he doesn't want to come to you, fine. You'll go to him.

The land around his home is vast and unwelcoming to those unfamiliar. His property is that it's mostly flat. You noticed it yesterday when you were riding on the back of Isabela. It's nearly impossible to lose the house if you keep its silhouette within your view.

"Rhett?" You call out, "Rhett!"

No dice.

He's not in the barn, and his truck isn't here. Asshole must have left. Not like you're stuck here against your will or anything.

Isabela knickers at you as you walk past, a harmonious synchrony of three, her own little choir over in the pasture.

"Hi, Isabela," reaching out to scratch her foreheads, "you wouldn't happen to know where your owner went, would you?" You don't know why you expect a horse to respond to you, even a three-headed one.

She looks behind herself, her ears pricking like she hears something. Is that..?

"What is he doing?" Isabela can't talk, but you're pretty sure she understood every word you said because that's Rhett's truck out in the middle of the field. In hindsight, the fresh tire tracks leading toward the gate should have been enough of a clue.

It's a longer walk than you thought it would be, but still, Rhett fails to see you coming. He's got a shovel, throwing dirt into a bottomless hole in the ground. A tarp lies in the bed of his truck, audibly rustling in the morning breeze. It's covering something, but you can't quite decipher what.

"Did you forget you had something planned for nine o'clock?"

He jumps, swearing expletives under his breath, "Jesus, how long you been fuckin' standin' there?"

"Just got here," biting your bottom lip, "you're two hours late to the plans you made because you wanted to do...this?"

"Somethin' came up last night," grunting, he lifts the shovel again, spilling dirt into the hole.

Very descriptive, Rhett. Very descriptive.

"Something?" Isabela nudges you from behind, politely demanding that you give her more pets.

The shovel hits the ground with a soft sound as he marches to his tailgate. Grabbing the edge of the tarp, he yanks it upward. Revealing two severed legs, but not to a person; no, they belong to a horse. Or, they used to belong to one, anyway.

"I don't..." looking back at the shovel, then back to the house, "I don't understand."

"Perry drove home drunker than shit last night," he elaborates, tucking the tarp back down, "moron went off the side of the road and hit one of the neighbor's horses."

You're still not computing this. "So you're hiding parts of it on your property...?" So bewildered that it simmers in your speech.

"The horse is a retired racehorse worth a couple million, at least." Rhett hisses like his neighbors can hear him from here, "if they find out Perry did it, they'll sue us and take the whole ranch."

Exciting. You hope you won't be here when the law comes knocking. "Well, can we look for the hole after you're done?"

"Probably fixin' to be out here all afternoon," he says as he lifts the shovel with his foot.

"Tomorrow?"

"Probably be busy all that day, too."

Helpful. So helpful that you can feel your blood bubble in your veins, red hot, "so when can we look, huh?" It's not even like you can go by yourself. You don't even know which direction the west pasture is in, never mind how to get there on foot.

"God, fuck, I don't know, Monday?" Throwing his hands up, Rhett drops the shovel for a second time, "look, I know you're wantin' to go home, but I have to run this ranch all by my damn self. I don't have time, woman."

You're speechless. What does he expect you to do? Lay around without a care in the world until he feels like helping? Not like you've been uprooted from your entire life and everything you've ever built!

"Alright, alright," deadpanning, your feet move, turning back for the house. Then, under your breath, "with how you talk to women, you probably had to pay all those girls to sleep with you."

A shadow casts over you. "You wanna say that again?"

"I think you heard me well enough the first time," you smile, tight-lipped.

He takes a step forward. You take a step back. The cold metal of the truck presses against your skin.

"I don't think you know what you're talking about," he says, voice lower than you've ever heard.

"What, you gonna prove me wrong?" You shouldn't be taunting him when you're backed into a corner like this. But for some reason, you still do. "Call one of them up for a testimony?"

The bastard laughs, "oh, honey," his hand coming down to plant itself next to your head, "you don't need no damn testimony when I'm standin' right here in front of ya."

Your eyebrows raise. He can't possibly be suggesting..."I thought you didn't like sex?"

"Not usually, no," his head drops down as he speaks, looking you dead in the eye, "but there ain't nothin' better than watchin' a pretty woman fall apart on my tongue."

You're unsure how you feel about the heat that sparks between your legs as he sinks to his knees, never breaking eye contact with you. Here you are. In the middle of this pasture, with a cowboy on his knees...for you.

One of his hands caresses your hip, thumb teasing the brim of your—no, his sweatpants. You shouldn't be doing this. You just met this guy for crying out loud!

Logic doesn't stop your hips from twitching forward into his touch.

That's all he needs to hook his thick fingers into the waistband, "no panties, hm?"

"I didn't exactly have the luxury to pack," there's more you want to say, but it's hard to when he pulls the material down until it pools around your ankles. Cold air nips at your previously covered skin, only warmed by the hot breath that fans against you.

Rhett's hands trail up the inside of your thighs, callouses tickling the sensitive skin there. It's been so long since the last time that his simple touch alone makes you start to drip. His hands continue to rise until his fingers comfortably dip between your folds, running from your entrance to your clit.

"Cute." Before you can even process what he's just said, Rhett leans forward and—

oh.

His tongue is so unbelievably hot as it presses against you, spreading you open around him. Then, one slow, flat, broad stroke of his tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit, circling it lazily. The motion pushes his hat into your belly, and as he drops back to tease your hole once more, it ultimately falls off. Leaving nothing but messy hair, perfect for you to tangle your fingers into.

And you do just that.

"That's it," he coos, voice vibrating against your swollen clit, "pull on my hair while I eat this perfect little pussy of yours."

One little tug, and he moans directly into you, laving over your clit in sloppy figure eights, and that, that. It has no right to feel as good as it does, making your hips start to writhe.

"So squirmy," big hands settle upon your hips, forcing them to stay still as he works you, rapid, quick little licks that wrench a cry right out of your throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this guy knows what he's doing. "Still think I had to pay them, girls?"

