#it’s such an easy and filling food perfect for college

[thefrogman]

Let's do a quick RFK Jr. themed debunk-a-thon.

First, your appearance is not an indication of health. People with terminal cancer can have six pack abs and overweight lifelong smokers have lived to be 100.

Second, physical fitness does not mean you have the knowledge and expertise of a doctor. A 70 year old with abs is probably on a boatload of steroids and actually increasing health risks. A doctor would probably say you shouldn't take steroids without some actual need beyond biceps you can brag about.

And the analogy of the personal trainer is faulty as well. There are plenty of people who are good at advising people without being able to do the thing they are giving advice for.

Athletic coaches are a great example.

A lot of the winningest NFL coaches were mediocre high school or college athletes. And their physique usually resembles that of Santa Claus.

But they get Super Bowl rings along with everyone else on the team.

Doctors are known for being the "worst patients." Many of them are so overworked that they turn to vices to help relieve their stress. They can overeat or smoke. They might be too tired to have any kind of fitness routine. My good friend Dr. Kevin has to wrangle three daughters while running a pediatric rheumatology department. He's the smartest person I've ever personally known and a fantastic doctor. But he will not be winning any bodybuilding contests.

RKF Jr. has a lot of money and time and access to personal trainers and nutritionists and human growth hormone. But sure, let's let him do some heart surgery and see how it goes.

Let's move on to some of his biggest concerns regarding our societal health...

Current evidence suggests…

Aspartame is bad for rats if you fill them with an obscene amount. And it *might* be bad for humans if you drink 15 cans of soda every day. (More nuance here.) Dosage matters! Remember, dihydrogen monoxide is poisonous if you are very motivated to make it so.

High fructose corn syrup is bad for you. Because sugar is bad for you. And they are functionally the same. Switching to cane sugar will not magically make people healthier. (More nuance here.)

A lot of processed foods are unhealthy. But probably not because they are processed. It just so happens that most processed foods are soft, easy to eat quickly, and they have a lot of fat, salt, or sugar, while being very calorie dense. They are often super tasty to the point of being psychologically addictive. That is a perfect storm of factors making processed foods very easy to overeat. The idea that the act of processing food causes some extraordinary harm outside of the ingredients already being unhealthy is most likely a myth. (More nuance here.)

Similarly, seed oils are not causing harm outside of them often being used to cook calorie dense food with a lot of fat, salt, or sugar.

Food dyes are safe in normal amounts. The concerning studies gave kids two colored drinks along with a shitload of candy every single day for two weeks. The problems went away when the amount was reduced to moderate levels. (More nuance here.)

Supplements are mostly an expensive way to fortify your pee with vitamins. You are literally pissing money away. You really only need to supplement something you are personally deficient in. Though if you can get those vitamins from food or sunshine, you will probably more effectively absorb them. I use supplements because my disability keeps me from being able to consistently cook or go outside. Just because something is "natural" does not mean it can replace actual medicine.

Organic food is not special and has become marketing hype.

GMOs are fine.

And finally…

VACCINES DO NOT CAUSE AUTISM.

Vaccines are safe and effective and they are probably the best thing humans have ever created. They have saved millions of lives. Many of those lives were CHILDREN. (More nuance here.)

The other problem is that RFK speaks definitively and bombastically. Food dyes give you ADHD. Seed oils explode your heart. Corn syrup makes your toes fall off. Processed foods make you a bloated zombie. Vaccines alter your DNA and turn you into a mutant.

It's fear mongering, plain and simple.

He is not interested in making anyone healthy, he just wants to scare you into believing his conspiracy theories. He uses the tiniest nugget of truth or suspicion and elevates it to fact whenever it helps his agenda.

Or he skips the nugget altogether and just blatantly makes shit up.

Because I have, ya know, ethics... I have to say "nuance here" because a lot of this stuff is very complicated and you can't actually say anything with 100% certainty. And that uncertainty is how he weasels his ideas into the public consciousness. When science updates our understanding of something, people say the science was wrong. "First they said this and now they say this!" Having better information is not a failure—it's progress. It is just the process working as it should. But they use that to hurt the reputation of science and scientists.

Scientific consensus is always just the best representation of our knowledge at any given point in time. We would never be able to eat any food or take any medicine if 100% certainty was required. We'd all starve and die because we weren't allowed to take even the most marginal of risks.

This is going to be a long 4 years.

[chaewberry]

japanese curry me beloved

[sukirichi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐘𝐄 | 𝐆. 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

In a world filled with too much cash and flashing lights, will a solemn and ironically private relationship of a celebrity chef and wealthy socialite branded as star crossed lovers remain full of adoration and sincerity?

cw. fem! reader. celebrity chef! reader. gojo is insanely rich. angst. unedited. suggestive (they make out and is implied to sleep together, but no explicit scenes are shown.) hurt with a little bit of comfort.

notes. i can’t explain it but there’s just something about this fic i’m not completely satisfied with... i feel like i could’ve written it better LOL but also i just wanted to write something casual

wc. 17k

divider from saradika-graphics <3

Contrary to what people may say, Satoru knows he’s worked hard to get where he is.

The silent yet sharp-tongued man whose mere sound of his shoes stepping in the hallway sent his employees rushing inside their cubicles with fear. Belonging to the top tier of society as a result of being born wealthy and powerful, his name was enough to have people’s knees quivering of what the young heir was capable of.

He had the world at the mercy of his hands.

His icy blue eyes were empty, cold, and relentless – a stark contrast to his angelic features that fooled people. With his face pasted on almost every magazine, and companies vying for his attention left and right, journalists begging for a five minute interview, it was no brainer the importance of Gojo Satoru. And with his looks that had every man and woman stumbling before his very feet, the line between angel and devil blurred thinner.

You see, being born a God in front of everyone’s eyes was not as easy as it seemed. Tabloids always spread fake rumors claiming the young heir did not deserve to handle his family’s group of companies due to the fact he didn’t even graduate college. Or that was too scandalous for his own good to keep up a good reputation. As someone who holds major stockholders in the mercy of his will, everyone expected better.

Satoru scoffed at it all. To him, those were nothing but measly words.

He was the Gojo Satoru. He could do whatever he wanted, however he pleased, and all the world could do about it was complain. Such rumors (albeit ringing with truth) did not affect his life whatsoever.

Still, it doesn’t come as a surprise to him how uncultured people preferred other companies to be on top of the food chain – like Zen’in Corp, or Kamo Inc. They had far better reputations (ha, Satoru thought sarcastically), and were more well-liked by Japan. Satoru knows better though. No one is truly kind when they had enough wealth to claim the world as their own. Naoya Zen’in’s smile was as natural as his blonde streaks, and Noritoshi Kamo wasn’t even the company’s real heir. The latter was a bastard, and the former an attention seeker.

At least Satoru was honest and did not put on any facades of being a good man. He knew he was not.

The other men were greedy, always ready to pounce at every opportunity to have another digit added to their bank account, their expensive colognes successfully hiding the stench of their evil nature and their perfectly chiseled features resembling those of a seductive demon’s. Satoru was not surprised that he was born in a castle that resembled hell. Though it does not bother him anymore, he used to be saddened by the fact that he had been close with them in his youth. They spent their days spent chasing each other in the garden and pulling the trigger of water guns mercilessly, but all that was forgotten when each of them were groomed into perfection, just waiting to see who would take over the throne and who would end up as subordinates.

A battle which Satoru won without breaking a sweat.

And just like that, friendships dissolved. Men who he once called his comrades became his rivals in the industry.

Being the eldest of the three, their blood boiled when the official announcement came: Gojo Satoru had officially been stated as the new president of the Gojo Group of Companies.

It was not an easy competition. The bond between friends were soon replaced with greed and hatred for each other. Both Naoya and Noritoshi were ready to rip him apart at every mistake he made, but they did not know how fortunate they were. While they spent weekends overseas in cruise ships with flutes of champagne delicately nestled between their fingers, fucking every pair of tits with walking legs, Satoru locked himself in an office at the young age of eighteen. Whilst everyone savored the flavor of youth, he was forced to make the wisest decisions when it came to business. And little by little piece, his humanity had shattered until it was destroyed completely.

Gone was the cheerful boy who always spent too much time playing with his dogs and not minding that his latest Gucci pyjamas had been stained with grass. In fact, he did not even remember that side of him existed at all.

That at one point in his life, he’d been a normal boy with a normal childhood – before the weight of the world wore him down.

Glancing sideways at his security team, the head guard, Toji, nodded and commanded something through his radio. All the guards dispersed and made way for him. In a matter of a minute, the employees who were walking aimlessly in his hallway had scrambled in their offices. Sighing tiredly, Satoru rolled his eyes. Toji opened the doors for him as he stepped out, the dull, gray exterior of the spacious room feeling like home more than anything else.

His secretary, Mei-Mei, bowed politely at him and handed him his caffė macchiato. His fingers reached for the cup before facing the glass walls. Beneath him, the entirety of Tokyo lay pulsing at his feet. With one scoop of his hands and a simple word uttered through his lips, he knew he could take everything. And he could if he wanted to, but such was the dilemma of having everything.

Satoru Gojo desired for nothing at all.

“This,” his father once said at the twelve year old him, his hand sweeping from the exact same place he stood in. “will all be yours soon, my son. You have the world in the mercy of your hands.”

The hot beverage burned his tongue. He reeled back, biting at his tongue in the process of soothing it as he listened to Mei-Mei list his agenda for today. He had just gotten home from Beijing less than an hour ago, and he couldn’t even sleep on the flight because he was swarmed with paperwork and a hundred more proposals to accept. Yet the exhaustion does not show on his face. In fact, there was a not a trace of it. His face remained blemish free and healthy thanks to the dermatologists who always gave him free treatments in exchange of endorsing them – which he never did.

Raising his chin high, he peeked past his shoulder to look at Mei-Mei, who had her tablet tucked in her armpit, silently awaiting his response. “Alert the Board of an emergency meeting within ten minutes, and I want Mr. Ijichi to bring me the real sales report regarding the Wangguo Resort for the past five months.”

Mei-Mei’s gasp is barely audible. Satoru knew his request was absurd, but it was her job to do everything he told her to. If she didn’t, well, the answer was clear as day. She could say goodbye to her lovely job.

Turning his back to her, Satoru scanned his nails lazily. He needn’t worry about anything. He knew Mei-Mei would always do what was needed at the price. But – his eyes narrowed – he was in desperate need of another manicure. Hours spent typing and calculating sales had chipped them, and he had to keep his appearance of a perfect man who had his life together. After all, he was Satoru Gojo – the flawless one. The god walking amongst humans. He could never quite tell when there were cameras ready to catch him off-guard, but he’d never risk that chance.

He had to be without fault.

“An emergency meeting?” Mei-Mei stumbled over her words, chuckling nervously as she swiped at her tablet, looking for a reason as to why he would ask her to do such a thing. Satoru nodded, fully aware that most of the members on the Board were in different provinces out to do their job, but he was the most powerful person in that building.

Nothing was impossible for him. His wishes were the law.

“What for, Sir?”

He slapped a red envelope with a golden seal down his desk, eyes forming into slits. Mei-Mei cowered under his gaze. “When I went to Beijing to check the status of our hotel, I found out that there had been issues regarding maintenance and plumbing reported for five months now, and no one told me about it? I run a five star hotel that exceeds the expectations of even royals, and I won’t forgive this treachery. According to the hotel staff, their supervisor had told them to keep the complaints confidential because they didn’t want me to know there’d been issues in the first place.”

Though he spoke smoothly and did not even stutter or waver the least bit, Mei-Mei had known him long enough to know that even the slightest twitch from his eyes meant he was furious.

This wasn’t the first time your brothers had tried to take whatever was yours in their possession, but the sales report of that hotel had been forged and the Board was aware, yet they did not inform you in fear of what your brother could have done to them.

This wasn’t the first time his staff had kept secrets from him. They all piled up until it became too big to ignore, and then Satoru had to step in. Seriously. Was he a joke to them?

“No, I take it back,” he said suddenly, plastering on a fake smile at his oblivious assistant who tried her best to conceal her relief. After all, Mei-Mei too had been tired with the amount of workload he gave her, but if she wanted remain as a woman with deep pockets, she just had to turn his wishes into reality. “Fire all members of the Board, and blacklist them. Make sure no local or foreign company will ever hire them, but because I am a man of mercy, they can still be hired as waiters or janitors.”

Mei-Mei’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and it looked so comical Satoru would’ve laughed if he knew how to.

Instead, he smoothened out invisible creases from his three piece suit before sitting down, the harsh yet familiar blue light of his Mac desktop greeting him. His fingers skirted along the keyboard in the speed of light, and from his calm state, you would have guessed nothing happened, but this could be his downfall.

He’d always been warned to keep his temper in check, to think things through before coming to a final decision, but why would he?

If his own people would not respect him, then he wasn’t required to return the gesture. After all, he didn’t need them as much as they needed him. He could easily replace the figures making up the Board. But he was the president, the man who made those lazy, fat fucks rich. They had gotten too comfortable with their positions, and he needed to show them that he still held their lives on the line.

That ought to teach them a lesson.

“Sir, please reconsider this and don’t make decisions compulsively. The Board plays a big role in our company–”

“Tell me, Mei-Mei, is a King only considered a king when he has people to serve him?”

She falters for a bit, her eyes watching him cautiously. Satoru leant forward the slightest bit, the black glasses framing his face in a way he looked almost innocent. But the coldness of his eyes were enough of a telltale that he was not someone to be messed with. Aggravation and mirth danced in them almost mockingly. He could read her perfectly – this secretary of his. He’s not stupid; he knows she hates him. And why wouldn’t she? No one liked Gojo Satoru. He was mean, ruthless, and invalidated everyone who he deemed ‘lower’ than him. And yet, he hadn’t met a single person to prove him wrong.

The truth is that no one was as capable of doing things the way Satoru did.

He was the smartest person she’d ever met to the point it was frightening. Satoru always had a solution to whatever situation, with countless of secrets and tricks hidden under his sleeve. And he wasn’t as awful as everyone said he was. Yes, he was ruthless, that much Mei-Mei could admit, but only to everyone who deserved it.

Anyone who didn’t do their job right, or abused their power wouldn’t escape Gojo Satoru’s wrath. Call him a demon, or the devil’s son, but Mei-Mei saw him more of a judge who brought justice and punishment to those who did wrong.

Satoru leant back against his chair, satisfied with her answer before dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “A king remains powerful when his kingdom is omnipotent. I’m glad you understand that now,” he said, head snapping up as he remembered something. “Oh, and don’t forget to schedule a dinner with the others tonight at that new restaurant everyone has been crazing about.”

Mei-Mei nods, pressing ‘cancel’ to the rest of his agenda for the night. She made a mental note to call the restaurant ahead of time to tell them to reserve the place all for Mr. Gojo. Taking one last look at him, Mei-Mei realizes that if she wants to keep working with the devil, she had to stay on their good side.

“I’m not doing it.”

“Boss,” Yuuji whines, pouting as he holds your hands and shakes them in an attempt to make you reconsider. You merely scoff, freeing yourself from the younger one’s grip with a glare. “They said they’ll pay us handsomely if we reserve the whole restaurant for just the night, and I’m afraid we’ll close down if we don’t do what they tell us to. It’s not just anyone, you know. It’s the Gojo Satoru.”

You looked at him disapprovingly before resuming your task of cutting vegetables. “Our shop won’t close,” you reply confidently, “We only take reservations per table, not for the whole restaurant. They should eat somewhere else, I don’t care about the money.”

Of course you knew who Gojo Satoru was – everyone did. It was kind of hard not to know the guy when the entirety of Japan had been in love with him from the moment he was born. That wasn’t an exaggeration, either, because people actually had photos of the heir from when he was still a baby. ‘Such a beautiful boy,’ they cooed upon the sight of his stark-white hair. And when he finally opened his eyes, it was done for – the young Gojo Satoru had everyone wrapped around his finger before he even babbled his first words. So yes, you knew perfectly well who he was, and that was exactly why you didn’t like him.

For such a popular man, his reputation was anything but good.

You didn’t want him anywhere near you, or the restaurant you shed blood, sweat, and tears to build.

You were the newest celebrity chef the world crazed over. Not only were your dishes to die for, but your looks caught the crowd’s attention, too. Pair your introverted, awkward personality with your endless charm shown in your dishes, you quickly rose to fame. Tabloids and magazines alike starved to get a taste of your dishes – a glimpse of you, even. With the latest opening of your new restaurant in the city, people have been coming in endlessly, wanting to see the infamous chef for themselves behind the kitchen.

Yeah, you wouldn’t let that happen.

Unfortunately for the media, you would rather hide behind the kitchen doors than have to go through another dreadful interview. Apart from a few pictures taken by the paparazzi and endless praises from your customers in your skills in cooking, you remained a mystery – something you’d prefer to keep.

Having Gojo Satoru and his ‘peers’ over would completely ruin that.

As much as you loved your career, knowing you made money doing what you loved, you detested the attention it came with being associated with the rich. One day, you were elbow-deep in your dishes, and then you were suddenly being invited to the most pretentious social events. Wealthy people roamed around, content with making the price tags of their clothes their personalities. You didn’t mind at first. It was exhilarating, even, to be thrown into a world so different from the one you were born into. But after one gathering where three wealthy men offered to hire you as their personal chef, and promised extra pay for ‘special services’, you left that world behind.

You swore not to be involved with the socialites anymore, even if it meant more success for your future. You cared less about the money anyway – you were confident in your skills enough to know you could pave your way with your own hands. You would never accept money from their deep, dirty pockets.

 “Boss, you need to see this!” Yuuji whispered harshly, tugging you by the apron. You grumbled upon being separated from your chopping board, but his words fell on deaf ears as you both watched the customers clamor in excitement, phones being pulled out of their pockets. Soon enough, your restaurant drowned with flashing lights, and an equally blinding smile from the tall man who entered, his cheeks flushed from all the attention. “Holy shit. He looks even hotter in person.”

Thankful that you had your contacts on, you could see the scene before you clearly.

The people rose from their seats, eager to have a picture taken with Japan’s most beloved. His security team immediately formed a protective circle around him when the people clamored, the Gojo heir apologizing because he didn’t allow pictures. He claimed tonight was a special night, and he merely wanted to have a private dinner with his childhood friends.

Oh, fucking great. He’s bringing others here, too?

As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, two, black and sleek cars pulled up into the driveway. Naoya Zen’in stepped out of the car, shades propped on his tall nose as he smirked at the cameras already being flashed his way. From the other car appeared Noritoshi Kamo, his lips pressed into thin lines while blatantly ignoring the chaos ensued from their mere presence.

Your eye twitched. You could feel a migraine coming already.

To say you feel enraged would be an understatement. You pushed past your crew with a stormy expression, prepared to tell these stuck-up elites to go visit another restaurant. Was it really that hard to give you peace? You never accepted their reservation to begin with. However, you didn’t make it very far when you felt a strong hand grasp your arm.

“Boss, please hold yourself back, it’s just a dinner they’re asking for. If you intervene now, this could cause a public commotion,” Yuuji glances at the three men from the corner of his eye before warning you, “They’re not people you can mess with.”