You don't recall closing your eyes, but when you find the strength to open them, you see those blue eyes peering back up at you. He smiles at the sight of you, flits his tongue against you a little harder, the tip pointed just at the right angle.

Chest heaving, you tug on his hair a little harder; your legs are starting to shake from it all, "fuck," the tone of your own voice foreign to you, "Rhett."

"God, you make my name sound like it's a fuckin' sin," growling, he pulls you close toward him, giving you no chance of escaping the onslaught of his wicked tongue on your pussy.

The sensation of him sucking on your clit makes you jolt with pleasure, heat pooling between your thighs while he keeps fluttering his tongue over it. You're whimpering out into the open air, helpless as he downright devours you like a starved man, and you're his last meal. It's been so long since the last time you felt the subtle nudge of your gut tightening that it's almost foreign.

"R-Rhett—" struggling to formulate words, "'m close."

"I know," grinning, he doesn't stop what he's doing, loudly slurping at your cunt, "come on, darlin', cum on my tongue for me."

You barely feel it coming on.

All it takes is one more suck against your clit, and you're spiraling toward the edge with no guardrail to catch you. Too much, too fast. You yank on his hair so hard that Rhett moans around your clit, a beautifully pitchy noise that sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Like a tidal wave, your orgasm washes over you. Convulsing as he licks you through it, straddling the border of too much and just enough. Lungs burning, head spinning.

Just as quickly as it had bubbled up, it fades away, leaving you a panting, trembling mess, all for him to see.

"Damn," his scruffy cheek is pressed against your hip, lazily smiling up at you like a cat who got the cream, "you're out of this world."

You could hit him.

His chin is so drenched that it's downright glistening in the sunshine, thin lips swollen, so completely, utterly relaxed against you. A totally different man from the one a few minutes ago.

"You know," carefully running your fingers through his hair, combing out the mess you've made of him, "I can't tell who this benefitted more."

He laughs, cheeks starting to turn pink, "consider it a mutual trade-off." The end of his sentence distorts around a sleepy yawn, "'m sorry, I tend to be a real ass when I'm tired."

The way he's peering up at you is awakening something. An uncanny urge to take him back to the house and look after him until he's well-rested and that lively spark has returned to his eyes. But, for the life of you, you can't understand why.

What the hell did you just do.

Taking your silence as a reply, he opens his mouth again, "whaddya say we try and make a quick trip to that pasture?"

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

You're lucky he offers to drive you back up to the house because your legs tremor so much that you can hardly walk straight. Rhett's quick to notice it, winking at you as you stumble past him and toward the front door.

Curse orgasms and their need to fill your bladder with half the water in the Pacific ocean.

By the time you step back outside, a little more stable on your feet, Rhett's already got Isabel ready to go. She's standing next to the small porch steps, and with the added leverage, it's much easier to climb up.

"If you can't figure out how to get you home," he chuckles as you squeeze in behind him, "we're gonna have to find you a horse."

"You gonna go hit one too?" It shoots out of your mouth before you can stop it.

Lucky for you, Rhett laughs some more, "somethin' like that, yeah."

Back to the pasture again, bypassing Rhett's little stash of evidence. Should you be concerned about that horse's owners coming knocking? Probably. Are you?

Not really.

Maybe you would be if you thought about it more, but it's hard to linger on it when fluffy cows appear in the distance. With their long black fur and glistening horns, something straight out of an art piece.

"Are their horns actually gold?" You inquire. It looks damn close to real gold to you.

"Yes, ma'am," Isabela slows as you grow closer to the herd, stopping just shy of them.

One of the cows is feeling friendly, approaching you like an old friend. She's close enough for you to touch, but as you reach out, she looks at you kind of...funny, making your hand freeze midair.

"You can pet her," demonstrating, Rhett reaches out, scratching his nails against her cheek.

You're not too sure about that one. She sure doesn't seem to like it when you brush your nails over her forehead, absolutely fixated on you, as if you've just offended her to the core. Yeah, no, you probably shouldn't...

A careful hand curls around the back of your own. Slow, Rhett guides your hand to pet her forehead, up and down, in the same fashion you would pet a dog you've met. She's so unbelievably soft.

"Are all cows this soft?" You've never felt anything quite like it. Silky, a little velvety, even.

"Nah, not all of 'em," he lets go of your hand, gives her golden horn a little tap, "these right here? Solid gold, not hollow."

Their horns are entirely and utterly mindboggling, perfectly smooth and cool to the touch, not at all like you'd expect a horn to feel. How strange.

"Do you raise them for their gold or their meat?" A part of you isn't ready for the potential answer.

Rhett chews on his bottom lip, "both." He gives the cow one last head pat before Isabela starts to move again, "the gold pays for most of the expenses 'round here."

So gold is still considered valuable here. Interesting.

"But just between you and me," he continues, "lately, I've been lyin' sayin' nobody's in the gold market no more."

You have to cling to him a little tighter now that Isabela is starting to move quicker; with every step, you fear you may fall. "How come?"

"They think they're entitled to it," he reaches down, grazing his fingertips along your arms, where they're looped around his waist, "always askin' me to slaughter my cows before their time so that they can buy stupid shit."

A memory flickers into the forefront of your head. "Is that how your parents could afford that giant house?"

"You catch on quick."

The gate to the west pasture is just up ahead. While it's hard to say, you think this is where you first met Rhett. Barely even a few days ago, and yet, it feels like a distant memory, fuzzy in your head. You can almost feel the way that lasso cinched around you, catching you with such little effort.

After you go through the gate, it takes a lot of work to come up with much of anything. You know you were close to the fence that borders the end of the west pasture, but the land looks so different during the day than it does at night.

"I've got nothing," you frown, "it all looks the same."

Rhett hums. A deep sound that vibrates through your arms and up into your chest, leaving you feeling all tingly after he stops. "Y'know, I think you landed a little further down."

"How would you...?" Unless... "Rhett, were you there when I came out of that hole?"

"Sorta." You can't see his face, but the tips of his ears tint a pretty shade of ruby red, "I watched the hole open and headed off to let my dad know," he peeks over his shoulder at you, "but then I heard Autumn start screamin' and I turned back 'round."

Autumn. So that's what that woman's name was.

Up ahead, there's a patch of dead grass. Perfectly circular, maybe ten feet in diameter, brown in color, a stark contrast to the green surrounding it. Isabela stops short of it and refuses to move any closer, even as Rhett asks her to continue. Seems you'll be going on foot.

You're unsure why you feel nervous about walking closer to the patch of grass. Ideally, if it reopened under your feet, you would wind up back at home, and all of this would be over. So why are you feeling like this?

Rhett audibly sucks in a breath as you step into the circle. Like he's expecting it to swallow you up at any given moment.

No, no, no, there should be something here. A sign, a clue, something, anything. The realization of there being absolutely fucking nothing is suffocating. Brings your heart rate up until it beats in your ears like a drum. You look and look, kicking the ground as if that will force it to open.

Nothing. Nothing happens, and the only things out of the ordinary are the few remaining flowers strewn about the grass.

"If it can open up once, it can open up again," Rhett tells you, holding out his hand to help you back up, "we'll figure this out, one way or another."

You're beginning to wonder if that's truly the case.

Rhett hums the entire way back. Some slow little tune that he doesn't have a name for. It's not much, but it's enough to distract you from the sour taste this trip has left in the back of your mouth. At least for a little while.

Something possesses you to stick around while he untacks Isabela, petting her as he busies himself with unclipping various things you don't know the name for. You're thankful she enjoys all the attention because it's the only thing keeping your hands from shaking.

For the first time, it hits you. The realization that you could be stuck here for the rest of your life. There's a very good possibility that you're never getting home. That you'll never see your mom again, your friends, your old life. They'll never know what happened to you.

"You're gonna spoil that horse," you've almost forgotten that Rhett was in here with you.

"Probably," you wish you could come up with more to say, but you can hardly think up another word.

Rhett has already caught on to your mood. Doesn't say anything else, instead communicating without words. He tells you he's ready to turn Isabela out by placing his hand between your shoulder blades and giving you the slightest nudges to get you going in the right direction. Does it again when he's done with that, wordlessly telling you to head for the house.

As you step inside, you can't help but feel like something is...off, but you don't know what it is.

"Y'alright?" It's now that you realize you've stopped dead on the threshold, leaving Rhett no choice but to idle on the porch. You start to turn, but along the way, your eyes catch a glimpse of the vase sitting on the counter.

"Someone's been in here."

Behind you, Rhett stiffens, gently taking hold of your waist and pulling you back onto the porch. Eyes wide, flickering between you and the wide open door, "what do you mean?"

"When I left," gulping, "my flowers were sitting in that vase on the counter."

It's empty.

All it takes is one long gaze into the house before Rhett reaches for the door, slamming it shut. Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, "we're goin' into town to get a doorknob that actually locks."

Part 2 ♡⊹˚₊

[writing-advices]

Should I study over the summer? A guide for college students

The arrival of summer brings visions of relaxation, adventure, and a break from academic responsibilities. As a college student, you may find yourself questioning whether it's necessary or beneficial to study during the summer months. This guide aims to help you make an informed decision about whether you should study over the summer, considering various factors that might influence your choice.

Assess Your Academic Goals: Start by evaluating your academic goals and aspirations. Consider the following questions:

Do you want to maintain a high GPA or improve your grades?

Are you pursuing a competitive major or planning for graduate school?

Do you have any courses or subjects you struggled with during the previous academic year?

If your answers indicate a strong commitment to academic excellence, dedicating some time to summer study might be beneficial.

2. Reflect on Personal Motivation: Self-motivation plays a crucial role in successful summer studying. Ask yourself:

Am I disciplined enough to stick to a study schedule during the summer?

Will studying over the summer help me stay intellectually engaged?

Do I genuinely enjoy learning and want to explore subjects beyond my regular coursework?

If you possess the necessary motivation and enthusiasm, studying over the summer can be a rewarding experience.

3. Consider the Nature of Your Courses: The type of courses you are taking or planning to take can influence your decision to study over the summer. Here are some scenarios to consider:

Prerequisite courses: If you have prerequisite courses to complete before advancing in your major, summer study might help you stay on track.

Intensive courses: Some universities offer condensed summer courses, allowing you to complete credits more quickly. Consider whether this option aligns with your goals and interests.

Online courses: If you prefer a flexible study schedule and have reliable internet access, taking online courses over the summer can be an advantageous choice.

4. Evaluate Financial Considerations: Summer study opportunities may come with associated costs. Weigh the financial implications by considering the following:

Tuition fees: Determine if the cost of summer courses fits within your budget or if scholarships and financial aid options are available.

Living expenses: If you plan to take courses away from home, factor in the cost of accommodation, transportation, and other living expenses.

5. Explore Internship and Job Opportunities: Summer break also offers opportunities for internships and part-time jobs. Consider the benefits of gaining practical experience and building your professional network. Reflect on how these opportunities align with your long-term goals and weigh them against the benefits of summer study.

Balance with Personal Well-being: Remember the importance of maintaining a healthy work-life balance. Consider these factors:

Rest and rejuvenation: Taking time off during the summer can help you recharge, destress, and prevent burnout.

Pursuing personal interests: Use the summer to explore hobbies, travel, and spend quality time with friends and family.

Conclusion: Deciding whether to study over the summer ultimately depends on your individual circumstances, goals, and priorities. Evaluate your academic needs, personal motivation, and financial considerations while keeping a healthy work-life balance in mind. Remember that summer can be a valuable time for personal growth, exploration, and self-care. By making an informed decision, you can optimize your summer break and set yourself up for success in the upcoming academic year.

[kanguin]

That poem hit me hard wow. Idk why I want to open up on Tumblr of all places but idk. I never share personal stuff in posts. Just oversharing in tags.