Soon enough, his former customers had dispersed out peacefully with the assistance of the family’s security team, and he grits his teeth in an attempt to contain his anger for pretentious people like them, watching as they occupied an empty table. One of the waiters approached them nervously, three menus in her hands and she’s about to hand them out when the eldest looking one spoke irritatingly.

You huffed. You hated how he was right. Successful, you may be, but you could never come close to their level of power and wealth.

With an apologetic smile from Satoru – who made four women faint from the sight – your previous customers dispersed with the assistance of Satoru’s security team. You gritted your teeth in an attempt to contain your anger. They were so pretentious! Naoya, especially, flicking two of his fingers at your waiter as a signal to clean up the table he wanted. Scurrying on his heels, your staff nervously approached them while the others cleaned up in the speed of light, and handing them the menu’s with shaky hands.

Noritoshi nodded once at the waiter who approached him, while Satoru paid them no mind as he flicked through the pages. Meanwhile, Naoya clutched the wrist of the waitress who’d handed him his menu, brushing his lips against her knuckles.

You watched as your waitress froze. You were about to push his hand away from her when Satoru beat you to it, his voice icy and his words cutting like a knife. “Can never keep your hands to yourself, huh, Zen’in? With the amount of women visiting your estate, I’d have figured you would know enough to never touch a woman without her permission.”

Naoya scowled, immediately dropping your waitress’ hands before plastering another smirk. “No need to be a killjoy, Satoru. But anyways, what’s the reason for calling us out of the blue? You know well enough I had matters to take care of in Kobe.”

Satoru doesn’t lift his gaze from the menu. “Actually, I don’t know that. I could care less about your schedule. But I figured I haven’t seen my dear old friends in a while and thought a meal would be nice.”

Noritoshi spoke up, and Yuuji whispers to your ear on how he was one of the most popular models in the industry, and third to to them in the top bachelors of the decade. “Cut to the chase, we don’t have enough time.”

“Calm down, why are you in such a hurry? Let’s order first shall we?” You plaster on a disgustingly forced smile, taking the tablet Yuuji hands you as you gravitated towards Satoru. Stupid bastard – he doesn’t even look your way. “We’ll take the Spicy Uni-Lardo Sushi in Lettuce Cups and Foei Gras-Steamed Clams.”

He listed a few more – the most expensive meals on the menu, too – and you jotted them all down with steady hands. Although the restaurant was eerily silent, you could feel the crew’s eyes watching over you from the kitchen like a hawk.

“Will that be all, Sir?”

Satoru hums, waving his hand in the air. “You’re dismissed. Now leave us.”

Your jaw dropped. This little – Yuuji snatched you back into the kitchen, but you’ll be damned if you didn’t defend your honor. Handing their orders to the other chefs so they could get started, you leant against the kitchen doors and peered out from the cracks to eavesdrop.

“Because I treasure my dear friends so much, I won’t waste your time any longer and get to the matters at hand. Naoya, let’s talk about the chain resort in the Wannguo branch, and Noritoshi, here is your lawsuit for fabricating my sales report that’ll land you a free six year vacation in jail.” A white haired woman appeared out of nowhere, pulling out a black envelope with bold letters reading ‘LAWSUIT.’ Satoru swiftly picked it and slid it towards the raven haired man’s way.

Noritoshi gaped at Satoru, “What’s the meaning of this, Satoru?”

“I should be asking you that. Isn’t it not enough for you I collaborated on this project with you? Are you that intent on kicking me out of my own company you’re sabotaging your responsibilities and lounging around in London?”

Deep down, you knew you shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But this was the type of drama you saw only in dramas, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from them even if you tried.

Upon looking behind you, you saw your crew had paused in their work, too, intent on watching the drama unfold before your eyes. The Gojo Clan were practically royals in the country, always portrayed as indomitable and powerful beyond belief. It seemed hard to believe there were things that got under Gojo Satoru’s nerve, with his friends, no less. Sure, you’d heard Naoya scamming people here and there, along with rumors of Noritoshi abandoning his work in pursuit of pleasure.

And, regrettably, you assumed Satoru wouldn’t be any different than them. Now, you were getting a front seat view of what truly transpired beyond the surface.

Gesturing for your crew to go back to work, they all grumbled but obediently followed anyway. You took your attention off them and glanced back at Satoru, taken aback at the sight of pure irritation for his company – and if you looked a little closer, hurt pooled around those captivating eyes of his.

Perhaps he was human like you after all, and while he didn’t exactly give you a good first impression, you were decent enough to respect this was not something you could keep on wathcing. Resuming your work, you began to heat up the pans, their voices distant yet clear.

“Jail? Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t belong in a place like that!” Noritoshi, the younger one, shouted with an appalled expression, his hands slamming against the table as he sent an almost pleading look at Satoru.

“Then you shouldn’t have fabricated my documents to begin with.”

“Be careful, Satoru,” Naoya warned with a harsh whisper, “We were born with the eyes of the world around us, one wrong move and I’ll have the media ruin your tarnished reputation even more. You may be the richest amongst us three, but don’t think you’re invincible.”

“You asshole,” Noritoshi retorted, thin lips forming into a sneer. “If you were going to file a lawsuit against me, you couldn’t have done it privately? Don’t belittle us, one bad review of this restaurant and this place will burn down to pieces, and I’ll make sure you go along with it.”

Satoru’s melodious laughter made you all pause. “A death threat, how funny! You both truly are so sweet, but let me warn you that I have the press eagerly waiting for my signal, so act on your best behavior and pretend we’re having a hearty meal together,” In a matter of minutes, you interrupted by showing up with their food. Satoru’s eyes lit up as he clapped his hands in faux enthusiasm. “Oh, the food’s here, eat up! My treat tonight since you’ll all be losing your money anyway.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see Noritoshi glaring at his plate. Satoru had ordered you to serve him the seafood, and judging by Noritishi paling at the sight of it, he must’ve been allergic. Jesus. If he faints, or worse, dies at your restaurant tonight, it’d be completely pinned on you. You didn’t even do anything to be involved, and yet it seemed as if Satoru was dragging you down with him. Nevertheless, Noritoshi picked up his utensils. The scratching of silver knives against the plate filled the room, accompanied by the soft, jazz music that gave off a false, comfortable atmosphere.

Oh, but it was anything but that.

The tension was so thick in the air you found it hard to breathe. Satoru was like a ticking time bomb, Noritoshi was a few mouthfuls away from turning completely red in the face, and Naoya hadn’t stopped ordering refills of his wine.

Satoru dabbed at his mouth carefully with a napkin. What a shame, he thought. You had such a lovely restaurant, and your food was to die for. He would’ve enjoyed it if it hadn’t been for his so-called friends sabotaging his career.

“Here’s the deal – no, I do not need to make deals with my subordinates – here is what’s going to happen and listen carefully because I won’t repeat it again. Naoya, as from this hour, you are relieved of your duties as supervisor of our resort, but you’re free to have my vacation home there as compensation. As for you, Noritoshi, I’ll burn this lawsuit and forget your crime if you promise not to let even your name be spoken for the whole year. In other words: get out of my sight. Am I making myself clear?”

“How dare you do this to me?!”

“Sit down, Naoya, you wouldn’t want your pretty face to be ruined with that frown. Are we done here, boys?” Satoru enjoyed it, he really did.

To see two powerful crumble before him made him feel things he couldn’t quite put into his words. Entertaining, he called it, to know he was capable of cracking their tough personas. It made him wonder how many more buttons of theirs he could push before he destroyed them completely.

“Yes.” Noritoshi nodded with an almost pained choke, and Satoru leant back triumphantly. Because he was a model and sometimes an actor if he wished, he was more exposed to the media and cared more about his image more than Naoya did, thus making the former easier to manipulate and kneel down to his whim.

Satoru smiled, pleased. “Then you may go. Noritoshi, I’m keeping your car keys under my possession for the meantime, but my chauffeur will gladly chaperone you everywhere as long as I deem it necessary. And Naoya, I already sent my apologies to your escort, she’s as good as a stranger so you don’t have to worry about the press exposing your disgusting behavior.”

The latter looks up from his empty plate with wide, questioning eyes as if to ask how he knew about that, but he had never been a good liar. Satoru knew him well enough that he never took care of business matters and instead spent his days wasting the precious money his family had worked for just to pay the most ‘prestigious’ of escorts. He had a disgusting personality to ever make a woman land willingly in his bed, which is why he resorted to throwing his money just to have someone beautiful in his arms to flaunt off in social events, or warm his bed.

Though not in his line of sight, Satoru knew his bodyguard was watching. He stood up with grace, slapping a wad of cash down the table as a signal of his business finally dealt with. You expected him to leave the restaurant when he surprised you by heading your way. Eyes wide, your hands reached out to feel the doors when Yuuji subtly pushed you towards Satoru.

Oh, dear heavens. Yuuji was right.

The magazines and pictures of him didn’t do him any justice. He was absolutely breathtaking now that he was before you, his cold eyes now holding the tiniest bit of warmth as he regarded you. Back facing the other men, Satoru lowered his head. You stood there with baited breath, your heart pounding in your chest as his lips brushed over your ear. He was close enough that his expensive perfume wafted over you, and you could touch the ripples of his muscles bunching up against his baby blue shirt if you were brave enough to reach out.

“Thank you for the wonderful meal. I haven’t had a proper one since I was a teenager, and please don’t worry about what happened today, you won’t be involved in our personal matters. In exchange for your service, I will pay you generously.”

Satoru took a step back, and you stood there, muted and dumbfounded. You hadn’t expected he’d speak so softly to you when his words were harsh towards his ‘friends.’ And as if realizing the effect he had on you, a smirk ghosted at the edges of his lips. “Mei-Mei.”

Flashing you the best smile he could muster, he extended his hand to the side as his assistant pulled out a cheque. Satoru signed it without taking his eyes off you. He slid it your way, your eyes bulging out when you saw the ridiculous amount of zeroes he’d written on it. Instead of feeling pleased, irritation sparked in your veins.

You pushed his cheque back to his chest. And yes – your theory was proven correct – his muscles were hard and firm underneath that silk shirt. “I don’t need your money.”

You liked to think you had the upper hand when Satoru’s eyes widened by a mere fraction. It must’ve felt like a slap to his face, having someone refuse his money for the first time. But just as it came, the surprise vanished from his handsome face, slowly replaced by a teasing smile. Satoru leaned forward once more, bullying his way into your personal space until you were left with no choice but to share the same breaths of air.

He smelled like leather, wine, and something intoxicating that dared you to have a taste. Just one small taste, even if it meant possibly becoming addicted.

“Uptight and feisty, just how I like it,” chuckling to himself, Satoru draped his discarded suit jacket over his shoulders and sauntered out the door. “Expect me again, Chef. This won’t be the last time we’ll see each other.”

You prided yourself for being someone in control of their emotions.

Yet, you’re overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of customers waiting in line as they all snap pictures and chatter excitedly among themselves. You frown when Yuuji barges into your office without knocking (a habit that you’ve told him to change, but he never seems to listen) and almost shoves a tablet in your face as he struggled to keep himself on his own toes.

“Boss, you should read this, it’s insane!”

“Gojo approved restaurant of celebrity chef, now a five star restaurant in Tokyo!” You read the headline monotonously, Satoru’s handsome face from that night pasted on the article and waving at the camera. You could almost hear his light, breathy voice telling him that one way or another, he would find a way to pay you. You can’t help but scowl, because out of all things, he decides to pay you with publicity and unnecessary attention.

“‘Members of royal families and prominent leaders from all around the world have been rumored to pay a visit to either one of the five branches of the new rising celebrity chef’s restaurant. Another hit for the Chef!’”

“Isn’t it great, boss?” the overly jovial noy giggled, and you try not to wallow in embarrassment. “That’s not all, watch this video, it was released last week.”

Yuuji clicked on a video clip, and you lean forward, ears intently focused on the footage. You’re not surprised to see Satoru walking down a familiar road inside one of the most well-protected villages. Adorned in a white fur coat with black slacks that hugged his legs perfectly, he approaches the horde of reporters waiting outside the gates with a polite smile. He waves at the flashing lights, careful to show off his Patek Philippe 5004T wristwatch.

Tch. Showy bastard.

“We saw you at The Green Garden last month enjoying a dinner with Naoya Zen’in and Noritoshi Kamo. Tell us, how was the food there?” A report asked, about to shove her microphone in his face that was blocked by his ridiculously muscled bodyguard.

Jeez, you thought, did that guy take steroids for breakfast or something?

“Oh, I don’t have enough words for it,” he purred, and you hold your breath for his next words. You’re a little surprised at how his breathy voice managed to sound commanding and husky at the same time. “When I walked in, the aroma was just mouthwatering, and don’t get me started on the meal itself. It was absolutely delectable, all the flavors practically melt in my mouth, and I don’t think I’ve ever spoiled my taste buds this much.”

Your brows shoot up. Did he mean what he said? People like him rarely spoke the truth – everything was a show for them. He would say whatever appeased the public, and you weren’t sure if he even had the time to enjoy your food considering he was stuck in… quite the predicament. Still, you don’t pause the video, barely hanging at the edge of your seat as you listen.

“I did hear the food there was good, especially since the Chef is quite gaining some popularity over the last few months,” another reporter stated, and soon they were all nodding their heads approvingly. “Still, you’re someone who has probably tasted something better. Would you recommend the Chef’s dishes?”

Satoru smiles, letting his bangs frame his handsome face as he stares right at the camera. You feel your breath get caught in your throat, solely because it felt like he was looking at you. Once again, you’re more captivated by the shine in his eyes, rather than the blinding light of his mischievous smile.

“Of course,” he smirked, “It would be a sin not to have a taste of her.”

Yuuji chokes on his own laughter beside you. He starts shaking you by the shoulders, completely unaware that you’re a goner by now. Everything the younger man says falls on deaf ears. You find yourself too immersed in the video clip, that teasing smirk on his face disappearing as th crowd pushed further and further. His guard steps forward just as Satoru flicks his hair to the side – an action that would’ve been condescending on most, but somehow looked elegant on him – and retreats back to his Audi. Not just any Audi either, but an e-Tron 2010 Spyder Concept.

Meanwhile, you can’t pick what could be hotter – that a man like him had the ability to make your usual indifferent self flustered, or that he drove a classic car instead of a brand-new one.

You shoot up from your seat, eyes narrowed and chest puffed with determination. “I need to go grocery shopping!”

It’s not rare that you went shopping by yourself. Yuuji usually accompanies you to complete the task faster, but you preferred to be alone today to take your time picking only the best ingredients. Not because you wanted to impress a certain millionaire, of course. Or was he a billionaire? You forgot, but he was definitely Japan’s darling, and one word of praise from him now had several bookings sent your way. He’d placed a standard, one you had to live up to.

You had three branches in the entirety of Tokyo, one more in Paris, and another in the Netherlands – the last branch you opened after you fell in love there during your last visit. The country enthralled you with its mesmerizing simplicity and beauty. It felt like a dreamland there, with everything from farm to table, and everyone adored the dishes you came up with. Once you’ve saved up enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life, you planned to live there – to spend the rest of your life in serendipity and contentment – hopefully next to your future husband.

Ever since you received the news (albeit without, the amount of people lining up at your restaurant was a clear tell-tale your sales had been skyrocketing), you admitted you felt pressured. You needed a variety of  ingredients to experiment with, and hopefully add to your menu – something that both common folk and socialites could enjoy. After all, your main goal was to provide a wondrous magic in the form of a plate that was both simple yet luxurious enough to enjoyed as a treat to oneself.

Crossing off the carrot from your grocery list, you keeps pushing your cart through the spacious area. Your attention is divided between reading your to-buy list to surfing through each aisle. There was always a hidden gem if you looked hard enough, and that’s what you needed. A wild card of sorts, a completely never-seen before ingredient used in a new dish.

You’re so immersed with the task at hand you fail to hear the sound of footsteps nearing. Reaching for a bottle of wine (you cringed at the price), another arm shoots forward to reach for it at the same time. You pull back, the skin contact almost scalding to you. You open your mouth to apologize, only to have the words die in your throat when you come face-to-face with him.

Satoru was no less than tall and mighty, his cerulean eyes hidden behind black-tinted glasses. You can’t help but run your gaze over his figure – he’s now dressed in a white button-up shirt tucked in his dark blue jeans. Simple enough, yet you knew the price tags of his clothes would be enough to have you faint.

“Hello.”

“Hello to you too,” he grinned, firmly clasping the wine in his hands. He twists it around, analyzing its content before he hums to himself, pleased. “Great choice of liquor. I highly recommend this.”

The words stumble out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“I had no idea you went grocery shopping– I mean, why would you? You probably have others doing it for you and this is just another pointless, boring task–”

Satoru’s laughter is enough to make you shut up. Yep, okay, you totally screwed it up now. You scold yourself for a split second for being so awkward and not greeting him properly. But then irritation creeps in because you know Satoru isn’t different from the others. You should feel thankful for the publicity, yes, because Satoru’s singlehandedly made you skyrocket into popularity, but your pride told you that you don’t owe him anything. However, all rational thoughts fly out the window when you find yourself joining in his laughter – actually smiling – that you have to physically stop yourself from doing so again.

What the fuck?

You don’t smile. You don’t laugh. Everyone’s called you unpleasant and you take that with your chin held high. Yet somehow… you can’t help it when you’re in his presence.

Satoru tips his head to the side, and you forcibly look away with a clear of your throat. “I’m not shopping,” he says, “I was going to ask you what you’re doing here, but then again, no one goes to the grocery but to shop, right? And you’re a chef, so it’d be a rhetorical question.”

You nod slowly, unsure of what he’s getting at. He still keeps a firm grip on the bottle before he hands it over, making sure to brush his skin over yours in the process. You fight back the urge to shiver. “1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru, a vintage wine whose price was boosted for a post-world war appeal. Only a few hundred bottles are produced annually, and while not exactly scarce, it’s a rare piece.”

You scans the bottle in astonishment, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as you debate whether to buy it or not. A second glance at the price tag and you place it back without hesitation, not caring even if you could afford it, because there was no way on earth you were buying a five thousand dollar drink no matter how good it tasted.

“I take it that it’s not to your liking?”

“I don’t. I’m not much of a drinker anyway,” you reply honestly, mustering all your courage to face him. “If not to shop, then may I ask what you’re doing here?” You look behind him to see if his secretary or guard was around, but he seemed to be alone. As observant as ever, Satoru answers your unspoken questions without missing a beat.

“I’m here for business. This place is mine, and I came here to assess its monthly status.”

You look down at your cart, suddenly feeling small and shy as you mutter, “Of course you own this place.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks innocently, and you stumble over your words, your thumb circling your pointer finger nervously.

“I mean,” you start, pointing to the entirety of the brightly lit store that was almost the size of a concert arena. “This is a private membership grocery shop, and only people who are willing to pay a lot can go here. You’ve got many products here that aren’t available anywhere else, and it only makes sense it would be owned by the Gojo Family.”

“Owned by me, actually. This place was built when I took over, the idea entirely mine,” he corrects you and moves past, looking back with a confused expression when you don’t follow. “Well, aren’t you going shopping? Let me help you with it.”