So yeah. I'm depressed. Depressed as shit. I quit my job recently because the commute, the low pay, and the high social energy cost of making 100+ phone calls a day just. Sucked the life out of me. Even my mother and fiance could see it. But this just marks burnout number... 4? I believe. I've experienced burnout and mental collapse 4 times now in the past decade. 4 years between the first two, 5 between the next two, and now just 1 year between this one and the last. And now I'm supposed to look for a job I like again, but... I don't know what I'd like. I'm not exactly enjoying life right now. And the thought of selling more of my life for money is not putting me in a good mental spot.

I don't play video games anymore. I haven't been able to do so for more than a couple weeks a year in ages. I never talk to my friends one on one anymore. I have no hobbies to speak of, really, aside from messing around on my computer, but it's not like I have the space to engage in any hobbies anyway since my broke ass still lives with my mom. I have my fiance living with me now, but while they're an emotional anchor, we have no space to our own besides the bedroom and a bonus room, but the latter is still technically a public space we can't decorate ourselves or use for painting or hobbies.

I feel stuck and miserable. I want to move out, I want my own home and space to be unbothered in, I want my own fridge and pantry with my own food, and to be able to be out of my bedroom without being on call for sudden required tasks or unwelcome socialization. I want a space to engage in hobbies; sculpting, painting, building, working with my hands. I want to be able to operate on my own schedule and not have to compromise on when is too late to start a task or eat a meal. I want to be able to start HRT in the privacy of my own home, so that I don't have to disclose my transition until I'm ready. I want... Freedom. I want to be able to live a life that feels mine, and not like I'm living in borrowed space and time.

But all of that requires money, and that just leads to a catch 22. I need money to achieve my desires, but need a job to get money. But I need a job I am happy doing so as not to burnout a 5th time, but I need to be able to enjoy life and work in the first place for that. And if I already enjoyed my life I wouldn't be in such a bad spot mentally.

I used to be so hopeful and determined for my future, but it's been 6-7 years since I graduated college with my bachelor's, and by now I've all but lost hope things will ever change. This genuinely feels like this is it, I'll be stuck here in this house until my mother dies, I get kicked out, or my heart takes me to an early grave like my father.

My next therapy appointment isn't for two weeks. I sure hope I stay on topic next time, because I only ever realized all the things I forgot to cover after the appointment. Even though I had my issues well memorized and written down.

...

If anyone actually reads this long ass ramble, I'm sorry. It's nearly 5am for me writing this.

.

..

To be honest, one of the aspects of my personality I miss the most is my love of making and keeping friends. Not that I was ever good at it, but I always enjoyed getting to know someone knew, and of course I loved learning more about my existing friends, too. There are so many people I can think of where I go "wow, I wish I had the energy to get to know them", but I can't really do that anymore in good conscience. Anyone I try and befriend nowadays is just going to get abandoned in a month or two when my overwhelming shame drive me to ghosting them.

[dr-scarlette-witch]

Hi mam

Sorry for the upcoming rant

I'm in first year of mbbs, just started classes one month prior. And I'm already stressed. I'm burnt out from neet preparation when I used to study every waking moment without any breaks especially during the last months. Then due to this year's dilemma I haven't gotten the colleges I expected. I'm trying to see the positive side that I got a government mbbs college but it still hurts sometimes. Then so many people knowing more than me, even in coaching I was one of the best. I study 3 to 4 hours everyday now but I don't think I'm retaining the information. I'm confused as to what to study and how. I watched numerous youtube videos but irl it isn't really helping. My college is in a place where really nothing much to do. So I can either study, scroll on my phone in my hostel room. There are many cliques forming already. I try to be friendly with everybody but I don't really have any friend. Although I don't like those cliques I feel sad for being excluded. I cannot even be happy for myself for getting into medical college, I can't really enjoy all these amazing things I was so excited to learn. Due to neet preparation for so long I haven't pursued anything I don't have any hobbies. I like to read but after reading medical books all day I don't want to read recreationally.

Can you please give me any advice both academic and how to cope personally.

Hii!

Congrats on getting into a government medical college! That’s a huge achievement, especially in a country where so many students are competing. No matter which college you’re in, we’re all working towards the same degree. I’ve always believed that a dedicated student can become a great doctor, regardless of where they’re trained—it’s all about how much effort we put into learning.

About the first-year burnout—I went through it too, and it took me almost a year to bounce back. One thing I wish I’d understood earlier is that, unlike high school, the syllabus in med school is endless. It’s more about gaining a basic understanding of many things instead of aiming for perfection. Striving for perfection can lead to burnout, whereas focusing on learning things that will actually help us treat patients is far more valuable. The first key to surviving med school is letting go of FOMO.

.

[aliilku]

warning: rant

mention of drug abuse and sh

i think im in my all time low.

three years ago my mental state started deteriorating, i was sh-ing basically every day, failing college, getting drunk on every possible occasion and using sex as sh

two years ago i was neck deep in my 3d, getting drunk and/or h1gh four to six times a week bc i needed to escape my life and mind so badly

now i dont even like being not sober. i dont sh at all. i relapsed here but half the time i dont r3str1ct anyway to be honest...

but i dont have any healthy copying mechanisms either. i am literally unable to handle my life, my responsibilities and my situation but i have no way of coping with it. ive been going through autistic burnout and/or depression for at least a year and a half but i could never afford to quit my job and take care of myself (im forced to have two rn lmao)

and bc of that i have been slowly but surely ruining my relationship. i dont have the mental capacity to plan dates, to have sex, to care about/for my partner properly.

so i just kinda exist through it. all ive been doing in life for the last year are the things i HAVE to do. the only person i talk to outside of work is my partner and i hate it but i cant/ dont know how to change it. i almost never put any effort into looking how i wish i did, i just dont have the energy to do anything not work/ household related

i dont even have the time and space to unload properly which my autistic ass desperately needs, all i get are a few hours alone every few days which i usually spend catching up on chores or playing the sims and watching youtube at the same time bc im unable to do things i would enjoy on a deeper level

and the longer i force myself to do even the absolutely necessary stuff the more im afraid of how hard ill fall when it happens.

i have an older brother whos autistic as well and unable to work, hes 28 and lives with our parents, dropped out of college like 6 times

and his life is basically my worst nightmare and my future at the same time.