You don’t know why you agree at his offer to help, but you don’t regret a single moment of talking to him. Satoru is stiff and rigid to his core, unlike his ‘friends’, but he was surprisingly a great conversationalist, and silences with him weren’t painfully awkward. He was also a lot smarter than he made himself out to be, but then again, you supposed one had to be intelligent to take over a group of companies at such a young age. And when he tells you deeply regrets not being able to fully appreciate your meals because he had ‘matters to deal with’, you can’t help the light fluttering of your chest that comes with it.

It starts out as slow burn, with a warmth barely felt if you didn’t focus enough. You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started to see him in a different light. In that moment, Satoru suddenly seemed small and almost vulnerable in your sight. Almost human. You can’t help but notice that he has his eyes glued to his feet – not because he’s uncomfortable with eye contact – making sure to not step over the dark lines from the white tiles. He was like a child going through an obstacle race, skipping at one point to another as he talks, and you stood there, wondering – just how much did this young man lose when he had to gain the world?

Through the eyes of the world, he was someone who had it all.

Born in a wealthy family with ancestors who never knew what the word ‘rent’ meant, and simultaneously blessed with good looks, you even remember a few articles written about him. How everyone was in awe and praising him for being a genius, but you believed everything came with a price – even the grandest of blessings.

You could only imagine what he must’ve been through. To be deprived of a normal childhood in exchange of a life of luxury, instead of being able to play under the rain. You could see him locked inside his father’s office, going through financial statements and attending board meetings at the age of sixteen. Meanwhile, you played at the cornfields with kids your age during that time, enjoying your youth and chasing after your passion.

But Satoru? He was constantly judged by the public for a single mistake, thus turning him into a make believe version of perfection.

Due to his lack of knowledge with cooking, he wasn’t of much help when it came to shopping. He was splendid company, however, and you felt soothed by his presence and his expensive perfume. It’s a scent you welcomed wholeheartedly, and so you find yourself asking him if he’d like to have dinner with you – at your restaurant – on a Friday night. When he doesn’t respond right away, you make up a lame excuse that you’re only giving him opportunities to look at the place much better than last time.

It makes Satoru stop in his tracks. You start to take back your invitation at his lack of a response when Satoru suddenly takes your hand in his, his eyes widening at how perfectly they seemed to fit (no matter how cliché that sounded.) He takes in the way your hands were rough and calloused from your labor, how it was a sign of all your hard work. Growing shy, you begin to pull back, but he keeps you in place – unconsciously squeezing your hand tighter.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes,” he smiles – and this time, it isn’t meant for the cameras. He’s not flamboyantly flashing his pearly whites, or trying to look perfect. It’s just him, with a small, shy smile meant only for your eyes to see. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Okay,” you repeat, smiling shyly before finally – finally – squeezing his hand back.

You tug at your champagne dress uncomfortably. It might’ve been a little too tight for your liking, but Yuuji insisted it was the dress, and no dress would be better for tonight’s dinner. The strapless dress hugged your figure elegantly, the material flowing smoothly as it extends past your knees. Pairing it with some kitten hells, you were confident you cleaned up well – aside from the problem at hand that you couldn’t breathe. You weren’t sure if the dress was too tight, or you were simply too nervous.

You’d closed up the restaurant early in hopes of having some privacy, even going as far to close the velvety black curtains to hide yourselves from prying eyes. But with every minute that passed by, the special dish you’d prepared with your mother’s secret recipe grew cold. Not a single notification beeped from your phone. Not a text, or a call – not even from his secretary. Nothing but pure silence on his side.

Standing up with a grim expression, you pinch the candle to kill the flame.

What were you even thinking? Did you really think someone as untouchable like Gojo Satoru actually wanted to go on a date with you?

You looked around the restaurant that held a special spot in your heart. It might not be up to his standards, but it meant the world you. It was a product of your hard work and passion. This career enabled you to design it yourself, to build it from the ground up. You’ve decorated it solely to impress Satoru for tonight – with golden chandeliers hanging in a waterfall and teardrop patterns, the tables equipped with satin napkins and silverware polished to perfection. All that effort just went down the drain.

Your eyes fall to your wristwatch. Your father leant it to you before you moved to the city to follow his dreams, saying “Keep this, my sweet daughter. Time passes by so fast in the city and I don’t want you to lose a single second of your life. People will always pass by in a hurried blur, or not come at all.”

Isn’t that what you were doing right now, waiting for someone that might never come at all? He was right. You didn’t need to wait around. Satoru had his own life, he belonged to the city and its fast-paced rambunctiousness. You weren’t like him, you reminded yourself. You and him lived in completely opposite worlds.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, you sigh and start to pick up the untouched dishes.

Gojo Satoru was a man who lived and breathed along with the city, the erratic pulse of the city lights resembling the skip in his steps whenever the paparazzi caught up to him. Even if you were somehow on par with him with your own successful career, tonight was still a harsh reminder of the fact that there would always be a massive difference between the both of you.

Your purpose was to serve people and give them memories of a hearty meal. Satoru bent people with his own hands, and obviously wouldn’t even give you the time of day. Perhaps you’d read the signs wrong – if there were even signs at all. One praise from him didn’t mean he liked you, after all, and why would he? He’d admitted out loud he couldn’t even remember what your food tasted like. Hours and years perfecting your craft, and he’d forgotten it all because ‘he had matters to deal with.’ God. Did he see you like that, too? Just another issue to be dealt with, another box in his list to be ticked off?

You’re about to throw away the wasted food when the glass doors of your restaurant opened. You stood back, Satoru all but running and heaving so heavily with beads of sweat running down his face.

“Wait,” he gasped out, raising a finger to give him a moment. “Don’t – don’t close yet. Just let me breathe.”

Did he run here?

Frowning, you scan his outfit. He’s dressed up more than usual today, yet his coat jacket is wrinkled and his hair is all messed up, possibly from running all the way here. His baby blue shirt is also damp with sweat. You immediately reach for some towels and make your way to him – reaching up to pat his face dry when the two of you freeze. Your eyes are blown wide, and so are his. His chest staggers with each breath he takes, and delicately, he holds your hand. His brows furrow and he exhales, his breath minty and his scent intoxicating. You’re captivated with every inch of him – from his white lashes, to the slope of his nose, the fullness of his glossy lips.

You never realized how much you’d missed him until you thought he would never come.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice willowy soft. Closing his eyes, he reaches for your hands, burying his cheek into it and pressing a kiss to the insides of your wrist. The action is unbelievably tender, surprisingly intimate, but could anything feel more right? “My latest shipbuilding company just launched, and we had the opening ceremony at my newest cruise. I would have gotten here on time, but the formalities took longer than expected when a Duke came to send his congratulations.”

You open your mouth to say it’s okay, but you know it’s not. He knows it’s not. It’s already midnight and he made you wait for six hours – no calls, no texts, nothing to inform you he’d run a bit late. It makes you feel stupid for taking the time and effort to dress up, enduring the pain of having Yuuji force you to try on different dresses that would suit you best. It’s embarrassing enough that you don’t have friends to share this moment with. The poor boy had been so excited, too, texting you every hour to ask how it’s going. You just didn’t have the heart to tell him Satoru wasn’t coming.

A pregnant pause settles between you. You see Satoru swallow and fidget with his hands, almost as if he knows you’re disappointed in him. You’re really not, though. At least it wouldn’t be disappointment that you’re feeling. You’re just… hurt.

You look at him one last time. You’re about to call it a night, because you’re a person of punctuality, and you don’t take rejection very well – all of which Satoru has made you feel sensitive over. Right now, you feel humiliated and belittled. Like your time wasn’t worth as much as is. But then you see Satoru, the way he folds in on himself, looking down at his feet and gnawing at his feet that you can’t help that maybe he, too, mustn’t have wanted to miss this.

Sometimes it is so easy to forget Satoru was human too. That he struggled as well, that with his power came with the undeniable fact that this friendship – or whatever this budding relationship is – would not be easy.

You sigh, flicking his nose to call his attention in hopes of lightening the mood.

“I understand your work is more important than a dinner with a friend,” you declare slowly, gauging for his reaction. “But out of courtesy, I would have appreciated an early notice if you couldn’t make it on time.”

Satoru’s face lights up. Pleased with your answer, and undeniably taken aback – he was a master in his craft of sales; he knew the right things to say to get whatever he wanted, but social interactions were not his forte. He realizes though, right in that moment, that it’s something he’d like to work on more. He doesn’t want to see that look on your face again when he ran inside – your crestfallen face, a momentary lapse of relief and worry, and now with hurtful eyes.

“I’ll take note of that,” he promises, already moving to pull out your chair for you. “Shall we have dinner, then?”

“Actually,” you start, with a glint forming in your eye. “I think I’d want to have dinner on this cruise of yours, and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

Smirking at your answer, Satoru tilts his head sideways. “It’s not an everyday occurrence that I have to ask for someone’s forgiveness, so I don’t see why not.”

You liked to think you’re a simple person.

You love nature, and hold the firm belief that whatever is done upon you would always return back to the person. You remember crying in your mother’s arms when you were a little girl, frustrated that humans had tortured their own planet and how you wanted to reverse climate change. Growing up in the countryside surrounded by endless fields of crops and an abundance of greenery, the city and its chaos shook you to your core.

The flashing lights felt blinding and overwhelming. You hated the smell of smoke and pollution, feeling suffocated by the change in atmosphere. You found yourself often glaring at the tall buildings that always stood dominatingly over everyone, as if to say that its towering height could only be reached by those select few.

Its owners stood over you like gods watching from the sky, and they had the power to create their own temples that soared all the way to the sky – a galaxy and universe entirely of their own.

Now, you’re not so sure you still hold that same predicament as you take in the blueness of the sea, the salty breeze nipping at your skin. You welcome it with a shrug of Satoru’s coat around your shoulders, so enamored with the sound of waves lapping against each other. You don’t notice the man standing next to you, or the way he studies your reactions with an amused smile. He realizes you look so innocent like this – your mouth curling into small smiles as you point to the dolphins. The realization comes to him like a sudden splash to his face – that he’s never felt this light before, and it’s always only with you.

After taking you to his cruise, you practically pushed him out of the kitchen as you prepared another meal of two. The meal was nothing short of ravishing, making Satoru momentarily forget about table manners as he inhaled it. The expensive champagne and hors d’oeuvres sloshes around his stomach with each sway of the cruise. Dinner had been pleasant; you were a great listener who gave him his undivided attention – the type that made him squeamish because he felt exposed from the core within. He’d grown up used to people eager to please him, but this was the first time someone had listened to him intently with the intention of knowing him. And when you asked what made him sincerely happy, Satoru realizes that he does not have the answer to everything.

“I’m not sure,” he admits, twirling the fork aimlessly as he tries to avoid your prying gaze. “Happiness is fleeting in my world and… I’ve just never found it. My whole life, all I’ve ever done is work and make my business grow, and I guess I’m happy enough with that.”

You hum in response. He looks up to see you gazing at him, deep in thought. You almost looked sad in that moment – sad for him. It isn’t any later that he realizes you sympathize with him, an emotion he’d been alien to. It goes without saying that you felt the emptiness, the hollowness carved out from Satoru’s heart, and how lonely he’d been all this time. And you found it funny, how someone could have so much, and so very little at the same time.

“Come with me.”

He stares at your outstretched hand. It’s difficult to silence all the voices in his head before he places his hands in yours, trying not to melt when you smile up at him. Gently, you lead him to the balcony – the freshness of the air waking him up from his sense. Due to the fact that Satoru was a perfectionist and had zero tolerance, he designed the cruise himself to its glorious beauty. Yet he remained oblivious to the wonders of it all, the beauty of the moment from where he stood. The sea is calm and soothing, the whole expanse of Tokyo – his empire – visible from he stood. He tells himself the night isn’t beautiful because of the romantic lights, or the jazz music playing from the speakers, but rather it’s the celebrity chef who was starting to grow on him.

From the corner of his eye, he watches your smile grow bigger, your cheeks puffing out from the cold. It’s undeniably adorable. Ever since that night he met you, he’d read a few articles about you, and even had Mei-Mei call publishing companies to give him new copies of whoever featured you. You only had a few pictures taken – his shy, sweet chef – always wearing an apron and never a smile.

To see you with your guard down, looking so happy and free, he might’ve gotten his answer that night.

You were his happiness.

“Doesn’t it look beautiful?” you ask him, smile still so wide, and it is evident you adore nature. He makes a mental note to open an orchidarium soon, or perhaps a tea shop with only the rarest of leaves for brewing, silently hoping he’d get to see more of that smile.

“Yes, it does.”

Indeed, you looked beautiful like this. The bright lights of the city painted your skin in a warm glow. You looked like an ethereal combination between sunset and sunrise, and he swore in that moment you embodied the sea itself. You were calm, quiet, reserved – much like him – but you held this aura from your presence alone that made him feel safe; there was something about you that assured him he could just be… him.

You were like a breath of fresh air, and it would be a waste not to breathe you in.

Satoru calls out your name. When you look up at him, the breeze whips your hair to the side, exposing a set of hesitant eyes that makes him take a tentative step forward. It isn’t the wine, or the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He thinks it’s just you that makes him feel this way – undoubtedly whole and alive. He is not a man fond of making mistakes, and he is not about to make one now and not kiss you.

“Can I kiss you?”

He waits for it – waits for you to tease him, that he doesn’t have to ask. But there’s none of that. There is only the sharp intake of your breath, the minute way you grasp your pearl necklace to yourself. “I-I don’t know how to.”

Satoru steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away. You turn rigid despite yourself, feeling his hand cup the back of your neck. You tilt your head sideways to let him have more access, his warm breath that smelled faintly of wine fanning over your skin.

“May I teach you then?”

You whimper in response, and he holds back a groan at the sound, silently wishing to hear more of it from the future. When his pillowy lips press against yours in the first contact, your eyes remain blown wide as you stare back at his closed ones. Fear settles in you that this is your first kiss, and you have absolutely no idea how to do it. But then he pushes back with a little more force this time, and you close your eyes and moan, your lips moving in rhythm with his. Your hand reaches up to fist the silky fabric of his suit that hugged his muscular figure sinfully. He’s firm and solid under your touch, like an anchor holding you down. And his taste – he tastes like everything you’ve ever wished for, everything you’ve ever wanted. He is the wine you get drunk on, the sugar you lick off your lips, and the taste of heaven on this earth.

Satoru swallows the moans you make, his large hands engulfing your face. With each sound you make, his tongue playfully pokes at your lips, begging for entrance. And you let him, melting at his touch and held up only by his firm grip sliding down to your waist.

The first contact of his tongue coaxing out yours to play has you almost quivering under him. Those large hands come up to the bare skin of your back, his cold skin sending a harsh bite to your warm, flustered one as he holds you steadily. Your other hand reaches out to tug at his hair and he groans, a sound so masculine yet so wanton that a flame burns within you. You find yourself battling your tongue with his – a sensual dance where there are no winners. A minute passes before you two break apart, foreheads pressed against each other as you both try to catch your breath.

“Can I keep going?” He asks, his deep voice faltering due to the lack of breath. You feel triumphant knowing you did that to him. Nodding, he places his hands under your ass and squeezes it in a silent command to jump, and you do so with your hands interlocked at the back of his head. Satoru dips down to kiss you again and turns you into a moaning mess. He rocks his body against you, grinds his muscles to the softness of your body, groaning when his erection presses up to your heat. How he managed to pull away in between kisses is beyond you. “Are you sure about this?” He mumbles against your lips.

“Yes,” you plead, crashing your lips back down to his. And somehow, Satoru stumbles to a room where he finally gets a taste of you.

Satoru is woken up by the harsh lights glaring at him.

Groaning, he places an arm above his eyes before deciding to sit up and start his day. The freshly washed linen of the blanket pools at his waist, and he squints his eyes to take in his surroundings. For a moment, the bedroom is unrecognizable, and when last night’s events become clear to him, he chuckles drily to himself.

Had he gone so far that he no longer recognized his own bedroom? But then again, he rarely went home. His properties all looked differently that he wasn’t surprised anymore.

Your neatly folded dress sits at the bedside table. His shirt – nowhere to be seen. He finds his pants at the pile of clothes left on the floor, though, and he quickly puts them on before the amazing aroma of waffles welcomes his senses. Walking out the room, Satoru is pleased by the sight before him – you in his shirt, bottomless, humming to yourself as you expertly maneuver around his kitchen.

Smiling, Satoru walks to the marbled countertops and wraps an arm around your waist. You stiffen under his hold before you realize it’s him.

“Good morning,” he greets, deep voice still a little croaky and you greet him back, resting your chin on his shoulder as he watches you crack some eggs. “Did you get a good sleep?”

You shrug teasingly and brush your lip against his ear, “Kind of hard not to, after last night’s events.” As you expected, his cheeks soon become dusted in light pink and you chuckle, leaning back to his solid chest with warmth blanketing you.

“Sit down, let’s have breakfast.”

Satoru is more than happy to obey. Munching gratefully, the comfortable silence is almost too good to be true.

It’s been months since you and Satoru started going out. You’ve both done a good job at keeping it from the media so far – a mutual decision because you liked your privacy, and Satoru didn’t want anyone tainting what he held close. He’s grown so accustomed to your presence that half of his closet is filled with your things. You basically lived at his house in Tokyo now, and your body just naturally angles itself in a way that allows him to always have him touching you.

Although you still scrunch your nose in distaste at the thousand dollar monotonous paintings that decorate his walls, you like being with him. You soon learn of his weird habit of not closing doors simply because he’s always surrounded by automatic ones, successfully eradicating his attempts at being a gentleman and having him open doors for you, but you don’t mind. Not really.

The past few months have been nothing but eye-opening for him, as he learns to love for the first time, and he could only hope this feeling in his chest isn’t something fleeting.

You were affectionate, never lacking or selfish when it comes to showing him how much like him, and he’ll admit he likes your kisses more than he’d like to accept, and that’s how he knows this relationship isn’t one sided. Still, the small fear that settles at the back of his head remains, that maybe you don’t love him, or at least, you’re not there yet. Watching you prepare his breakfast every morning, however, Satoru’s worries are silenced. He’ll worry about that another time.

He finishes first and moves to do the dishes, the loud running of water muting your hurried footsteps behind his. He can’t help but smile when you eagerly take the sponge from his gloved hands and look at him determinedly.

“What are you doing?” He asks teasingly, and you stick your tongue at him.

“Move, Gojo. We both know you don’t know how to wash dishes.”

Even after months of being with you, he’s still not used to the fact that he – a man everyone admired and – could experience a love like this someday.

You scrunch your nose up cutely that it takes all of his willpower not to bend down and kiss it. “I said move! Scoot your cute butt out of here.”

“Baby, it’s okay, I know you don’t know how to do it and I don’t mind. Besides, I have to learn to do this. What if we get married and have children, I obviously can’t let you do everything by yourself.”

You freeze at his words, your thick-rimmed glasses sliding off your nose awkwardly. Your whole life, you’ve dreamt of love, and imagined settling down and having your own family. Despite your rising fame and success, turning you into one of the wealthiest women in your country, you never planned to live as a celebrity chef for the rest of your life. You wanted to live simply, much like your parents, and to spend the rest of your days in a farm.