and i have no idea how to help myself.

even if i could afford therapy i dont have time for it, i have 4 free days till the end of the month, some days i have scheduled an 8h day shift and a 12h night shift two hours apart from each other

im not even surviving right now, i am literally just existing.

i just push everything possible out of my mind and focus on forcing myself to do my responsibilities, if i even slightly think about myself i have tears in my eyer

and its fucking terrifying.

i doubt anyone will read all of this shit but whatever, i needed to do this.

and if anyone actually did read it, thank you. means a lot.

im open to advice but i might not respond bc i have a tendency to find every possible "i cant, because.." and end up spiraling and making the other person frustrated

[borgevino]

so, since last june i've been having about as stressful a time as it's possible to have in an office job. luckily this era is over (i'm still in the same job but now working 10h/wk) and i'm starting to recover.

it's hard to identify burnout / extreme stress while you're going through it (although maybe i'm speaking for myself here). here are some things i've noticed.

major stress symptom i've observed in myself and others: the narrowing of appetite until you're essentially only eating 3 or 4 "safe" things while everything else, even if you have enjoyed it in the past, sounds nauseating. for months, i could only eat taco bell and pizza. this has dramatically improved since i reduced my hours

various life skills i've developed simply vanished. i could not put together a grocery list at all -- i couldn't think ahead to what i would do with ingredients i bought. i also could not handle cooking -- I could barely make rice in the rice cooker. it was like i'd forgotten how. (this is back i'm happy to say! i did have to go "well let me shop like i'm 23 again" to get it but i made two home cooked meals this week)

i also lost a lot of coping mechanisms. all of my bad old protestant thought patterns came back with a vengeance. for example, i was taught growing up that complaining was A Sin -- i've unlearned this but found myself putting "cw complaining" on various tweets (this also is better now)

it became much harder to connect with my friends or my partner. luckily my wife (he/him) and i have done a bunch of work on communication already, but it became harder for me to spend time with him, simply because so much of my energy was spent on work (also improving!)

while i was in the high stress state i tried various remedies:

being comfortable physically and grounded somatically was essential. taking baths with lavender in them, petting the cats (and being sat on by them), taking deep breaths: small things, but incredibly helpful.

weed seriously helped. it affects everyone differently: for me it quiets all the anxiety alarm bells and gives me a 30,000 foot view of the situation. putting things in perspective was often humbling and reassuring at the same time. (i did not try alcohol because of the hangover factor)

there were a couple times when i took a week or two off to try and get some rest. these actually did NOT help; mostly they made things worse. i'd relax a little and then five things would go wrong in my body at once (presumably because i wasn't producing as much cortisol)

notes on recovering:

i'm taking a college class and that little bit of structure on my week is very helpful. also it gets me out of the house -- i've been WFH since the start of the pandemic, and i've gotten out of the habit. days i leave the apartment and do something besides just go for a walk or shop tend to be good ones

i've been sleeping a ton -- 12-14 hours a day, long naps. i'm lucky i can just let it happen -- i'm letting my body's instincts take the lead. if we need to sleep until 1pm occasionally, sure.

in the same vein, i'm not pushing myself. could i have made cornbread or corn waffles with tonight's chili? sure! a year ago i would have. but that sounded tiring, so i didn't. etc etc. i haven't started on the monumental task of getting the apartment to its pre-stress uncluttered state yet, because that would be too big a push for right now. "i will be compassionate with myself" is something i've been telling myself over & over.

it's surprising and encouraging how much things have changed for the better in the course of the past three weeks.

[beezusvreeland]

a very good idea - chapter 4

summary: After your boyfriend cheats on you at a party, you break up with him, who tells you nobody else is willing to be with you like him. You decide to prove him wrong, with a little help from a new friend.

ship: miguel o'hara x f!reader

______________________________________________________________

Chapter 4

You had more homework than the regular person and not just because you were taking some advanced classes. Before your side hustle, you would babysit kids in your neighborhood during the week and work as a waitress on events organized by your brother-in-law’s catering business on the weekends. 

You’ve had summer jobs before, but when high school came around, your mom got really sick and it took doctors a few months to come to the conclusion that she was exhausted. The burnout type of exhaustion. She started seeing a psychiatrist and, stubborn as always, went right back to her two jobs. You and your sister Jenna had to bargain a lot, but at last convinced her to quit at least one of them and let the two of you help her.

All the money from the babysitting and waitressing went to house and health bills, mostly your mom’s. You very quickly realized that, unless you got an all inclusive scholarship, your chances of going to college were zero to none. Attending college had been your dream since you were a kid, when you’d watch reruns of Felicity with Jenna, both of you fascinated with all the classes and drama the protagonist went through. Your mom didn’t have the opportunity to go to college and, when your sister’s time came, she chose to focus on working in restaurants, learning as much as she could so she could open her bakery someday. When she met her husband Mike, they united their toothbrushes and business aspirations. Now he would organize events and she would develop a menu for them. You’ve loved the way they were each other’s biggest fans. They were your idea of what a loving relationship should be. Mikes were really hard to find, though. 

The first time you hung out at Harry’s Manhattan penthouse, some of his friends were there. You thought maybe you and Harry could watch a movie and spend time with each other, but obviously that wouldn’t happen. 

Harry was different when his friends were around: louder, he would drink more and more arrogant, whatever it took for boys like Flash Thompson and Eddie Brock to laugh and agree with him.

Flash was complaining about how he had to turn in an essay about the Wall Street Crash of 1929. 

“It’s so fucking boring, who cares what happened literally a hundred years ago”, Flash said, like doing the paper was the worse thing could ever happen to someone. “The only interesting thing about Wall Street is the Wolf and Margot Robbie.”

It took a lot of effort for you not to roll your eyes. 

“Don’t turn that shit in, then”, Eddie said, making Harry laugh and shake his head.

“My dad said that if I don’t get at least a C, I can kiss the Dubai trip goodbye.”

“A C?”, you gasped, in spite of yourself. 

“I know right, it fucking sucks”, Flash looked at you, all serious.