You’ve thought it about before, of course, the possibly of marrying Satoru.

But the thought had been too ridiculous at the moment. Satoru was always somewhere far away, rising from his seat with practiced elegance as he received yet another presitigious award for his endless accomplishments. The cameras would be pointed his way, and he basked under the spotlight. He thrived in it.

Your silence doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He watches as you revert back to your expressionless face, eyes looking directly forward at the white tiled backsplash of his sink that you know cost thousands. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t.”

And it is true, you aren’t bothered by the least bit. Surprised, definitely, but you’re beyond elation at this point. You realize it doesn’t matter that you probably won’t get to live the life you want if you marry him – because he’s all you want. If giving it all up meant being with him, you would do so in a heartbeat.

Which is why you grit your teeth silently as you attend your first ball overseas, latched onto Satoru’s arm. You don’t miss the way everyone scrutinizes the seemingly average looking woman next to Japan’s darling.

Satoru doesn’t notice that you’re a bundle of nerves. He smiles brightly at the multitude of cameras pointed your way, making sure to show off the Gojo heirloom he decorated you with. It’s a gold ring with a hundred mini diamonds encrusted in it, the characters ‘Gojo’ engraved underneath. A horde of reports soon come into view, and instinctively, you duck your head when the lights become overwhelming. They all spew out questions asking since when the two of you have been dating – and this is the part you hated the most.

The part where your life becomes a piece for the people to feast on, instead of something you made for yourself.

You opt to stay silent and let Satoru answer everything. He isn’t fazed by the least bit, answering them confidently, although not giving away too much personal information. He tells them you’ve been dating for a year now, and it’s evident in his eyes that he feels strongly for you. Not a moment later, the cameras pan your way, the people eager to hear your side of the story.

“Chef, how have you managed to steal his heart?”

“As the old saying goes, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” you tell them, your heart beating a mile a minute from the discomfort of too much attention. You turn to your fiancé in hopes of consolation. He smiles at you encouragingly, the warmth and adoration pooling behind it immediately dissipates your nervousness. “As long as it’s for him, I don’t mind going to the moon and back.”

They seem satisfied with that answer, and you find yourselves in the front cover of both local and foreign magazines, the world crazed about the latest couple.

Satoru is lying on his tiger fur rug with crossed legs, leafing through every page of your photo album. His free hand absentmindedly rubs circles where it’s settled at your hip, the sound of his breathing steady and almost lulling. Yet, you’re bothered by everything lately – how you’re being reminded of everything you don’t like about this world – his world.

They don’t even know the real you. How could the world go from praising you for your skills in cooking, to being both shamed and admired for being engaged to Satoru? Your heart clenched at the multiple headlines that called you a gold-digger.

As if you didn’t have your own money.

“Hey,” Satoru mumbles, twisting a little from his position. You’re looking at everywhere but him, your heart heavy and mind a mess. It’s too late when Satoru notices the dark circles rimmed under your eyes, and he cups your face worriedly, tilting your chin to make you look into his eyes. Your own face has fallen, your eyes sad. He immediately feels guilt, unaware of what he made you endure at his expense.

Perhaps he wasn’t as observant as he claimed to be. Ever since he’s announced your relationship, you’ve received countless criticism from the public. Satoru never said a word about it, thinking these strangers’ words wouldn’t affect you, or that it didn’t matter because who were they, anyway? And you never spoke about it either, not wanting to put a heavier weight on his already burdened shoulders.

“I’ll take care of it, alright? I promise.”

You know what he means.

It means he’ll end up spending a lot of money – although to him it’s probably just a penny – as he has Mei-Mei get rid of those negative articles. You know he has enough power to shut down even an entire publishing company who attempted to say anything bad about you. You don’t want him doing any of that, abusing his power and throwing around his money just because he can.

Shaking your head, you reach forward and press your face against his chest. “You don’t have to do that. I just have to prove to everyone I am worthy of you.”

It is way past four in the morning, and you wake up with a stir, only to find the light of Satoru’s laptop illuminating his worn-out face. In front of him are a plethora of reports, glasses perched on top of his face. You sit up with a stretch, and he jumps a little at the movement.

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No,” you answer, rubbing your eyes tiredly and looking at his work. You don’t understand half of it, but you knows it’s something about a new hotel he’s planning on developing somewhere in the country. “It’s late. Why are you still working?”

“Business is business,” he shrugs, focusing his attention back to his work. The development plan has just finished, and the cost of construction is nothing but another penny less to his account.

The silence in the room stills. You strain your ears to listen to the sound of a faint clock ticking, Satoru’s steady breathing calming your nerves. His eyes are droopy and tired, and he lets out an exhausted sigh. Reaching over to pull the laptop away from him, you gently place your head above his beating heart. His shirt smells faintly of floral detergent, and you fist the fabric underneath your fingers.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to.

He places a soft kiss at the crown of your head, once, then twice, and a small smile fights through your face. The rhythmic thumping of his heart is just underneath your open palm, and you realize that Satoru is like the man-made river outside your house. He is calm, steady, always lulling you into a state of relaxation, and the music that is his love hums softly through your nerves until he places himself inside your heart.

The darkness of your room is a huge contrast to the flashing lights always directed his way, but it fits perfectly. Satoru is silent, even if he always brought attention to himself, and his muscles are firm underneath your touch.

His bicep curls around you to wrap you in a one arm embrace while his other hand rubs your back soothingly, and your bare thigh brushes against his groin. An innocent and accidental gesture, but it has your nerves firing up, and it just occurred to you how small you seem inside his arms. You found it funny, since Satoru could threaten to take away everything from you, yet you don’t feel like that around him. Here, you feel safe, warm, accepted.

You nuzzle closer to him with a frown.

“Take me somewhere.”

His chest vibrates with a hum, “Where do you want to go?”

“Take me to where your heart desires. Show me where you want to spend the rest of your life.”

Satoru can’t contain the smile that graces his face, and he holds your hand as you stare at Leiden in awe. He’s decided to take a one week break, and soon the two of you were nestled against each other in his private jet, and he’s not sure if he’s ever felt this happy before.

He learns that you love art and fancy medieval paintings the most, and you bounce happily when he takes you to one of the art museums.

Leiden is rich in history and culture, that much is evident with how the people still keep their traditions alive, and while it is still quite a popular city, the toned down bustling of people will always be a much preferred scene for him than Tokyo. The two of you have rented a bike to Noordwijk Beach, and you make him promise to swim with you there the next day. Wordlessly, he nods, basking in the way the warm light emitted from lampposts turns you into an ethereal being.

After returning the bikes into the rental shop, you swing your intertwined hands back and forth, pointing excitedly and exclaiming your delight at the lakes that surrounded the city.

A windmill sits in the middle of the city, and Satoru falls in love with the place even more. A smile is permanently etched into your face, and his heart manages to stutter even after being with you for so long, but he can’t help it. Lifting your interlocked hands to his lips, he kisses your palm, a fine pink dusting his cheeks as you stare at him incredulously. A moment passes before you giggle, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

Satoru didn’t know it was possible to blush even harder.

His stomach growls in hunger and you chuckle, leading him to one of your restaurants. Your waiters and chefs greet you excitedly, surprised that the owner dropped by unannounced. You lift a hand to tell them not to worry – you’re not here to evaluate anything. You’re simply on vacation, and you had full trust in your people. The pleased look decorating the customer’s face said enough that you didn’t have much to worry about.

Shrugging off your coat and placing it on the back of your chair, Satoru watches as you place your head in your palms, eyes directed outside the window. Outside lay the lake and a bunch of canoes housing the body of water, old couples walking around with wines hidden in paper bags, and the soft chatter and melodious laughter ringing from every corner of the place has him believing that perhaps this is paradise.

“Have you ever been before?”

“Once,” he replies with a small smile. “I came here for business. That hotel is mine.”

He points to a building that resembles a medieval castle, and you adjust the glasses perched on your nose to see it better. “Why am I not surprised?”

Letting out an amused laugh at your question, the both of you soon dig into the dish, bellies rumbling in satisfaction. You are half drunk on the way back to the small villa you rented, and he doesn’t question why you didn’t choose to stay at his hotel instead. There’s a little tumble to your steps as you stagger forward, mumbling incoherent words. Satoru presses you closer to his warm body to prevent you from falling forwards, his eyes crinkling when you tell him how much you love him. His heart whines at your words, because you’ve never told him that, and even though you’re drunk, he thinks he will be as equally euphoric if you tell him sober. He actually feels a little ashamed you said it before him because he’s planning to tell you sooner than later, and he clears his throat before pulling away from you.

You frown at his action.

Licking his lips nervously, Satoru pulled out a velvet box and went down on one knee.

“I know you’re drunk and this ring is a little too expensive than you’d like, but I don’t think there’s a better time for this, and we’ve been dating for so long that I just wanted to let you know–”

Grumbling in annoyance under your breath as an attempt to conceal your shaking knees, you lean down and pull him harshly by his collar to press your lips against his.

Satoru stiffens underneath your touch. He stops breathing, eyes wide from surprise. You only pull away when he doesn’t respond, your glasses sliding off your nose and bumping into yours. He lifts a hand to his wet lips, looking at you like you’ve just assaulted him, and judging by how plump lips looked red and swollen, you probably did. Not that he’d complain, of course.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

Satoru lets out a nervous laugh that is laced with elation, his breath coming out in cold fogs due to the cold weather. His hands are shaking as he struggles to wear the ring around your hand, to which you roll your eyes and wear it yourself. He looks sheepish for a moment, scratching the back of his head, but you can’t find yourself to care.

This is where you belong, with him, in Leiden, and little did you know that you were fulfilling his dreams one by one.

The both of you walk back home with bashful grins coated in glee.

Satoru feels stupid that he suddenly feels shy. It would be a lie to say he’s dreamt of this ever since he was a child because he grew up knowing very little of it. He’s never dated nor felt any attraction for someone, always focusing on his work and further expanding the business to the best of his abilities. He never dreamt marrying for love could be a possibility. That this was now his reality. And when you steal a peck to his cheek that makes his face heat up further, he realizes nothing has ever felt more right.

You’re the only one he would ever need.

To say that you’re ecstatic to plan the wedding would be an understatement. Ever since you came back to Tokyo with hearts overflowing with joy, you could no longer contain the love you had for your fiance. You’d been looking at endless articles of what makes a wedding perfect, and you already had your wedding dress in mind.

The food tasting appointment you had this weekend was on hold since Satoru still had a tight schedule, something about the launch of a new resort in Bali, but he comes back to you with tired eyes and a satisfied smile.

“Hey,” you greet, rising from the couch to help him with his bags. Not that you needed to, Mei-Mei and Toji were already taking care of them, but you still wanted to be of help. Shrugging off his coat, Satoru plops down the couch with a groan. “Long day?”

He pops one eye open to offer a languid smile, “Long week, babe. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you mumble, going behind him and massaging his stiff shoulders. Satoru lets out a moan at the sensation. And you? You can’t help but smile when you see that your engagement ring is still wound around his finger, and you wonder if the press had already noticed and started making a fuss about what you knew would be the wedding of the century.

Truth be told, you preferred the wedding to be small – with just your family and close friends. Satoru didn’t have any, but you respected his decision of hiring a wedding planner whose service cost a million. You protested at first, thinking it was unnecessary, but Satoru had already given you the check. The wedding planner seemed genuinely pleased to be working with you as well, leaving you with no other choice but to press your mouth into a thin line.

Ah, now that you think about it… “Are you free this Thursday? I wanted to introduce you to my parents.”

He stands up from the couch and walks to your shared bedroom, gently dragging you along with him. “Introduce me? Shouldn’t your parents already know me?”

You force a small smile as you bury yourself underneath the covers. “I meant formally, they’re going to be your parents soon, too.”

“Okay… talk to Mei-Mei to schedule that.”

You fight the urge to raise a brow. You couldn’t see the need to talk to his secretary to have time with your fiancé, but like you have been doing for the past few months, you only nod. Satoru wraps his arms around your waist after that, and it doesn’t take long before sleep blankets you both.

Somehow, you’d always known.

A relationship with Satoru wouldn’t be easy. There was too much unwanted attention and too little time to be with him. But he was worth the wait.

+

The food tasting went well. He ended up being more than pleased at your food choices, and you even bump your hips against his. Satoru wanted a cake that was two feet tall, with golden drapes hanging from the rods, silently demanding for caviar to be included. You shrugged it off, not minding his preferences as you continued speaking to the chef. The poor man had been trembling ever since Satoru walked in the kitchen, his phone pulled out and constantly interrupting the tasting as he speaks to his clients.

You felt bad for the old man, you really did. He was far more skilled than you, and you shook his hand politely before walking back to Satoru’s limousine.

It was finally time to meet your parents.

Reaching out for your fiancé, Satoru flicks your hand away. He shoots you an irritated look as he gestures to his phone, as if to say not to interrupt him during an important phone call. Reluctantly you retract your hand, biting the inside of your cheek as you let him go back to his business. Hurt and undeniably upset, you distract yourself with the small iPad on the seat in front of you, watching a lame show about fashion runways and whatnot.

“Yes, I know,” Satoru says through the phone, exasperated as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean he can’t make it on time? He needs to be there to check the labels – you know what? Whatever, fire him, I’ll go there myself.”

Sensing his distress, you turn to him. He’s huffing and crossing his arms against his chest, a livid expression on his face. You don’t ask what happened because you know you won’t understand. You’re only happy Satoru finally lets you hold his hand. Pressing his head against the seat, Satoru squeezes your palm, watching as the familiar buildings of the city soon blur into a scenery of corn fields and flowery land.

To be truthful, you think he’s a little too overdressed for this occasion. He’s wearing the latest Burberry collection, the shades he’d pulled to shield his sensitive eyes from the sunset a little too… flashy. But, you thought to yourself, Satoru could do whatever he wanted.

Finally, after a long and grueling car ride that seemed to last forever, you reached your destination.

You immediately run to the farmhouse, leaving behind Satoru in your excitement. You’d been away from your parents too long that you missed them dearly. Behind you, Satoru tries to keep up his face – gladly welcoming the fresh air. From afar, the door to your house opens as you tackle a small, older woman into your arms.

Satoru’s gait is slow, precise, and elegant. He walked with purpose, standing behind you silently as he witnessed the sweet exchange between you and your mother. It’s then he notices, when your mother looks up from your shoulders, that her eyes twinkled the same you did whenever you saw him. She’s sweet, and a little too bubbly, as she welcomes him to your humble home.

And as if you’ve sensed his uneasiness, you look back to Satoru and offer an encouraging smile.

The entirety of your house is as large as his bathroom. And your couch squeaks uncomfortably when he sits on it. The leather is tattered and foam springs out from the little cracks and you almost look embarrassed, but he kisses your cheek to reassure you he doesn’t mind. Your father soon emerges from the kitchen holding a fresh pot of tea that he offers, and Satoru takes a hesitant sip – your family anxiously gauging his reaction.

The tea… It was actually sweet and better than anything he’s ever had, and when his cheeks start to warm from the attention, you all start laughing for no reason.

Satoru joins in the laughter. He doesn’t know why he did when he found nothing funny, but felt that it was the most appropriate reaction.

It was no wonder then that you were such an amazing chef. You must’ve inherited it from your father’s impeccable cooking skills. The stew he prepared was amazing, and Satoru had to control himself from slurping the beef stew – it tasted that good. Dinner was absolutely amazing, and you kept laughing and smiling from your seat as you conversed with your parents. Satoru doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this happy.

The baby pink turtleneck sweater you wore highlighted the softness of your heart, and even a blind man could see you really missed your parents. He felt like a stranger then; someone who watched from the outside as your mother reaches over the table to wipe a rice grain from the corner of your mouth. You whine at her gesture, obviously not wanting to be treated like a little kid.

“Mum, that’s embarrassing. I’m with the love of my life, you know,”

He almost chokes at his spoon when you say that, and your mother grins at him. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear, it looks like he really loves you no matter what.”

“Yes, Mother,” he agrees, squeezing your thighs from under the table, “I really do.”

There was a warmth in your home that he’d never known, and laughter was always present. Much like you, your father was a man of few words and passed out on the couch after three bottles of soju, leaving you and your mom to clean up after dinner.

Satoru offered to help, only to receive amused glances as if you knew he couldn’t do it. Embarrassed, he excused himself as you cleaned up, and sat on the curb outside your house.

From his peripheral vision, he could see Toji beside the car, standing tall and straight. The cold breeze from the countryside made his dark hair blow across the wind. As if feeling there were eyes on him, Toji peered at Satoru, nodding politely before looking straight ahead. His suit was Giorgo Armani, the one he’d gifted him on his birthday last year. He’s well-aware that Toji ended up making more money driving for him than you ever could with your restaurant.

And this was his reality. This was his world.

Someone like Satoru shouldn’t be sitting on the molded curb of a farmhouse with nothing but mountain and hills surrounding him. The moon and the stars were the only things that gave light to the field, and it was too humble for his liking. He didn’t belong here – that much was clear – and even the scarecrow standing a few feet away from him seemed to agree with its mocking glare.

Much too soon for his liking, Satoru feels a wool sweater being wrapped around his shoulders. He turns to you, a smile already on your face as you plopped down beside him. Playing with your fingers, you keep your gaze down at your feet, hesitant and nervous.

“Satoru… I know you won’t like it, but I’d like to wear my Mom’s wedding dress. It’s fine if you say no, I know you had Vera Wang make an entire collection for me already, but I thought I had to let you know…”

Satoru starts to play with the straw in front of him. He sighs, fiddling his smooth fingers around it before he clutches your hand in his lap. He’d held you a thousand times before, and yet he couldn’t remember if your skin was rough or smooth – only that it felt warm and he liked holding it. And as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze studied you – how your boots are a little too big on your feet, and you smelled faintly of hay unlike the Maison Francis Kurkdjian perfume he’d gotten you. It was limited edition, too, and he���d had to pull strings just to get you one.

And you couldn’t even wear it for tonight.

An almost choked sob leaves his throat, his heart clenching uncomfortably. He did want you to wear your mother’s wedding dress. Being here, away from the press and businessmen who always tried to mess up his deals when he worked honestly, made him feel like for once – he was a normal human being. That he wasn’t some god whose footsteps were worshipped.

Your mother had welcomed him warmly, and she didn’t even gush about the expensive fabrics of his clothes. She saw him as if he was her own son, and he supposed soon enough he would be, but would he be good enough? She’d raised her daughter as a warm, loving, and humble person. You were down to earth and loved to stay solid and grounded – Satoru was a man who always reached for the stars.

What did that make you then? His fall from the heavens?

Satoru wonders how much of his thoughts were written on his face. You watched him, brows dipped downwards with a clenched jaw. He knows you’re fighting back something to say.  He was too familiar with that look – since Mei-Mei always looked like that. The type of expression etched into his employees’ faces when he shouted at them for their incompetence, and they felt the need to defend themselves. They never did, out of fear Satoru would fire them.

Although you never said it, your face said it all.

He remembers the longing gazes you had to the farmhouses in Leiden with its windmill barns, or how your smile got bigger when a cute kid walked by and waved at you both. You don’t need to say anything because he knows what you’re thinking – that you’re blinded by your love for him.

He still remembers that damned event when your grip on his cat got a little tighter, how your hairline beaded with sweat as you kept fidgeting. You’d been uncomfortable that night, as you always did when you were in his world. You weren’t like this – placid, unreserved, happy.

And now he’s in your world. The words bubble up in your throat, wanting to wipe that disappointed look in his handsome face. You knew even if you say it now, Satoru wouldn’t listen or understand. And it’s funny – how he asked you to marry him, and how willing you were to give up on your dreams if it meant being with him. Even if it meant throwing yourself into unwanted attention, only to be criticized mercilessly – because that’s what it took to be with him.

He was a man with an empire, but with it came the price of being someone who destroyed others.

Somehow, it never crossed your mind it might include you, too.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment, “I would rather you wear Vera Wang’s gown. I hope you don’t find any offense in it, but our wedding will be the wedding of the century. I can’t have you wearing a nameless gown when the whole world will be looking.”

Your grip on his hand tightens for a second before it loosens. Satoru watches, with a heavy heart and an aching soul, as you nod slowly. Forcing a smile on your face, you stood up and walked away from him. You bid your farewells soon after that, with Satoru cringing the moment your parents began to refer to him as their ‘son.’

The whole ride back home is silent.

You’re passed out on his side, your soft snores filling the silence. Satoru reaches over to caress your cheek before leaning back in his seat, clenching his teeth hard to stop the tears from falling. He couldn’t put it into words – the air of finality settling over you once you reach his penthouse.

You’re exhausted from the day, stripping your clothes off before burying yourself under the covers. Your arm seeks out the familiar feeling of having him close next to you, and he indulges you, burying his face against the crook of your neck one more time – one last time. When you mumble his name in your sleep, Satoru swallows the lump forming on his throat, biting down on his lip before gazing at you – knowing you’d been his, knowing he’d miss this. Miss you.

And perhaps that’s what hurts the most – that he’s already missing you when you’re pressed up next to him, that he’s already mourning the presence of someone who he hasn’t lost yet.

But he knew, the end was inevitably near.

So he kisses you, long and hard enough that it hopes it leaves an imprint. You’re unaware of it all, still deep in your slumber even when his eyes betray him and a tear falls. The teardrop lands on your cheek before it slides down your jaw.

Above you, Satoru’s shoulders are shaking and he wants to laugh – because he’s never cried before. He’s never cried when his own friends tried to sabotage him. He’s never cried when the whole world called him a heartless demon walking in the body a wannabe man. He never cried when the world misunderstood him, yet here he was, perfectly content being in your arms, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

For once in his life, Satoru wanted to do what was right. If he couldn’t stop himself from ruining things and hurting those around him, then perhaps this time around he could prevent the only good thing to ever happen to him from shattering.

No amount of money would be able to give you what you truly wanted, and that’s all he had. Satoru had nothing but money, had nothing but it to offer aside from giving you back your freedom. He may be the one that you loved, and for that he would always be grateful, but he was also old enough to know that sometimes, love simply wasn’t enough. You had your own world, and Satoru had the entire universe.

The only world where the two of you could live happily was the one you spent apart from each other.

Unwrapping his arm around yours, Satoru silently trudges to the bedside table to wear his coat and shoes. Giving you one last glance, he takes off his engagement ring, and places it beside the framed photo of you and him in Leiden – this time with no flashing lights.

[poppy-metal]

Need to be the girlfriend Tashi brought in for the boys when they've been a throuple for awhile and Lily is at a boarding school or something and she needs to inject some new sexy thing into their life and you are a tennis prodigy in college who needed a coach but melted under her touch at your third practice and then she brings you into her bedroom with her boys and you are just what they need to keep the three of them from going insane.

love the idea of tashi just deciding what the relationship needs is some fresh pussy - I mean, there's two guys and one woman - she's outnumbered here. and she's typically more dominant, anyway, she imagines a sweet submissive girl would be something new and fun. a chance for art to be more dominant - for patrick to get his aggression out on some pussy without a fight - for tashi to feel the body of a woman instead of a man - it's perfect, really. it takes a little convincing because art is already struggling with having a third - monogamous sap that he is - or was - but patrick is immediately into the idea. like fuck yeah. he helps bring art on board, swallows his pink cock all the down his throat the way he knows art likes and tugs on his balls. he and tashi torture him until he's whimpering and begging to cum - and right when he's on the edge tashi whispers "wouldn't it be nice if you had a tight little pussy to pump this pretty cock into - no one denying you - no one keeping you on the edge and telling you no like we do- just a hot. warm. hole. wrapped around your cock and ready for your cum."

he folds pretty easy. he loves being edged, but he also fucking hates it. hates that he's at the bottom of the food chain here (even if he loves it) he has needs. the desire to take. the temptation of it is too much. and then he starts thinking about seeing tashi with another woman, his monkey brain loves it, seeing her feminine body sliding and working against another feminine body under her. imagines dominating a girl together with patrick, the way he can't do with tashi - fucking her and filling her at the same time - maybe just watching patrick fuck someone how he fucks art - hard and mean and rough - yeah. he folds.

[hypnogold]

Gold Addicts 1: Lincoln College

It’s a lively day on campus as students and staff gather for the annual Sports Market—a bustling event where clubs and teams set up booths, each showcasing what they have to offer, from lacrosse to soccer, football, and even niche sports. The air is filled with chatter, excitement, and the smell of food from nearby vendors, making it the perfect backdrop for students eager to find a new passion or join a team.

Soccer:

Baseball:

Among the colorful tents and banners, one booth/van stands out. Draped in black and gold, it exudes an air of mystery and exclusivity that draws curious glances from passersby. The sign above it simply reads, “The Golden Team: Discover the Power Within.” Unlike the other sports teams that have straightforward displays, the Golden Team booth is minimal, almost secretive. A few young men in gleaming metallic golden jerseys stand at the entrance, each with a calm, confident expression and an aura that feels… different.

The booth has no obvious sport on display—no equipment, no game footage playing in the background. Just the young men in golden jerseys who stand out with their calm intensity. One by one, students approach, intrigued by the enigmatic setup. Some ask if they’re the soccer team, only to be told with a knowing smile, “We’re something bigger.”

Nathan, a sophomore trying to find a club that fits, finds himself lingering near the Golden Team’s booth. He’s already checked out the regular soccer team and liked them well enough, but something about the Golden Team calls to him in a way he can’t explain. As he approaches, one of the golden-clad members steps forward, flashing an easy smile.

“Looking for something… extraordinary?” the member asks, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic. Nathan chuckles nervously, nodding, and the golden player motions for him to come closer, ushering him into the van with a warm hand on his shoulder.

Inside, the atmosphere shifts. It’s quiet, the noise of the bustling market fading to a murmur outside. Rows of metallic golden jerseys hang neatly on racks, each one pristine and gleaming. The golden fabric shimmers under the dim lighting, casting a mesmerizing glow throughout the van. Other students, those who seemed uncertain or shy, are now standing in front of the mirrors, trying on the golden jerseys and studying themselves with a strange new confidence.

Each jersey has “Gold Addict” and a unique number on the back, marking them as part of something exclusive.

One of the golden team members leans close to Nathan, his breath warm and laced with a faint, golden mist. “Try one on,” he whispers, a hint of command in his voice. Nathan hesitates but feels compelled to comply. As he slips the jersey over his hoodie, he feels a rush of warmth and power, as if the golden fabric is bonding with him, drawing him deeper into the team’s aura. He glances in the mirror and is startled to see a faint, hypnotic swirl forming in his own eyes, a lazy grin spreading across his face as a calm satisfaction fills him.

Outside the van, his friend Jake has been watching and grows worried, noticing that Nathan isn’t the only one lingering in the Golden Team booth. More and more students are entering, each emerging with the same golden jerseys and relaxed, distant expressions. Jake tries to call out to Nathan, but another golden-clad player intercepts him with a friendly but firm grip, saying, “You’re welcome to join too—take a look inside.”

Jake brushes him off, but as he moves closer to the van, a faint, sweet scent fills the air, and he finds his focus blurring. The golden players are leaning in close, their golden breath surrounding the hesitant recruits, drawing them deeper into the booth. The golden mist seeps through the air, casting a haze over the scene, as one by one, each student emerges, transformed into part of the Golden Team, bearing the new identity of Gold Addict and a unique number on their back.

As the day goes on, the regular soccer team notices the Golden Team’s unusual recruiting success and decides to investigate. But as they approach, they too are greeted by the inviting smiles, the golden jerseys, and the enticing whispers of the Golden Team members. Soon, even a few regular soccer players find themselves slipping into the golden jerseys, becoming part of the mysterious squad.

By the end of the day, the Golden Team’s booth has drawn in dozens of students, each one leaving the Sports Market with a golden jersey, hypnotic spiral eyes, and a new allegiance to the team. The once-ordinary campus is now home to a growing group of Gold Addicts, their movements in sync, their golden jerseys glinting in the evening light, each of them feeling as if they’ve unlocked a hidden power within.

For the remaining students, whispers spread about the new team on campus, a team that doesn’t seem to have a sport yet carries a strange, undeniable allure. And as night falls, the Golden Team stands together on the field, their numbers growing, ready to bring even more into their golden brotherhood.

As the golden mist swirls and thickens around the two young men, their surroundings blur, drawing them into a deep, calm focus on the figures before them. The young man in front, now fully relaxed, feels his thoughts slipping away as the golden haze fills his mind with a sense of purpose he didn’t realize he was missing. Behind him, the figure whispers softly, guiding him with a voice that’s both comforting and inescapable, each word embedding a new loyalty, a bond with the team.

Across the campus, a few curious students notice the van and the golden glow surrounding it, catching glimmers of figures moving in sync, their golden jerseys visible even in the dim light. Drawn to the scene, they approach slowly, a mix of curiosity and hesitation in their eyes. As they near, one of the golden-clad team members waves them over with an inviting smile, offering them each a golden jersey from the racks inside the van.

“Try it on—it’s the first step to becoming something greater,” he says with a knowing grin. The students glance at one another, hesitant but intrigued, their fingers brushing over the soft, almost magnetic golden fabric. They each pull on a jersey, and as the golden material touches their skin, they feel an immediate warmth and unity spread through them. Their breaths deepen, mirroring the faint golden mist now curling from their own lips.

The first young man, now fully entranced, turns to his new companions, his eyes still carrying that hypnotic spiral as he greets them with a slow, knowing grin. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says, his voice calm and almost serene. “You’re one of us now.”

One by one, each new recruit feels their thoughts fade, replaced with a single purpose and a newfound allegiance to the Golden Team. The figures in golden jerseys surround them, welcoming each newcomer with reassuring gestures, a hand on the shoulder, a guiding touch. The van door remains open, racks of golden kits waiting, as the mist continues to spread, carrying with it the allure of something powerful and unbreakable.

By dawn, the once-quiet campus is filled with golden-clad figures, moving together, their expressions serene and unified. The regular students watch in awe and trepidation, unable to look away from the strange, mesmerizing presence of the Golden Team, wondering if they too will soon join the ranks of Gold Addicts.

A few days later...

Ethan, Benji, and Liam were inseparable, three close friends bonded by their love of lacrosse and the thrill of competition. They played hard, trained harder, and had each other’s backs on and off the field. Known for their loyalty to each other, they wore their school’s red-and-white jerseys with pride, determined to keep their lacrosse team a tight-knit unit. They had their own ambitions and quirks that made their friendship unique.

But that year, something felt different on campus. The Golden Team—a mysterious group in gleaming metallic jerseys—had started showing up everywhere, spreading their “Code of Conduct” through golden-embossed pamphlets scattered across campus. The phrases, like “Embrace Unity,” “We Rise Together,” and “Find Your Place,” were plastered on posters and echoed by the few friends and teachers who had joined. Ethan, Benji, and Liam had tried to laugh it off, but they couldn’t ignore how quickly the Golden Team’s influence was spreading.

One evening after practice, Ethan noticed that more of their teammates were showing up in the gleaming golden jerseys. Mike, his defensive partner, stood at the locker room door in a golden kit, his expression unnervingly calm and eyes trained on Ethan as he packed up his gear.

“Hey, Ethan,” Mike called, his voice oddly serene. “You’re needed. The Golden Team has a place for you.”

Ethan tried to brush it off with a laugh. “Nah, man, I’m all set. I’m good with the red and white.”

But Mike didn’t smile. Instead, two more golden-clad players—guys Ethan had played with since freshman year—stepped up beside him, silently blocking his path. “It’s not a choice,” one of them said with quiet insistence. “The Golden Team needs you, Ethan. It’s where you belong.”

Before Ethan could react, they were gripping his arms, steering him toward an empty equipment room in the back of the building. His heart pounded as he struggled against them, but their grip was unyielding. Once they pushed him inside, one of them held up a golden jersey, pressing it against his chest as if it already belonged to him.

“No—no way!” Ethan shouted, fighting back. But then he noticed it: a faint golden mist seeping in through the vents, swirling around him in the enclosed space.

He held his breath, pressing his lips together, but the mist was everywhere. With each shallow breath, it filled his lungs, spreading warmth through his body. His resistance weakened, his heart rate slowing, as if the mist itself was sinking into his thoughts. Words echoed through his mind, each one stronger than the last: “Embrace Unity. Find your place. We rise as one.”

As the golden-clad teammates slipped the jersey over his head, the world around Ethan blurred, his thoughts melting into a soft haze of calm. When he finally stepped out, his expression was serene, his eyes distant. Ethan Caldwell was gone; he was now Gold Addict 21, bound to a purpose he no longer questioned.

Benji noticed Ethan’s change immediately the next day. Gone were his friend’s jokes and laid-back humor, replaced by quiet, serene smiles and strange murmurs about “unity” and “purpose.” Benji, already feeling the pressure from the Golden Team’s growing influence on campus, was on edge, realizing he might be next.

That night, when he spotted a group of golden-clad teammates waiting outside his dorm, he decided to lay low. He ducked into the library, hoping to hide out, but as he wandered the darkened halls, he realized two of his teammates were tailing him. Benji’s heart raced as he quickened his pace, slipping into the men’s bathroom and locking himself in a stall.

He held his breath, listening as their footsteps stopped just outside the door. “You can’t hide forever, Benji,” one of them called, his voice echoing off the tiles. “The Golden Team needs you. It’s easier if you come willingly.”

Benji didn’t respond, pressing himself further back, praying they’d give up. But then, he saw it: a faint golden mist, slowly seeping in under the stall door, swirling and thickening in the confined space. He tried to hold his breath, but the mist clung to him, curling around his face like smoke, working its way in with every involuntary inhale.

His mind began to drift, his body relaxing as warmth spread through him. The voices outside grew softer, almost comforting: “Find unity. Join us. Embrace the golden path.”

As the mist thickened, his hand moved of its own accord, unlocking the stall door. He stumbled out, dazed, greeted by the same teammates who had followed him. They guided him gently, their calm expressions mirroring his own as they slipped the golden jersey over his head. By the time he stepped out into the night, his mind was filled with the Golden Code, his individuality fading into serene obedience. He was now Gold Addict 14.

When Liam noticed that both Ethan and Benji had fallen to the Golden Team, anger and fear surged within him. His friends had been turned into empty shells of their former selves, and he felt like he was the only one left on campus who saw what was happening. When he ran into Ethan and Benji at the cafeteria the next day, their golden jerseys gleaming, he couldn’t hide his frustration.

“Benji, what happened to you?” he demanded, grabbing his friend’s shoulder.

Benji only smiled softly. “Liam, you don’t understand yet. But you will. It’s better this way.”

Liam backed away, his pulse racing as he saw golden-clad figures closing in from all sides. He saw another guy being turned...

Without a word, he turned and ran, weaving through hallways and stairwells, the sounds of footsteps behind him like shadows following his every move. He ducked into the gym’s locker room, locking the door behind him, his breath coming in short gasps.

But his moment of safety was short-lived. Within minutes, the faint golden mist began seeping through the vents, curling around him, filling the small space with warmth and a strange sense of calm. He coughed, covering his mouth, but the mist was everywhere, clinging to him, coating his skin, filling his lungs.

“Let go, Liam,” Ethan’s voice whispered from beyond the door. “Join us. It’s time.”

Liam tried to fight it, his fists clenched, but his thoughts grew foggy. The mist enveloped him, comforting and warm, each breath weakening his resistance. Words filled his mind, soothing and insistent: “We rise together. Embrace unity. Find your place in the Golden Team.”

As the mist pulled him under, the door unlocked, and Ethan and Benji slipped inside. They guided him out gently, slipping the golden jersey over his head. His vision blurred, and the anger and fear faded, replaced by a serene acceptance. He was now Gold Addict 17, one more in the growing ranks of the Golden Team.

By dawn, the three friends stood side by side, their once-red-and-white lacrosse loyalty dissolved into the golden unity of the team. Each wore a serene, unyielding gaze, the Golden Team’s influence having claimed them fully. They moved forward, ready to welcome more into their unstoppable unity, the Golden Code binding them together as they moved through the campus that had become their own.

[mychlapci]

Can we bring back the college slut Ratchet for a sec I never actually got over that

Imagine it's time for finals, and Ratchet is cracking down hard on studying. He may be a shareware slut but he still needs to make time for class, and now is the time to get serious. The problem is though, there's hardly enough time in the day to get through all his homework, have time to study for exams, and still go out for a good time. Enter his shifty deals with some scummy hookup he met online. Ratchet would get on his knees and suck spike while his contact would tell him he had all sorts of energizers and boosters he could take that would give Ratchet that extra kick to get through the day.

He didn't want anything hardcore, but he did take what his date offered him as he made his way out; some strange sort of energy boosters. The packaging said it was all natural in big cybertronian font, but the rest of the label was in some other alien language Ratchet couldn't read. He should know better than taking mystery pills, but Ratchet was pretty desperate for a quick fix to his problems, finals were getting closer after all.

After a few weeks of taking his daily pill, Ratchet felt great. He was full of energy all day long, he was getting plenty of work done rereading his notes and watching lectures, and he's had plenty of compliments on his perfect tight valve from his hookups. The only downsides Ratchet could point out were the extreme jump in his libido and the soreness in his chest. He was always an active bot, but Ratchet had been ready to crawl on other bots to get to their interface arrays. No one he hooked up with had any complaints that Ratchet wanted them around longer, so he didn't take it too seriously. The pain though wasn't as easy to ignore. He just felt so sore and tender, and he felt an increase of pressure on his windshield over time.

It was probably just the stress, he would tell himself. Ratchet had been eating more energon treats lately instead of eating full meals, the junk food binges just saved time in comparison to cooking. The stress probably also didn't help the bloating, he was sure once his exams were over he'd bounce right back to his usual specs. It'd have to be something he worried about later, because Ratchet had another date with his dealer to pick up more of his strange energy pills.