That was a little too much for you. Forgetting to care how Harry and his friends perceived you for a moment, you said: “Gosh, I could write a C type of essay about anything in an hour”.

“Well, write mine, then.”

You finally gave into the need to roll your eyes, then looked at him. 

“For 200 dollars I just might”, you joked.

However, Flash took his wallet from his back pocket and gave the money to you. Just like that. Like it was nothing. It probably was nothing to him, but to you, that money was really valuable. That’s how you have justified your hustle since then: you would write reports and essays for some of the rich kids from school and earn enough to help out at home and save for college. It was a perfect scheme, unless someone found out, which you (and your clients, really) have been really careful to prevent.

***

After an hour inside the library, you still had to finish a book report of your own, so you took your things and decided to go to the basketball court. Miguel’s practice hadn’t even started yet, he and some other boys, including Miles, paid attention to what their coach was saying.

You climbed a few steps and sat at the bleachers. Before opening your copy of Hamlet , you observed your surroundings. Besides the basketball team, there were a few freshman kids ready to watch the practice, as well as some girls you recognized from the hallways. 

The coach whistled loudly and the boys clapped their hands, scattering through the court to start playing. Miles saw you and waved. Miguel turned to see who his friend was smiling at, his eyes finding yours. You gave him a shy wave, which he responded to with a nod, turning back to his teammates. 

You felt disappointed at that. Your mind was telling you to stop being stupid, that you had no business having any expectations at all. But you also remembered his smile a few hours before, at lunch. He had a really beautiful smile. You wished it wasn’t a rare occurrence. 

You tried to focus on the book, which you had already read, a pencil and a highlighter in hand. During your reading process, you used post-its to mark pages that had scenes and dialogues that could be useful remembering while writing the report. You always felt grateful to your past self. 

Sounds of sneakers gliding on the court’s shiny floor and the ball being thrown and caught filled your ears in an almost relaxing way. 

“Why is she even here?”, you heard a voice saying not so quietly on your right.

You pretended not to hear, struggling to read the same sentence for the third time. 

“Probably trying to find a rebound”, the two girls laughed at the pun. “It’s kind of desperate, if you ask me.”

Dealing with Harry was hard enough, but people you have never spoken to before? Who were they to say anything about you? Why did they even care? And, most of all, why did those stupid comments hurt you? 

“Hey!”

Looking up, your eyes meet Miguel’s again, but this time he climbs the steps, stopping one before where you were. He took his hoodie off, the white shirt underneath going up with it, before coming down all together. It was so quick, but you swore seeing a part of his six pack awakened something in you.

Miguel put his hand through his hair, trying to put it back in place. He proceeded to fold his hoodie and get on his knees, his long arms offering it to you.

“Can you hold this for me?”, Miguel asked, sounding so sweet, yet another thing you weren’t prepared for. He was so close to you, you could see a few of his sweat droplets in great detail. 

“Yeah”, you nodded, feeling his hand palm one of your cheeks, while his lips kissed the other. 

He went back to the court in what felt like too soon. You put your hand where his was just a moment before, you could feel the heat spread through your face. Back at the court, Miguel was smiling at himself and, next to you, the girls stood in absolute silence.

______________________________________________________________

<< chapter 3

>> chapter 5

all chapters

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a very good idea playlist

[kalibeak]

✨ HIATUS UPDATE ✨

Hi, it's been a while! I apologize for my disappearance, the last few months have been extremely busy and stressful for me but - after surviving my stay at the hospital and the deadline of my college application - I think it's high time to slowly end my hiatus.

I'm still in the recovery process and also experiencing an artistic burnout after over 4 months of constant work, so it might take some time for me to start drawing again (although I'm considering opening commissions some time later this month).

However!! I do have PLENTY of artworks I made within the last few months, and I'd love to share some better ones in the next days!

Thank you for being so patient with me! Stay tuned! ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

[lucysweatslove]

I decided to stay home from school today. I tried putting on a pair of leggings and long story short, sensory needs said nope. I don’t know exactly what it was other than just a sensory nope. Leggings are usually safe, but today they weren’t. Idk. (Before anybody tries to tell me I need to “get over it” because I won’t have this luxury in clerkships or beyond: scrubs have never been unsafe so as long as I can wear scrubs I’m fine, and I can make do with a bad sensory day if needed but I’m not about to get myself closer to autistic burn out because of both clothing/tactile sensory overstimulation and auditory overstimulation just to hear somebody tell me not to transfuse a stable, euvolemic patient with a hemoglobin of 7.5. I CAN do it, I am just prioritizing myself right now because that’s an option).

My husband asked if I had class today because I’ve been on the couch in my robe… and when I told him I was skipping, he told me “don’t make this a habit like in college.”

And now I’m realizing I skipped a lot of class in college because of my autism. I didn’t have the framework to understand back then why I was constantly skipping class, but I do now. I was constantly overstimulated so I was getting nothing out of class.

I tried to not skip classes at all for the first 4 months of med school, and in that time I’ve had two episodes of meltdown after sensory overstimulation. I know full well that I’ll have days like this in medicine. It’s unavoidable, and fun fact, non-autistic doctors burn out and have similar meltdowns too because of the unreasonable stress training places on us. I’m okay with that. I’m learning how to manage it well enough. But honestly? I think we should be addressing how unsafe training can be. “You won’t have the option to meltdown in the future” OR MAYBE, just maybe, we shouldn’t expect a singular person to be “on” all the time? That’s why call schedules are split and your all share work. Employees too stressed and turnover is high because of burnout? Hey maybe the issue is a focus on over-productivity to make money for admin?? Maybe if you just hired an extra person or two, everybody would do a lot better, not just the autistic or disabled people? Just a thought. And yeah, actually, I’m perfectly content with a reduced case load + reduced pay as an attending to accommodate my disability needs. If going part time keeps me safe, healthy, AND providing best care for my future patients, I’m gonna do it.

Anyway, yeah, I’m rebranding “skipping class today” as “reducing my stimuli to reduce likelihood of future burnout.” Because that’s what it is.