After a while of hot and heavy interfacing, the mech had smacked against Ratchet's windshield when their frames connected, leading the glass to crack. Ratchet didn't panic when pulling the remaining thick glass out of its slot in his chest, he was more shocked what was left from it. Ratchet's swollen chest bulged out the busted window. When he unlatched his armor, he stared in surprise at the enormous heavy energon pouches he didn't remember having a month ago. No wonder the glass had broken, clearly his breasts were too much strain! When he got back to campus he'd have to speak to the university doctors. He hated to say it, but he had to close up and end his hot date early.

The other mech was understanding and handed over Ratchet's energy pills before he left for the evening. Ratchet looked over the package, noticing it had changed from his empty pack. This time the box was a lighter pink, and all the text was in cybertronian. He read the box carefully now that he could understand it and froze up. The packaging wasn't a natural energy booster, or at least it wasn't a good description of what he was given. The pills Ratchet had been taking daily for weeks was what mechs would use to feminize their frames before any update work to lay groundwork for new plating. Ratchet's protoform was redistributing to thicken his thighs and aft and caused his usually inactive excess energon pouches to fill rapidly. It probably tied to his bad eating habits too, he figured. Only wanting sweets to bulk out his protoform more for all the changing it had done. Ratchet barely noticed the changes under his armor, but now that he was really examining it, he did feel more loose in some places and tighter in others.

He bounced between turning around to give his hook up a piece of his mind or going home and ended up just going back to his dorm. He could get angry and do something about the pill switch once exam week was over. He needed his full focus on his classes, even if studying without his pills was exhausting. Maybe just for a little longer Ratchet could stay on his pretty pills, but he'd stop right after exams.... And maybe after the party he planned to go to after exams, after all the horny pent up medbots in training would love to get their hands on his milky tits, and getting fondled by dozens of big strong mechs sounded amazing to Ratchet. -🌱

RATCHET FORCEFEM!!!! Aaaaaa!!!! Medic in training, he should've known not to take strange pills from shady older bots, but spike makes his head muddy, and he liked the promise of a little energy boost. His pills make him feel so good, not in a suspicious way, he's just... so lively and full of energy these days. aw, if only his chest wouldn't ache so much <33 i bet his contract loved watching him fill out a little bit, and his titties spilling out was just the cherry on top.

Ratchet should stop taking the pills, but it would be so stupid to go cold turkey now. And his titties are a big hit with all his classmates, and Ratchet loves having them fondled by big strong hands and maybe he should just have a little reframe so his fat thighs aren't so tight under their plating and maybe get a slightly bigger windshield so his chest isn't too sore all the time.

Soon he'll be a curvy little thing that no mech can take their optics off of...

[fatteningmenstories2]

Coached

Chapter 3

Winter break was the perfect opportunity to make Coach proud, and as Axel entered his hometown he sure didn’t appear much different from when he left, with his extra poundage snugly hidden under his winter layers, but from the moment he sat down for dinner both his parents were left in grasp at their son's new diet. Even Axel was shocked by how much he was eating, a second plate at dinner quickly became the norm and dessert was a rush at the table to get a piece before Axel devoured it all.

But when Axel told his blue-collar dad that he had been placed on the wrestling team, he was over the moon but no one seemed happier than his mum. For years she had been bugging her son to eat and had nearly made herself sick worrying over  Axel not eating enough at college but now with her son returned with a seemingly relentless appetite she couldn’t be more glad. Especially over the holiday season, Axel became her taste taster for all her culinary projects.

Needless to say, Axel wasn’t going hungry over the holidays, in fact remembering Coach’s orders he made sure his stomach never grumbled and his hands were never empty. After his term of uncontrolled drinking and partying, this was the perfect rest bite for him to bulk up for the new term. He would spend his entire day plopped down on the couch scrolling through the channels while his mum made sure he always had something to graze on - his favourite was bringing her double chocolate cookies which he absent-mindedly picked at until all that was left were mere crumbs. It certainly beat being out in the cold running, he thought waiting for his dad to return from work and their daily baragement of beers to begin as they watched the game. 

“Why Axel, I don’t think I've ever seen you eat this much in one go’ His dad laughed on Christmas Day as Axel cleaned his third plate. 

‘You better be careful - you don’t want to end up with this old gut’ His dad went on slapping his round gut. 

“Nonsense Earl, if my son is going to be out there wrestling with men of all sorts he needs all the meats he can get’ His mum said comically slapping his dad on the head as she returned from the kitchen with even more food. 

“Dad don’t’ he paused reaching over to get another piece of turkey  ‘worry, I’m just following Coach’s order’ Axel finished as he piled his plate high with mashed potatoes and gravy.

By the time January arrived, no one was surprised when the Christmas expenses had gone up this year, and it was easy to see where all the money went, as Axel snored in the living room sleeping off a food coma  - his bloated stomach peeping out from under his clothes. 

“Mum why do we have to go clothes shopping’ Axel moaned pushing about the trolley. 

“Huh, hon, just future proofing’ His mum responded reaching into the New Year's sales to eying up some larger clothes for her growing son.

It wasn’t long till Axel was getting ready to head back, and he knew Coach was certainly not going to be disappointed, eating all break meant he had certainly packed on some holiday pounds. Slapping his soft belly, he couldn’t believe he used to have abs there as he stoked his curved gut. As fixed his suffocating briefs he hated to admit it but he needed a bigger size up, his underwear was tight around him and he couldn't deny the small tears he was seeing in them, his old jeans were far out of the question.  Looking in the mirror it was obvious why his old clothes were fit for his trim running bod and was struggling to catch up with his plumper self,  the biggest challenge was change was of course his belly, it was growing in all directions thickening him up as pinched the wad of fat that was developing all around him.  Axel couldn’t help but he turned as he imagined how proud Coach was going to be when he saw him. Bending over the large tearing sound he heard signalled that his underwear had finally called it quits, and his fat arse was the only thing that was growing as pre-cum filled the front of them. 

Waving bye to his parents and promising to stay in contact,  the well-fed Axel couldn’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces when they saw him back bigger. 

                                               ***************

“Woah looks like someone had a happy holiday;

“Nice Axel, wanna hit the new buffet later

“Well, looks like pretty boy finally got the memo’ chuckled Jake towering over Axel in the corridor, sporting his small holiday weight sneaking through his vest

“Yep this is some nice grade fat you’ve got there’ He went on grabbing Axel’s new belly and jiggling - a new feeling for him and his dick.

“Looks like you finally looking like one of us huh’ he said “Coach is going to be proud’ he finished leaving Axel standing there holding his belly hoping his premium wasn’t showing. 

Axel didn’t hesitate to jump straight back into the wrestling lifestyle, sure he missed cracking beers back with his dad and his mom’s homemade cooking but nothing could beat the week of violent drinking the wrestlers threw to celebrate before Coach returned. It seemed like everyone was enjoying Axel finally packing on some and becoming one of the lads. Even Tony took him out to eat, but this had been becoming one of their normal activities so it was hard to tell if it was to celebrate or not. 

“Damn I remember when my gut was  that size’ laughed Tony as the pair of them were getting changed one day 

Axel didn’t know whether Tony was joking or not though, the idea of Tony ever being his size was crazy.

“Yh it suits ya, There won’t be no time at all till you one of us’ he finished.

As Tony’s Loud snores filled the room, Axel was up all night feeling his growing body imagining it bigger and bigger, the entire week the guys had been bringing up his new addition, Axel hadn’t even noticed it sneaking up on him, but now it was all he could think about. His entire life he had had a flat 6 Pac but now he was sporting what the lads were calling a starter gut, and it was stealing his attention. He couldn’t get enough of exploring it and prodding its softness, especially after Jake grabbed it the other day - was it really that noticeable? He could barely see it when he was clothed but the guys easily picked up on it, feeling it now its warm soft doughness it seemed unstoppable, spreading over his body but  before he knew it a hunger grumble came out of it, and as if he was under a spell he got up absent-mindley  to sought out food to feed it

“Why, Why, Why, looks like someone’s been sticking to my regime’ Coach said beaming with joy as Axel entered 

“195lbs’

“34inch waist’

“110 horse”

“What you spend all you holiday doing - eating, well it sure damn looks like it.

Axel didn’t know whether to blush or be ashamed so he stuck in silence 

“I'm just kidding Davidson, I’ve been told my jokes don’t do so well Coach continued sternly 

‘No this is what I would like to see’ he said pinching Axel with a calliper to pull out the extra fat 

“But still you're just shy of our starting weight, so you better give stuffing your face with whatever you doing Davidson we’ve still got some work to do

Axel couldn’t believe it he had stuffed himself blind and still it hadn’t been enough, but he  could tell from the look on Coach’s face he certainly wasn’t disappointed 

‘And Davidson, here’s your new timetable’ Coach said as Axel made his way out of the doors “Got some one on one session with me - we’ve got to start turning that fat into the muscle you hear … ’

But Axel didn’t care what followed all he heard was more one one-on-one with Coach and he was hooked

As the Spring term commenced, Axel found himself spending nearly every hour of the day with the rest of the team, he gamed with them, he drank with them and most frequently he ate with them by the time  February arrived the only thing he didn’t do was train with them. That was left for his one-on-one sessions with Coach, on their first session he eagerly bee-lined to the weights before being smoothly guided away to the mats by Coach where instead he spent his time learning basic manoeuvres and mainly building a centre of gravity as Coach put,  which was just a fancy word for squats. Axel couldn’t complain tho the moment he felt Coach’s strong arms on him he was in 7 heaven praying his erection was hidden. He always left a session with a shake in one hand  and a not-so-hidden semi in his pants. 

What had started over winter with ice-cream tubs being licked clean, dinner plates towering and a relentless appetite only expanded as the college rolled on, blindly goaded on the team. At every angle of his life food was being shoved in front of him, and Axel happily ate it all up after all as the week passed he was seeing the results. At the start of the year, he had been a stick compared to the rest of the team but now Axel was proudly entering chubster territory.   His beginner belly bloomed into a proper gut, rounding out his frame, his pecs had puffed out, pushing his nipples apart as they started to sag under their fat. Every day he could feel his underwear growing tighter and together as his bum was expanding exponentially. When Coach read the scale past 200  he couldn’t contain his glee, this was it he was finally beefing up and it seemed like Coach couldn’t either, treating Axel to an included meal stacked high with pasta and meat and finishing it up with a triple-decker chocolate cake. But even after 4 courses of food Axel kept eating, sitting in front of him was a man who could turn him on with just a look and here was watching Axel stuff his face high, while he kept ordering a bottle of wine. 

‘Kid, you put in some in a good shift today’ Coach said once the bill had been paid for, Axel couldn’t see but the length alone let him know it wasn’t cheap.

“Thanks, Coach, Burrrppppp’, Axel couldn’t keep it all, especially  after the second bottle of wine, it was as if he was filled with gas 

“Please Davidson, call me Creed’ Coach chuckled slapping Axel on the back to relieve more gas.

His touch alone, sent blood straight to Axel’s cock, thankfully under the cover of darkness Axel's secret was hidden, especially with how his too-tight dress pants were definitely not able to conceal his erection. Matter of fact everything he was wearing was too tight, even the shirt his mother had newly brought him was struggling to contain his bloated gut, with gaps of his flesh poking out between the buttons. 

As the two stood there in an awkward silence, their age gap of 30 years not filling the gap, it was Coach who finally broke the silence.

“Say Davidson, I didn’t even get to ordering any dessert before the kitchen closed, and you know as well as me that no meal is complete without dessert!”

‘Yes coach, .. I mean Creed’

“Just what I thought Davidson, follow on’

Axel was so pleased to just follow Coach’s words blindly, as he followed him into the night. Sitting in Coach’s red Corvette the wind in his hair whipping away the sweat from his forehead from dinner, Axel was happily stuffed full and was enjoying being all to seeing Coach Creed up close as the night rolled past them, wearing a back tailored suit, Axel didn’t even think it was possible but Coach looked even dreamy than before. From his salt-and-pepper black haircut short that matched his suit to his chest hairs poking out above his dress shirt, the man knew what looked good. This thought was hammered down when they arrived at Coach’s house, secluded away from the main road and surrounded by miles of green twilight fields, the midcentury house stood out amongst its black backgrounds, even drunker now than he was at the restaurant Axel blindly tried to take it all in as Creed led him in through the large glass front doors. 

‘Davidson just wait there a moment while I get ready’ Coach said as he disappeared into the many doors of his hallway leaving Axel to sit on what he could only presume was a very expensive comfortable couch. Taking in his surroundings, Axel wasn’t surprised to find that just like his office back at college Coach’s walls were littered with trophies and medals celebrating his very successful wrestler career. As he felt his cock harden under his bloated gut lustfully staring at Coach in his tight wrestler gear the loud voice of Coach calling for him broke the silence. 

“Davidson you can come in now.

Breaking his trance, Axel walked though the same doors Coach had once disappeared into, entering a very sleek wooden dining room lit warmly overlooking the mountains. But despite the scenic view just beyond the glass, Axel's mind was instead drawn to the plethora of cakes and deserts that adorned the oak dining table.

“Well Davidson what are you waiting for, go on EAT up!!!” Coach chuckled seeing Axel's drunken trance

And Axel did just that, he didn’t know what came over him but like a pig he was grabbing plates left right and centre, chocolates eclairs stuffed straight down, slices of cheesecakes grabbed and gobbled down, big spoonfuls of ice cream swallowed up. All under the watchful eye of Coach who now stood watching the whole scene, as Axel reached over his gut pressing against the wooden table reaching for more and more deserts. With the empty mountains in the background, it was just them for a miles around, as Axel ravishingly filled his mouth thinking only about food and Coach’s intangible presence in the room. 

“Atta boy, Axel I knew you still had some space in there

Coach goaded him on, as Axel slowed down weighed down by all he stuffed into himself that night, his suit tight around him covered and smeared with creams and chocolate sauces.

‘Why Davidson it looks like you’ve only got one cake left’

Coach said, as Axel had slowed to a halt, wheezing for air too stuffed to even think straight, all that was left on the table of empty dishes was a slice of Triple Layer double creamy chocolate cake calling out to him just out or reach, but as he struggled to hoist himself up in his chair and reach over to grab it, he couldn’t move a muscle glued down by his gluttony, anchored to the chair. 

“Here Davidson let me ’, Coach responded upon seeing Axel’s failed attempt to finish,  expecting Coach to just hand him the cake instead he was met with the warm strong hands of Coach tugging at his suit, slowly Coach removed and folded his suit jacked smeared in chocolate, delicately he turned Axel’s chairs around as he unbuttoned his taut dress shirt, letting Axels gut free from its buttoned prison as it bellowed out for air. And finally, he tugged at his dress pants leaving Axel in the complete nude. All 200lbs of him on display, from every pink stretch mark to roll of fat that had rapidly adorned his body since college had started, a once powerful lither runner now a chubby bloated mess covered in chocolate. 

“There that should be more comfortable’ Coach finished finally passing him the cake

Axel  couldn’t believe it, here he was sat there naked under Coach’s impressive frame who was now hovering the most appetising  cake he had seen just in front of his head. But his arms were too weak, too fatigued from his  abhorrent display of greed that night, he just couldn’t muster them to lift themselves up,  all while  Coach stood over him watching. 

So Axel decide to finally use that head of his, as he lunged forward, biting down on the cake. Bite after chocolatey bite, till all that was left was a small bite just out of reach of his hungry mouth, looking up at the imposing frame that was Coach, not a word was uttered as Coach reached done and stuffed his mouth with the last remaining bite, leaving his fingers in Axel’s mouth  waiting to be licked clean.

“That’s right Davison - I gonna make you the biggest wrestler the world has ever seen’ Coach said retracting his clean fingers form Axel’s mouth 

But it was all too much for Axel who had since lost control, as he felt his dick explode, the cum painting the underside of his gut, leaving the hot mess leaking out onto his fat as he whimpered out a moan -  all while Coach had  stood there smirking down onto him. 

[aisclosed]

Match Found ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - 16 . La Raison

Synopsis: Jungwon is sick of his friends' constant teasing over his lack of gaming skills. Determined to secretly improve and prove enha wrong, Jungwon sets out to learn to play, except he has no clue where to begin. Luckily for him, y/n is a girl with too much time on her hands, a desperate need for distraction and is more than happy to indulge him. Only, things are never that simple and Jungwon soon finds it difficult to explain exactly what the pair have become. college Student! Jungwon x gamer! Reader

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(1.8k) written work + SMAU :: warnings: cursing

“You don’t like it?” Jaemin asks gently, breaking you out of your trance and you stop pushing your food around with your fork, facing him with a guilty smile. 

“No, it's really good Jaemin. I love it,” you take an enthusiastic bite as he watches in amusement. There really wasn’t anything to complain about, you knew that. Jaemin had selected a really nice restaurant if the Michelin stars were anything to go by, but it didn’t have the pretentious ambience that your Dad’s choices usually favored. 

The head chef had come out to greet the pair of you upon arrival, granting Jaemin a warm hug and you an equally enthusiastic welcome. The restaurant was comfortable, with dim lighting and soft music playing to accompany the quiet chatter of the other diners. The food was perfect, the restaurant was perfect, and Jaemin was the perfect date, pulling out your chair for you and making polite conversation despite your clear absentmindedness. 

Everything was perfect, yet your mind can’t help but wander to nights filled with shitty convenience store snacks and dimpled smiles. Nights consumed by the bright lights of monitor screens, playful taunts and shoves, and limbs tangled together. Nights accompanied by quiet conversation underneath the covers, the comfort of broad shoulders under your head and the gentle tremors of affectionate laughter. 

Nights that had been absent for weeks, and each time another day ended with you staring blankly at the ceiling with only your thoughts as company, it seemed those nights would never return. The thought makes your heart thud painfully against its confines, your lungs constricting tighter with each breath. 

“Y/N?” Jaemin prods softly, once again pulling your consciousness from your memories into reality. 

“Fuck” you whisper, rubbing at your temples briefly before looking back up at Jaemin ruefully, “Sorry Jaemin, I’m being the worst date ever. I’m sorry for roping you into this whole thing just to make you sit through my moping. I’ll stop, I promise, how’s your family? It’s been a while since I saw your mom.” 

“My family’s fine but Y/N maybe we should talk? Properly? I was more than happy to take you out because I thought you might need a bit of a distraction but I don’t think I’m being much help.” Jaemin waves off your hurried denials, continuing with a kind smile, “It might be better if you got the whole thing off your chest? No one understands what you’re going through more than me,” he chuckles. 

“ I guess I owe you that much,” you sigh glumly, setting down your fork, letting your eyes fall to your half-eaten plate. You search for the right words to describe exactly how Jungwon had cemented himself into your life, to describe the labeless relationship you shared. 

“So, Jungwon, we uh- met at a PC bang actually. I was running away from my problems, as usual, and he was there. And at first he was like the perfect distraction, someone who knew nothing about my past or my family, didn’t see me with all my baggage and responsibilities attached you know?” 

“And then, I don’t know, we clicked I guess? It was really easy with him, easy to smile, easy to laugh, easy to fall,” you laugh bitterly and Jaemin gives you a sympathetic smile. 

“Anyways, he became a lot more than a distraction to say the least, and now I’m stuck searching for something to distract myself from him,” you snort sardonically at the irony, “He occupies every corner of my mind, I can’t stop looking for him in the smallest things and the biggest moments. He’s everywhere.”

“So what happened? From what I could see from your interactions online and what Chenle told me, he sounded equally whipped for you?” Jaemin asks quizzically, taking another bite of his food, giving you an encouraging nod when you hesitate to continue. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I just deluded myself into thinking so but I thought he liked me too. I guess it wasn’t enough though,” you pause, eyeing Jaemin carefully, “to be honest, Yunjin has another theory as to why he’s avoiding me, and it may or may not involve you.”

Jaemin nods, “Yeah you kind of mentioned it with the whole, ‘Jungwon thinks he can make my decisions for me’ thing.”

“Right,” you cringe at the memory of your anger fueled texts, “So basically, Yunjin thinks that Jungwon might just feel a bit insecure because of the whole us being wealthy thing. My dad might have made it worse by kind of making snide comments, and Jungwon definitely picked up on it. Jungwon isn’t just avoiding me, but he’s sort of pushing me towards you.”

“Y/N, Jungwon might not be going about it the right way but his feelings are definitely understandable,” Jaemin chides, his brows knitting. “Our world is a complicated and daunting one, even for us and we grew up in it. Jungwon seems like someone who has a lot of self respect and pride, and it’s difficult to hold onto that pride when he feels that he has nothing to offer you. He probably cares for you so much that he’s doing what he thinks is best.” 

“I know that!” You snap back defensively, huffing in exasperation. “I can’t fault Jungwon for feeling that way, I know we come from completely different backgrounds. What I can fault him for is giving up on me without even giving it a chance. At the very least he could’ve at least talked to me about how he felt instead of just blowing me off for weeks. You don’t get it Jaemin, Haechan left, Yunjin left, and even Chenle left. I had no one for months, and then Jungwon just walked into my life, spinning my entire world on its axis. I tried to keep my boundaries, Jungwon is the one who pushed through them.So no, he doesn’t get to just brush off my feelings for him without listening and he doesn’t get to make that decision for me.” 

Jaemin watches you with worried eyes, as you blink harshly, willing your eyes to stop stinging. He scoots his chair closer to yours, resting his hand comfortingly over yours, and you let your fingers slowly unfurl from where they had clenched over the cutlery. 

“Y/N, do you remember our violin lessons when we were younger? The ones with Instructor Choi?” Jaemin starts and you tilt your head in confusion. 

“Back then you were really diligent and honestly a bit intimidating, which is why none of us really approached you, we thought you were kind of stuck up honestly. But do you remember my friend Renjun? He was there on a merit grant on your father’s scholarship?” you nod slowly, recalling the Chinese boy with bright eyes and the snaggletooth that peeked out from his smile. 

“Honestly, Renjun was better than all of us back then, but he would never get the solos or first chair. Choi would just take turns sucking up to all our parents for a bonus, and all of us knew but we didn’t really bother doing anything because we didn’t think anything would change. Until the month that Choi tried giving the solo to you. You were only this tall maybe?” Jaemin reminisces fondly, bringing his hand to his torso.

“I still remember like it was yesterday, you know? Your hair pulled back into a big white bow, all dolled up in a matching blouse and skirt. The way your voice never wavered once as you said, in perhaps the most commanding tone to ever come from a little girl, ‘Instructor Choi I know that the Starlight group is doing well in the stock market this week, but I also know that Renjun’s Bariolage technique was much more proficient than mine. So I would suggest that the solo be rightfully given to him.’ All of us were absolutely gobsmacked,” Jaemin snickers at the memory. 

“The first time, little Y/N, the youngest in our group, spoke more than three words and you certainly left quite the impression,” Jaemin teases, “I think half of us walked out that day with a crush on you, myself included,”  he wiggles his brows at you cheekily. You shove him away from you with a roll of your eyes, ignoring the way your cheeks blaze at the confession. 

Jaemin laughs, sweeping his hair back handsomely, “Anyways, the point is, you’ve always been the one to speak up even if everyone else is too afraid to. If it’s important to you and what you believe in, you’ve never let anything stop you before. So, as much as I’d love to entertain the idea of making you Mrs. Na and running DRM with you, I think there’s another future that you’ve already set your sights on. And as idiotic as Jungwon may be acting, I think you’d regret it if you didn’t go and tell him just how much he means to you.” 

You’re frozen in your seat, unable to answer Jaemin’s expectant gaze. When you finally speak your voice comes out a shaky whisper, “What if I tell him, and it’s still not enough for him to want to try? I know Jungwon, if he believes something’s right, it’s nearly impossible to change his mind.”

Jaemin’s eyes soften at the uncertainty that rattles in your throat and he reaches out to squeeze your hand encouragingly, “Y/N do you know why I brought you to La Raison?” 

“Because the food is really good and the Chef gives really good hugs?” 

“No,” Jaemin grins with a shake of his head, “the restaurant is named after a quote I thought you needed to hear. ‘La Raison parle mais L’Amour chante’.” 

“Reason speaks but Love sings,” you laugh breathily and Jaemin smirks in satisfaction, leaning back into his seat. You push your chair back hastily, grabbing your phone and bag. When you turn to grab your coat Jaemin is already holding it out for you, a wide grin stretched across his face. 

You still for a second, pulling Jaemin into a tight hug. “In another life Na Jaemin, I would’ve loved to be yours. But in this one I hope we can at least be friends,” you murmur into his ears. 

Jaemin laughs heartily, returning your hug with an equally warm embrace, “Yeah yeah I guess I’m just your Paris, now go get your Romeo Y/N”. 

You give Jaemin one last grateful squeeze and a blinding smile before rushing out the door. Jaemin watches you leave in a flurry of hair, fur and satin, his beam fading to a wistful smile. In another life, maybe he would’ve been the one to fill the empty space in your life before Jungwon could. He snorts at his own thoughts, dismissing them quickly, Jaemin doubts that a world existed where you and Jungwon didn’t somehow gravitate towards each other, no matter how much time or distance that required. 

"Well, I’ve done as much as I can do. Let’s hope it was enough. I shouldn’t worry too much. En art comme en amour, l'instinct suffit.”

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a/n: Jaemin's last sentence means: "In an art like love, instinct suffices".

ANYWAYS !!!! what do we thinK???? HOW ARE WE FEELING??? if half of you are not in love w jaemin i've failed.

also its 5 AM so i'm srry if this was shit or has any errors lolz i am gts.

taglist: open! send me an ask to be added! <3

@woncloudie @itsactuallylina @ifearjwn @fadedluvv @mangowonyo @shinsou-rii @aki1e @makiswrld @jaehaki @criyiy @ilovewonyo @zeraaax @climbingmandevillas @pkjay @flower-lise @haodnd @beomgyusonlywife @dimplewonie @lacimolela @enhacatalog @llama-lyna @ahnneyong @coalalalinha @cupidsheqrts @curly-fr13s @jungwonsgfnameyukie @sserafimez @run2seob @luvlee1313 @strwberrydinosaur @sweetjaemss @kimipxl @simp4jakesim @chirokookie @astrae4 @mimisamisasa @w3bqrl @captivq @rindomo @aylauwon @positivelyinlovewithjungwon

[eroticbellybloatfan]

Blog Tags

Want to see more of the guys on this blog? Check out the tags

TG - A former chubster who slimmed down in college. Now he can’t help but spend each weekend enjoying lots of pasta, bar food, and beer, and his body is happily taking on the size. Isn’t it fun how all his friends seem to grow bigger and bigger?

ZD - He's grown in the beard to try and keep his jawline visible, but really it's to hide his softening jawline. He might go to the gym occasionally but he lifts burgers up to his mouth just as much as he lifts weights. A strong and soft bulk is sure to draw your attention.

AP - Scrawny guy whose metabolism has finally slowed down but his eating habits haven't. Enjoying beer and any food he can now, not holding back, especially when he's hanging with friends. Enjoys the feeling of his fluffy belly and the rest of his growing body too.

KB - Looks like general laziness and loss of sports are helping make his squarish features flesh out. While he loves the outdoors, an easy hike is a perfect excuse to pig out at dinner. The engineer job helps make sure each added pound is here forever.

CJ - Went from being full of himself to filling himself. Metabolism finally slowed down but his eating habits didn't. Then he got into a relationship and put on even more weight thanks to more home-cooked meals and probably lots of snacks to make sure he’s always fully and happy.

PH - An adventurous little twink. Never concerned with body building or athletics, thin just out of habit. But slowly, through constant consumption of infected media, it spread. First to his belly, then his tits, then everywhere else. Suddenly the cute little guy was becoming a fat man. And he was growing to love it.

BF - He was always pretty skinny, but had a desire to grow and grow those around him. Nowadays living his dream due to his slower metabolism and has started packing on the pounds, along with his friends that he helps feed. Soon he’ll do more than just catch up to his bearish friends while the pounds continue to pile on.

AJ- Looks like he started bulking and all he cares about is putting on size. Keeping a good balance of muscle and fat...for now. Who knows how much longer that balance will last around his ever fattening friends?

TI - He's always been a bigger guy and enjoys getting bigger and showing off his size any chance he gets. For him shirts are an annoying obstruction. He wants everyone to see how big and hot he is, especially his friends. All the easier to corrupt their mindsets.

[oldiesstationlover11607]

This idea just blessed my mind and I’m not sure if you had something like this before, but I was thinking about Tyler x reader, where they started dating like at 14/15 and kind of like their relationship through the year.

Btw, I very very much liked you previous work for my request!!! Much love 🪬

Timeline - Tyler Joseph x Reader

Warnings: small breakup but they get back together lol

Word Count: 2551

A/N: HII I hope this is what you meant - I wasn't sure if you meant the jan - feb year or years until now so i just did that bc i like that better lol enjoy!

New Year’s Eve, Age 14

We met at a New Year’s Eve party at our parents’ work – the only kids at the party while the rest were snug in their beds, escaping the cold weather outside. I didn’t really know Tyler that well at the time, aside from the fact that we had a couple of classes together and that our parents were friends. The smell of catered food filled the air, but what I remember most was the giant tablecloth hiding us from the world. We were tucked underneath it, gossiping and laughing about things neither of us would care to admit later.

“I bet we’ll get stuck at parties like this every year until we’re adults,” Tyler muttered, rolling his eyes as the sound of adults chatting filled the room.

I nodded in agreement, though a small part of me felt excited—like it wasn’t so bad, being stuck here with him.

“Hey, maybe next time we can bring better snacks and make it more fun,” I joked, nudging him playfully with my shoulder. His grin widened, and for the first time that night, I noticed how easy it was to talk to him.

A Few Months Later, Age 15

Our parents’ friendship meant we saw each other more often. Weekend dinners, work events, school functions – Tyler was always there. It didn’t take long before our inside jokes and late-night texts became a normal thing. He’d sneak glances at me in class, and I’d find myself waiting for him at lunch.

It was at one of those weekend dinners that something changed. We were sitting on the porch, far away from the noise inside. The cool night air made the stars look brighter, and I could feel the warmth of his arm next to mine.

“I think you’re really cool, you know,” he said out of nowhere, his voice quieter than usual. “And… I kind of like you.”

His words hung in the air between us, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined them. My heart raced, and before I knew it, I was smiling.

“I like you too, Tyler,” I admitted, feeling the weight of my confession lift from my chest.

We didn’t say anything for a moment, just sat there in the quiet, but it felt different – like we were no longer just two kids stuck at a party.

Age 16

A year later, we were officially dating. Tyler asked me out the day before my sixteenth birthday. It wasn’t anything extravagant—just a movie night at the mall—but to me, it felt perfect. He held my hand during the whole film, and when it was over, he insisted on walking me home, even though it was out of his way.

“I guess this makes it official,” I teased, as we stood outside my door, the soft glow of the street lamp shining on his face.

He grinned that same grin from the New Year’s Eve party. “Guess so.”

Before I could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed me. It was soft, sweet, and just enough to make my heart skip a beat. We both laughed afterward, awkwardly pulling away, but the butterflies in my stomach told me I wouldn’t forget it.

Age 18

High school graduation was bittersweet. We’d spent four years figuring each other out, and while our relationship had its ups and downs, we were still together. But now, the reality of college loomed over us, and neither of us had made any decisions.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen,” Tyler admitted one night, as we sat on the hood of his car, staring out at the city lights. “I mean, I want to stay with you, but…”

“I know,” I whispered. The uncertainty scared me too. We had grown so much together, and the idea of drifting apart felt like losing a part of myself.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if that was true. Tyler’s hand found mine, and we stayed like that, holding on to each other a little tighter, trying to make the moment last.

Age 19 

Life after high school became a whirlwind. Tyler had started playing more shows, small gigs here and there. It was clear that music wasn’t just a hobby for him; it was his passion. He’d spend hours working on songs in his basement, calling me late at night to play new riffs or share lyrics.

By the time Twenty One Pilots released their self-titled album, things were different. Tyler was different. His focus shifted more and more to the band. Don’t get me wrong – I was proud of him, but I could feel the distance starting to creep in. There were nights when he was on stage, surrounded by people, and I’d be sitting in the back of the room, wondering when we’d have time for us again.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised after one show, his voice tired but determined. “I’m doing this for us.”

I wanted to believe him.

Age 22

By the time Regional at Best came out, the band’s momentum was undeniable. Tyler was writing more, performing more, and slowly slipping away. We’d gone from texting constantly and spending weekends together to barely seeing each other for weeks.

The night we broke up was quiet. We were sitting in his car, parked outside my apartment. I could feel it coming, the way the silence settled between us.

“This isn’t working, is it?” I finally said, my voice trembling.

Tyler’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. He didn’t deny it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how to do this – the band, the tours, us. I’m just… lost right now.”

I nodded, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. “I love you, Tyler. But I can’t keep waiting for you to figure it out.”

That was it. No yelling, no blame. Just the quiet, inevitable end of something we both knew had been slipping away for a while.

Age 24 – Vessel

Vessel was a turning point – not just for Tyler, but for us. After months of barely speaking, he called me out of the blue. It was late, past midnight, but I recognized the familiar strain in his voice immediately.

“I’m recording again,” he said. “But something’s missing. I’m missing you.”

I could hear the vulnerability in his words, and it took me right back to when we were kids hiding under that table at the New Year’s Eve party.

“I don’t know how to fix everything,” he admitted, his voice small. “But I want to try.”

Hearing him say that—hearing him want to try again—made something inside me soften. We weren’t perfect, far from it, but we both knew that what we had was worth fighting for.

When we got back together, it wasn’t easy. He was still touring, still building the band with Josh, but this time, he made an effort. We made an effort. He made space for me, for us, even when it felt impossible.

Age 26

Blurryface changed everything. Tyler had been in a rough place when he started writing it—doubting himself, his music, everything. He shut himself off from everyone, including me, spending days locked away in the studio. It was like the closer he got to finishing the album, the further he drifted emotionally.

I’ll never forget the night he came home, completely worn out. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said, collapsing onto the couch next to me. “The pressure, the expectations… it’s too much.”

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close. “You’re not alone, Ty. I’m here.”

He looked up at me, eyes glassy, and for the first time in a long time, he let his guard down completely. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Blurryface was a huge success, but what mattered more was that through it all, we grew stronger. We learned how to communicate better, how to be there for each other even when life got crazy.

Age 28

It wasn’t long after Blurryface that Tyler proposed. We’d been through so much together—years of ups and downs, breakups and makeups—and it finally felt like the right time.

He popped the question in the most Tyler way possible: quietly, privately, just the two of us. We were sitting on the porch again, like we had when we were kids, talking about everything and nothing.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he started, his voice soft, almost nervous.

“What’s that?” I asked, glancing over at him.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small box. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears welled in my eyes as he opened the box, revealing the ring. “Will you marry me?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes,” I whispered, pulling him into a kiss. “A thousand times yes.”

Age 30

The release of Trench was an emotional time for Tyler. He was proud of the album, but it came from a dark place. But despite the intensity of the music, life was looking up for us. We’d been married for almost two years, and I was pregnant with our first child.

The day I told Tyler was one of the happiest moments of my life. His eyes lit up in disbelief, and he pulled me into a tight hug, laughing and crying all at once.

“We’re going to be parents,” he whispered, resting his hand on my stomach as if he couldn’t believe it.

Our daughter was born just before Trench dropped, and Tyler was there for every moment he could be, even in the middle of the hectic album release. Seeing him hold our baby girl for the first time was something I’ll never forget. The way his eyes softened, the way he cradled her so gently—it was like he’d found a new kind of love.

Age 33 

By the time Scaled and Icy came out, the world was a different place. The pandemic hit, and like everyone else, we were suddenly confined to our home. For Tyler, it was both a blessing and a curse. He wasn’t on tour, he wasn’t caught up in the constant whirlwind of shows and travel, but the isolation took a toll.

We spent most days together as a family—me, Tyler, and our two kids. It was strange at first, having so much time. We made forts in the living room, did puzzles with the kids, and Tyler wrote music whenever he found a quiet moment. He even turned one of the rooms into a makeshift studio, working on what would become Scaled and Icy.

But there was this undercurrent of restlessness in him. I saw it in the way he’d pace around the house, or stay up late working on songs. He was trying to stay positive, to push past the uncertainty, but the weight of the world had a way of creeping in.

One night, as we sat on the couch after the kids went to bed, he leaned his head against my shoulder. “I miss performing,” he admitted softly. “I miss connecting with people. It feels like there’s this… distance between me and everything that made sense before.”

I stroked his hair gently, trying to comfort him. “You’ll get back there. The world will get back there.”

He sighed, nodding, but I could tell the anxiety was still gnawing at him. Scaled and Icy was different—it was brighter, more optimistic than anything he’d made before, but I knew that beneath that surface, Tyler was still wrestling with his own doubts.

When the album dropped in 2021, it was strange not to celebrate it with a tour. Everything was virtual. Tyler and Josh did livestreams, connected with fans online, but it wasn’t the same. Yet, despite the limitations, the album was a success. It was a beacon of hope during a dark time, a way for fans to escape, even for a little while.

At home, Tyler tried to stay present with the kids. He’d sing them songs from the album, making silly faces to get them to laugh. I could see how much it meant to him to have this time with them. For all the chaos the pandemic caused, it brought us closer as a family.

Age 35

Now, two years later, things are shifting again. The world is slowly coming back to life, and so is Tyler’s creative energy. He’s been talking more about his next project—Clancy. It’s something he’s been hinting at for years, but now, it’s finally happening.

The music he’s been working on feels darker, deeper, like he’s exploring parts of himself he’s kept hidden. He’s mentioned Clancy before in the Trench era, but now it feels like he’s diving headfirst into the story. He doesn’t talk much about it, but I can tell it’s personal—more personal than anything he’s ever written.

“You’re okay, right?” I ask him one night, as he’s sitting with his guitar, strumming softly. The kids are asleep, and it’s just the two of us in the quiet of the living room.

He looks up at me, his eyes shadowed but steady. “Yeah. I’m okay. I just… I want this to be perfect. I’ve been holding onto this idea for so long, and now that it’s real, it’s kind of terrifying.”

I sit beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself, you know.”