[kenthenugget]

How Batching Comics Saved My Life

Jesus its been...quite a while since I last posted onto any of my tumblr accounts. Its not that I didn't forget that I had an account here, its just that I've been busy with school and my drawing Crescent Blue. Meaning any free time I have is limited which results in me neglecting like half of my socials. Comics and college has made doing social media difficult. That and I wasn't sure how to handle 2 out of the 3 tumblr blogs I have. But I've thought that I had use this specific blog for text blog posts, along with drawings I'm working on and stuff like that. Most of it will be a lot of writing type stuff like this so this should be fun. Anyways, onto the topic I wanted to talk about.

I've been drawing Crescent Blue for coming on 4 years now. And those 4 years were spent drawing its first Chapter. Its overly long chapter. I have realized the mistake I made back when I was prepping to draw it back in 2019, where 16 year old me who had never drawn a comic at this scale decided to go out adapting the opening chapter draft which was written to be the length of a double length tv show pilot (because that's how wrote scripts back in the day) without realizing the implications of how many pages I would have to draw, and that maybe I should've done more prep work to make sure I wouldn't be working on it well into college. Because I probably would've gotten burnt out with it after being stuck on it for so long. And that would end up happening when 2021 rolled around. Thanks to mental health struggles I faced through out 2020, which lowered my tolerance to drawing comics which I didn't enjoy, I had drawn a total of 28 pages by going into the new year. Feeling ashamed of that pace, I managed to motivate myself and make it a new years goal to devote more time to my comic and get faster in order to complete my first chapter. This manifested in a couple of ways, from illustrating backgrounds in graphite as to avoid inking them and potentially screwing them up, to manning up and move to drawing it digitally as opposed to traditionally (I did not have access to photoshop or a good drawing tablet when I had started so I did what I had always done and use paper, pencils and inking pens/brushes. However, I would get my XP Pen Artist 12 for my 17th birthday 2 months later, and I would be able to use photoshop at home by early 2020). But what I mostly did was focus on drawing pages more, moving onto the next one after finishing the last one without taking a break. Basically muscling my way through with the expectation that I would eventually get faster. This did not work, and here's why.

This one by one approach isnt bad on paper, and there are plenty of artists out there that drawing comics this way and don't have any issues. For me, the issue I found with this process was that it didnt lend itself very well to spend. Not all pages are created equal, taking longer or shorter to complete depending on the complexity of the drawing. In my experience, there were pages that took only a couple of hours to complete, and others that took days to get done, and this isn't factoring in stuff like school. This aspect brings up the problem with me muscling through pages. There are times where I dont want to work on my comic, and often times after I would finish a page, I wouldn't have enough motivation to get to the next one. But in my attempt to not spend years drawing my first chapter, I would force myself to draw pages even when I didn't want to. This results in numerous cases of burnout and art block, which can cripple you and slow you down, defeating the point of muscling through it all. One notable instance of this I can remember happened in February last year.

By July of 2022, I would've been drawing Chapter 1 for 3 years and as my new years resolution, I wanted to get it done by that time. I had made great progress in 2021, catching up to page 75 by the time of new years, and I felt confident in my ability to get it done that year. That hope was shattered when I did what I had done with one of my pages and complete a future page ahead of time. Said page was the last post I made on this blog which I've actually completed a few weeks ago. The numbering for that page is 148 (was probably lower last year as I did end up adding pages during that time thanks to rewrites). And at that time, I had just passed the 80th page mark. It was then that I realized the implications of what I needed to do in order to get Chapter 1 done that year. I would've had to draw more than double the amount of pages I had drawn in 2021, and given the way I was drawing comic pages at the time, I knew deep down that wouldn't be possible. But not wanting to admit it, I tried muscling through the pages I was working on, hoping that if I pushed myself beyond my limit I would miraculously become faster and more efficient. But that didn't happen. The stress caused by my realization and the refusal to accept it caused me to become more and more agitated, which caused me to make errors and not draw as well as I would've wanted. Said agitation also clouded my thoughts and made drawing more and more difficult as soon as I knew it. I had burned myself out.

I think I've done a good job at laying out why this method didn't work for me, and if I was still drawing comics this way, I would not be finishing my first Chapter this year. And at this point, I would like to take a moment to shout out @the-underground-beauty. If it hadn't been for her, I not have found out about batching and I wouldn't have been even close to ending this long ass chapter. I was in a discord call with them and other art friends I knew, and I talking about ways of becoming faster at completing pages. They explained that they batched multiple pages instead of drawing them one by one like I had. Like, you would do the layouts for one page, then you would do the layouts for the next page, same goes for sketching and inking. This makes it so that instead of dumping all of your energy into one page, you're spreading that work into multiple pages and thus, become more efficient. Now you might be wondering how this would be better than my old method. Wouldn't working on multiple pages at the same time instead of going one by one be worse? In my experience, it's the complete opposite.

Along with the upsides I've mentioned above, its also very flexible in regards to inking/coloring. In the past, I found myself getting board with pages and wanting to move onto the next one but couldn't because I had to finish the one I was working on. I don't need to worry about that with batching. I can go in chronological order or skip pages to come back to them latter. This can be very handy when it comes to complex pages that would take a lot of time to complete. If Im not feeling up for it at that moment, I can just skip that one and come back later once I feel ready. It also points out the most time consuming part of drawing comics, sketching. Inking is one thing, but when you're doing a lot more work when doing the sketches. And depending on what the storyboards call for, the sketching process for a given page can take a pretty long time and a lot of energy. But with the batching process, the energy I would've spent finishing said page with inking and shading/coloring can be better spent on other pages. This means that I would need to worry a whole lot when inking as most of the hard work was done prior.

Batching also helps with putting what you're working on into perspective. Throughout most of my time drawing my comic, I found it difficult to view the pages I'm working on as being apart of a much larger story, rather than on a page by page basis. I would spend so much time on them that I would view the page I was working on as being its own separate thing, unrelated to the pages that came before or after. Batching, in a way, solved this issue, because now that Im working on a part all at once instead of going page by page, it helped me view what I'm working on as being pieces of a story, rather than being their own thing. I felt that the pages I was batching had more unity to them than the ones before it. Its difficult for me to describe this feelings, because I would always get it when finishing a part and rereading it. Pages that would take weeks to complete took more a couple of minutes to read, despite the specific pages taking so much time to finish. I haven't had that feeling after adopting batching as my new method of drawing comics, since every page all at once.

But how has it worked in practice? Well to see if batching was effective or not, I decided to batch the remaining six pages of what would by episode 7 on CB's tapas page. I got those done in a week. And 2 months later in May, I began work on pages 95 through 105 and this was the true test to to see if batching could really be effective for an entire part. I got it done with in a month. The after that wasn't as successful, but I mostly contribute it to external factors that had nothing to do with batching. At the start of this year, I decided to ditch the part by part method and go at the remaining 67 pages of Chapter 1 all at once. At the time of writing this, I'm still not finished with this Chapter yet but I don't expect it to be for quite long. I anticipate on wrapping it all up around June of this year. So with all this being said, I think I can conclude that batching comics has been way more effective in terms of speed. Over a 100 pages over the course of one year, way more than I had in the past with the old method. If I hadn't switched up the way I had been drawing comics back in March of last year, I don't think I would've come this far! Now I am aware that batching might not work for other artists, and that's fine. But if you are in a place like I was and want to get pages done quicker, I suggest giving it a try and see if it works for you or not :)

[corinnetheanime]

After the monsters concept art, I’ll see if I can get started working on Page 4 for the comic. My goal is to get the first part of the Prologue finished before my birthday (June 1st), which would be Page 6.

This comic is gonna take like 20 years to make and that’s fine by me

I’m actually super happy with my progress in the Clip Studio Paint program. It’s been around a month since I switched to it from Autodesk Sketchbook, and the program really pushed my skills as an artist, especially after my hiatus from art for the past several months due to college burnout. And I’m happy to be able to reach a point with the art where I can look back at it and actually say “I like it. I don’t hate this at all. It doesn’t look off to me.”

Because dear goodness, I cannot stand most of my past art. Which is a good and bad thing.

Practicing all these concept arts were not only a way to get a feel of the program and what brushes/tools I like, but also to see where I currently stand as an artist. Heck, doing that Vlad and Danny comic helped a lot with the technical aspects since I honestly have very very little experience with panels, speech bubbles and fonts. Hopefully I’ll be able to practice more with those tools in the future.

Anyway, hoping to finish monster concept art today. That’s the main goal. :D

[daisyvisions]

🩶 - I lowkey got a lil turned on while editing the fic BUAHAHS I actually used to write for another fandom ~4 years ago during college but I stopped once I started working and had to do adult things 😭 glad you found it a lil sexy 😏😂

also, work burnout is the worst, I went through a wave of that a few years ago with my first job, I hope everything's okay and that you can take care of yourself & stay hydrated 💖 humans were meant to live, not meant to live for work, I hope you can rest when you can and remember to go at your own pace 💞 you deserved some PTO time fr!!

it was truly one of the sexiest things I've read thank you for the food babe 💕 hahaha

"humans were meant to live, not meant to live for work" thank you for this lately I've been really reevaluating my thoughts on work and life and this is something I needed to hear a lot since my burnout right now is bad (not the first time I've experienced one with the same job but yeah).

Just gotta stick it out a lil more til the end of the month then the source of my burnout (this one client we have) will be gone kjsdnfsdkjnf and my brain can work better on the other clients huhu

hope you're doing good too and keeping hydrated!! 💖

[sleepy-frog-lady]

I’m up late at night, as I often am, and thinking, as I often do, about how astronomically I have been fucked over by my college. I was meant to graduate this spring, but I didn’t because I failed one of my classes. I performed well enough to have a C average on the exams, but because I didn’t do a lot of the homework I still failed the class. I couldn’t do the homework because I was depressed and extremely burned out from simultaneously juggling my college work load, my part time job, my gender transition, and my increasingly severe autism symptoms. I hoped that, upon hearing my explanation, the professor would show some humanity and let me catch up on work or something in order to pass (this is before grades were finalized, for context), but instead she said she wouldn’t because I reached out for help too late. I couldn’t reach out earlier because when I’m experiencing autistic burnout it becomes incredibly difficult for me to do that kind of communication.

When I explain this situation to people, they often say something like “it’s okay, this failure doesn’t define you and shouldn’t decrease your self worth etc etc”. But to be honest I feel like that’s not the problem I’m having at all. Realistically, it was not my lack of knowledge, intellect, or work ethic that ruined my grade in that class, it was circumstance. I was mentally ill, and trying to keep up with all of the work was only making it worse. To be mad at myself for that would be cruel and unreasonable.

I’m not blaming myself for being unable to pass at class when my mental health was close to the worse it has ever been, but I am so, so fucking angry at all of people and institutions who would not just fucking help me when I needed it. I’m mad at my old therapist who told me my problems didn’t seem that notable when I was struggling to get out of bed and feed myself every day. I’m mad at the university’s “student advocacy group” who couldn’t help me in any way that mattered because their main and possibly only priority was maintaining the administrative function of the university. Who told me at the start of the semester that I had to take one more class because I needed 9 more units to graduate (even though the units didn’t have to be in anyway related to my major) even though I was already burnt out and struggling. I’m mad at the professor for not showing me a kindness that I would’ve shown her. I underperformed in the class sure, but I don’t think preventing me from graduating was a proportional or appropriate consequence.

Now I’m in an awful and uncomfortable position. I’m like half moved in to an apartment with my partner, but with the full knowledge that I’ll probably have to be away from her for another 4 months (we’ve already done a year of long distance and I was ready to put that chapter behind me). My parents disagree about whether or not they are willing to pay for my final semester of college, and if they don’t pay then I simply can’t afford to go. By the time I knew I was going to need to take another semester, all of the college’s housing forms and such were already completed, so now I have no idea where I’m going to live (and furthermore I’m cut off from the community I’d fostered and grown comfortable with in my dorm). It is a goddamn mess.