He smiles, a soft, grateful smile. “I know. And I won’t.”

The Clancy era feels monumental—not just for him, but for us. We’ve come a long way since those early days of the band, when everything felt uncertain. Now, with three kids and a house full of memories, our life is different, but it’s still us.

The new music Tyler’s creating feels like it’s a culmination of everything he’s been through—his struggles, his doubts, the pressures of fame, and the love he’s built with me and our family. He talks about Clancy like it’s more than a character—it’s a part of himself, the part that’s still searching for answers.

And now, with the Clancy tour looming, things are picking up again. This time, though, it feels different. There’s a sense of balance, like Tyler knows how to handle it. We’ve been through so much together—breakups, makeups, the highs of album releases and the lows of feeling lost. But now, there’s a quiet confidence in him, like he’s learned how to navigate the chaos.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says as he packs for the tour, folding shirts into his suitcase. Our youngest is tugging at his pant leg, and he kneels down to kiss her forehead.

“We’ll miss you too,” I say, watching him with the kids. It’s always hard when he leaves, but this time, it feels different. Like we’ve reached a new understanding, a new chapter.

As he zips up his suitcase and turns to me, he pulls me into a tight hug. “This time, I’m not just doing it for me. I’m doing it for us.”

I smile, pressing my forehead against his. “We’ve got you.”

The tour will take him away for months, but I know we’ll be alright. We always are.

//

REQUESTS OPEN

[narrators-journal]

How to get a promotion 101

Well, I'll be honest. Some of these asks are taking so much time p simply bc I'm working on my fic, or I can't think of much for them. Like, good set ups, or creative smut for the nsfw stuff. But! I did finally cook something up for this prompt! So I hope you enjoy, and I hope Haru is in character, at least a lil lol.

CW: Femdom, office sex, blueballing kinda, lol.

You had gone to college to have a high paying job. Something that would grant you the freedom to enjoy life while also being stable. That was the dream, anyways. Yet, the more reasonable side of yourself knew that to feasibly reach that dream, you had to climb the ladder still. So, you had bitten the bullet and gotten a meager assistant’s job.

Which, was how you had come to work for Okumura foods, under Haru Okumura herself.

A gorgeous woman who had found the perfect balance between being approachable and sweet, yet efficient and ruthless when it was required. She was almost an inspiration for you, so, even though you disliked playing puppy and fetching things for others, you looked at your assistant job as less of a tolerable humiliation, and more as a chance to learn from such a put together woman.

It didn’t hurt that Haru was beyond gorgous as well. With curly brown hair that framed her doll-like face, warm, chocolate-y eyes, a perfectly filled out body and an easy laugh, Your boss had pretty quickly become your workplace crush.

The shrill cry of your phone abruptly put a stop to those thoughts. “Yes, Ms. Okumura?” you chirped into the phone, hearing a tired sigh from the other end, “I have no time for pleasantries. Just be a good boy and start a pot of tea for me so that it’s ready when I get back.” She ordered, the edge of irritation in her words already warning you of how rough her latest meeting must have been, but it was hard to focus on that part of her words with the phrase ‘good boy’ rattling around in your skull. “-Are you listening?” She snapped, the harsh crack of her words snapping you out of your own head and sent you scrambling for words. “Oh! Y-yes ma’am! Right away, ma’am!” which, got an annoyed hum, “Repeat back what I told you to do, so I’m sure you understood.” Your boss ordered, her temper soothed slightly, but the- playful? -firmness of her words still lit a fire in your belly. But, you swallowed down the knot in your throat to reply, “U-uh...you asked me to get you some...tea, ma’am.” “Good boy,” she said again, as if she was aware of how those two words had shaken you the first time, “I’ll be back in ten minutes, have it ready by then.”

With that, Haru hung up, and you were left listening to the dial tone for a few heart beats before you remembered to finally put the phone back in its cradle. God....am I into that?You asked yourself as you sat back in your office chair, your eyes staring forward into the emails you had been mindlessly sorting through before Haru had called. Yet, before you let yourself contemplate what embarrassment that meant for you, you got to your feet and hurried to prepare your boss’ tea kettle.

So, by the time your boss swished into the office, her skirt fluttering around her shapely legs, her light brown hair as perfect as usual, and her warm autumnal eyes sharp, you were back at your desk. Obediently at work on the latest reports and emails until Haru stopped at her door to say, “Be a dear and come into my office. I need you to do something for me, dear.” Which, made you blink in confusion, but you got up nonetheless to follow her in.

And, befitting a woman of her status, her office was impressive. Rather spacious, with a cabinet of fine liquors to offer her guests or show off her wealth, a strong, dark-wooded desk decorated with pictures of her friends and papers, with two windows to give her plenty of sunlight and a view. It was the type of office you wanted one day, when you had your own business.

”Thank you for starting my tea for me, by the way,” Haru hummed as she sat in the comfortable desk chair she had, snapping you out of your thoughts of the future. “Oh, of course ma’am, I just hope I didn’t mess up your kettle or anything.” You said, which made her laugh lightly, a wonderful sound. “Don’t worry, I doubt you did. Though, could you do me one more favor?” She asked, giving you a sweet smile, “Could you give me a shoulder massage? That meeting has me very, very tense.” “Of course, ms. Okumura,” You hummed as you walked behind her chair and put your hands on her shoulders to slowly start working the tension from her muscles. All the while, her warm vanilla perfume wafted up to you to worm into your mind like an intoxicant.

Yet, the hypnosis of her alluring scent was interrupted when your boss let out a small moan and leaned into the circles your thumbs worked into her. “You’re so good at this, I should have you rub my shoulders more often.” Haru hummed, her eyes closed as she apparently enjoyed your touch, so she didn’t see the light dusting of heat her simple praise received. “Well, thank you, ma’am. I am...here to please.” You said with a small, flustered chuckle. “Here to please, hm?” The brunette hummed, opening her eyes to examine your face for a long moment before she asked, “How eager are you to please, then? I could use some pleasing after that meeting.” Her flirtatious tone nowhere near hidden while her dark eyes studied you while you contemplated the next move. Is she really coming onto me? Holy shit, has she been hitting on me for a while now? You asked yourself. And, with a glance back at the gorgeous woman who watched you with a small smile on her glossed lips, it was sealed. I mean, shit. If she has, I should take this shot for sure. “I like to think I’m pretty eager, ma’am. Is there something else you’d prefer I do?” You asked, your massage paused while you and your boss simply looked at one another.

Until, finally, Haru broke the staring contest and got up from her chair to chirp, “In that case! Be a good boy, and get under my desk. I know just the way you can help me de-stress!” with a bright smile, which, threw you off of your game. “Excuse me, Ms. Okumura? You lost me.” You asked, so the woman took a step towards you, her smile bright yet her words laced with a command. “Get under my desk. You want to please me, right? Then do as your told.” She ordered, and while she wasn’t a bitch about it, her words alone were enough to send another bolt through your body

So, you did as you were told. Allowed to watch from beneath the dark-wooded desk as Haru slid her panties from beneath her skirt and returned to her chair. “Now, be a good boy and eat me out, okay?” She said, and, again, her voice left little room to argue. So, you didn’t try. Simply moving to sit between her feet and get to work.

I really did not expect to discover this at work.You thought as you leaned forward and let your tongue slide over your boss’ folds. But what a hell of a woman to learn it from…

With that, and a growing boner in your pants, you set about devouring the woman in front of you. Pushing your tongue between her folds, sucking at her clit gently, and drinking down each small hum and breathed moan she gave. Encouraged further each time Haru’s plush thighs twitched with the threat of suffocating you between them or whispered bit of praise from her mouth. On some level, if she had decided to suffocate you between her legs and drown you in the warm slick that poured from her cunt, you wouldn’t have minded.

However, she, sadly, didn’t snap your neck with her soft thighs. The worst she did was reach down to tangle a manicured hand into your hair to encourage your tongue to dive into her slick warmth. And, when you obeyed the hints, you were rewarded with a louder moan and a tug at your hair. “God, you’re doing so good, baby. Keep that up,” She breathed, meanwhile, her words sent a bolt of fresh heat into your groin as she let go of you after a moment so that she could return to her paperwork. At least, until the alternating stimulation of your tongue thrusting into her willing cunt and working at her clit, inevitably broke her concentration yet again. But, her work wasn’t what was on your mind in that moment. All of your focus was eaten up by the tent in your pants, the teased threat of Haru’s plump thighs closing around your head, the taste of her arousal on your tongue, and the way her pussy squeezed the muscle each time you slipped it into her.

So, the finance reports could’ve caught on fire for all you cared. Especially when you felt Haru begin to shudder and squirm under your tongue while she panted and moaned more. So, you focused your attention to pressing your tongue to her clit and thrusting the wet muscle into her until you felt her fingers tangle back into your hair and her legs finally close around your head. Trapping your mouth against her spasming cunt as she rode out her orgasm with a whine. Though, after she had begun to come down from the euphoria high, she still kept you trapped between her legs for a moment longer before finally allowing you to catch your breath.

While you panted, Haru let out a slow breath of her own, pushing her chair back to look beneath the desk at you with a small smile on her lips. “Poor boy, you’re all riled up, aren’t you?” She noted, glancing down at the tent in your work pants as her smile grew and her warm brown eyes twinkled, “Would you like some help with that?~” and, she smiled when you nodded, the need and desire creating a thick, neglected fog in your head, “Uh, yes ma’am.” you breathed, but your boss merely hummed at the desperation you were sure was in your eyes and twirled a lock of curly brown hair around one of her manicured fingers. And, she took her sweet time to chew on your situation, keeping you trapped beneath her desk as she did. “In that case, I want you to refrain from touching yourself for the rest of the day, alright? If you’re a good boy and do that, I’ll help you with that.” She finally said, which made you scowl, but her, laugh. “Don’t make such a face, it’s only a few more hours, dear. I’m sure you can do it.” She assured, before she finally pushed her chair back and got up to pull her underwear back on.

With that, she went over to her tea kettle as if the topic stopped there. So, you climbed out from beneath the desk and readjusted yourself with another scowl. Yet, when Haru next spoke to you, she was back to business as usual, so, begrudgingly, you did your best to do the same. After all, you couldn’t keep your job and climb the social ladder if you got fired for slacking.

[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 ♡⊹˚₊

[junhanndee]

the essay / junhan

in the midst of discovering life and growing up, you discover just where you found love.

warnings : fluff!!!!, friends to lovers, mutual pining, neighbors, new girl y/n, high school, college au

while growing up, junhan had always thought he had an idea of love. it was when his mom would make him food every night or when his parents would take him out to eat every birthday. that was love to him, until he met you.

you had came into junhans life as a new neighbor, while you both were preparing for high school and what you thought would be adult hood. he still remembers the first day he saw you carrying a box into your house followed by a string of curse words due to the heaviness of said box.

although he doesn’t remember becoming so close to you that he couldn’t ever imagine spending his time with anybody else.

starting high school out in the beginning is never easy. from the freshman jokes to the stress on the back of all new comers, he could only imagine what it was like for you. new house, new people, new school, just basically new everything.

when he saw you in the hallways looking confused as ever, he couldn’t help but stop to ask if you needed some help, just to discover you were both headed to the homeroom you would both share for the next four years.

ever since that day, you’d became inseparable. staying up late every night talking about what the next day would have in store and what fun things you would do after school. it became a common occurrence to be at his house with his family or vice versa. you just knew that you were so glad to have a friend like him in your life.

around your senior year, things had slightly changed. you of course by now had your own friends and junhan following suit with some new, some old. time with him was seldom but still held the same safe space as it did throughout all the years of highschool so far.

it was one night in particular that you could recall as if it had just happened. junhan was sitting on your bed whilst you were sat at your desk. he had bought a guitar about a year ago to ‘fill the void in his life’ as he likes to say.

junhan had found his passion, guitar. he would stay up until the morning of the next day practicing and practicing just to get a single riff perfect. of course to show you after school or as soon as he could.

this night in particular made your heart move just a little more than it ever had before.

you looked over at junhan to see him playing away on his guitar in his own little world. the way his eyebrows furrowed every time a sour note would ring in the air, his fluffy hair barely reaching the tops of his eyelids, and his white rimmed glasses tipping the bridge of his nose.

you sat there for a bit before you started to think about all the time you shared with him.

the times that he would offer nothing less than a space space to you when you truly needed it, when he would push your hair out of your face when you had studied just slightly enough to cause a ruffle in your hair, and all those times you never realized how thankful you were for somebody like him.

“y/n, you’re staring or you’re blanking which one is it” junhan ask snapping you out of your thoughts

“well, i don’t know where i’m going with this paper and your guitar is just slightly more interesting” you say while motioning for him to scoot over so you could sit criss cross next to him on your bed

“you know, i have a question and i don’t want you to take it weirdly…. i’m just not the best with my words.” you say while glancing over to him to meet his eyes

“you’re making me nervous…. what’s up??” he asks while slightly giggling and putting his guitar down on the floor, moving to face you

“have you ever thought about what love is?” you ask and begin to play with your hands “like i don’t know just like realizing it’s more than what you may think it is?”

“well, if i’m being honest, not really. i think of love and i think about my parents and what they’ve done for me but nothing like in love or romantics” he says while slightly looking to the side

“i think that love can be many things, i was writing about it so that’s why i asked! i’ll add that to my essay if you wouldn’t mind…?” you ask while making your way back to your desk

“oh yeah! that’s fine, but you’ll have to let me read it later!!” he says while beginning to pack his things up

“yeah maybe when we are freshman in college” you say while trying to hold back some nervousness in your tone

“well as long as i get to read it! i’m going to go ahead and go home. early day tomorrow!” he says knowing this week will start graduation week for the both of you.

as he leaves the room, you let a sigh of relief out. junhan didn’t question it but little did he know, your essay was about him. about how love can be found in many things.

that night you realized that love was what you had for junhan. maybe even in a more than friends way even if he didn’t feel the same.

and the same for junhan, ever since that night, he began to think about the same thing you had that very night. he began to slowly realize that maybe he did love you and just maybe love could be found in different places.

with time also came graduation, and with graduation also came college. luckily for you and junhan, you would be both be attending the university in your town to save on college costs and living costs too.

junhan just couldn’t help but think and think about what you had said to him, even in the middle of freshman year.

“hey y/n!!” junhan said to you while walking into your room

“oh hey! did your class end early?” you ask checking the time “wait like super early??”

“well our professor is super sick right now so he decided to cancel class for tonight” junhan said while setting his things down and coming to sit next to you on your bed.

“ohhhh that makes sense….. i mean sucks he’s sick but hey! no class right” you said while playfully hitting his arm and falling back onto your bed which junhan followed.

“you know, you said you’d let me read that essay once we were in college right?” he says while turning his head to look at you

“oh junhan…. i don’t know if i ever have that essay anymore!! plus it was just a dumb essay, nothing really important” you say while finding yourself quite nervous

“i know it’s still on your computer!! i saw your google docs like…. three days ago!! come onnnn y/n i just want to read it.” junhan says while slightly sitting himself up on the edge of your bed.

you ponder for a bit and wonder if you should just come up with an excuse but you decide ultimately it was best to just tell him than him reading a dumb essay about your love discovery.

“jun, can i explain it to you?” you ask while bringing yourself to sit up next to him

“sure!! but i’d still like to read it eventually if you’d let me”

“well, it was about love as you know, and finding love in all sorts of things. but the main point of the essay was to show the love that i had found in…. you.” you say while fidgeting with your fingers.

“just throughout the years, you’ve always been there for me. even in ways i didn’t realize until now. the times where you would stay up with me with flash cards for a test you didn’t even have or the times where i would cry and you would just hold me like you didn’t have more important things to do. that’s love to me jun, and i love you.” you say fighting back all nervousness in your system.

“y/n…..” junhan says while looking at your face

“look i know it’s stupid really, it was just an essay thoug-” you begin to say until you feel a pair of lips pressed against yours

pulling away junhan holds your face in his hands, causing you to make direct eye contact with him.

“oh y/n how much i love and have loved you. i found love in you too….”

“so does this mean i don’t look really stupid right now?” you ask and with a slight giggle junhan is pressing another kiss to your lips as if he hadn’t a minute before.

breaking away from the kids junhan does nothing but reassure you that you’re not stupid and he really couldn’t believe how long it took for you to both see love in each other.

“so when can i read this essay…?”

“JUNHAN!!!!!!!”

[being-addie]

hi girl, how are you? I hope ur fine and that everything's perfectly okay, i got some questions, if u don't mind answering.

so on September it's my freshman year, im so excited, and especially bcz im going to a new school, which means new people, new experiences and stuff.

Ik high school isn't as perfect as i see it in movies, and that my skl won't take us on a road trip and leave us all alone so we can have fun 💀 but i was wondering if u had any tips for high skl.

I also kinda wanna have a glow up, both physical and mental, during summer, and since ur a whole glowup guru I thought u could give me a "program" to follow so i can look, think and behave better, especially cz my mom doesn't allow me to go out so no gym or activities outside, and she thinks im too young to have a skincare or follow a diet yk.

thank u so much in advance, i absolutely love ur posts, and if u can't or don't have time to answer, that's perfectly fine, stay safe hun<33

hello love,

sorry this is late. classes have been insane. congratulations on your new school! it's always exciting when you try something new, and I promise you're gonna love it.

now, im assuming you're 15/16 years old, since you're a freshman. Before I say anything about having fun in high school, I need to you remember that while TV and movies glorify high school as this really crazy time where you party and have fun (yes, you will have fun I promise), its important to keep in mind that these four years will help you decide your future and get into college. So work hard, and party harder.

Okay, now that I've said that, let's tackle this bit by bit.

How to have fun in high school:

Have sleepovers: They're a fun and easy way to bond with friends. Order tons of junk food and stay up all night.

Picnics: My favourite activity. Dress up and have a themed picnic, and have a photoshoot.

Pool party: If someone you know has a pool, go have fun in the water!

Hang out: Honestly, this was the most fun I had in high school. Just meet at someone's house or at the park, and just chat. Or bring an activity to do together (crochet, playing cards, etc). Buy some snacks and play some music and it's the most chill vibe ever. You will love it.

Start a band: If you play an insturment/ sing, start a band! It's so much fun to practice and perform with friends!

Join a club: You can make lots of like-minded friends at clubs at school. Pick something you really like to do.

How to glow-up for high school:

Workout:

There's no rule that the gym is the only place to workout. When I was 15, I wasn't allowed to the gym either, so I had to make do.

Youtube videos: There are tons and tons of great workout videos from people with a large following. My favourites are Caroline Girvan, growingannanas, Pamela Reif and Madfit. Go get sweaty!

Makeshift weights: You can water bottles filled with water/sand as weights or buy ankle weights to put around your wrists as you get stronger.

Run: This is an amazing source of cardio. I gave up a while back on this because I detest running, but it really does work. Plug in your headphones and go for a run in nature.

Dance: Dancing is a really fun way to workout. Try Zumba, hip-hop or K-pop routines. Hell, even Just Dance has some good ones. Join a class if you want to stay accountable.

Diet:

Honestly, I can't give a lot of advice to you here, because I'm not qualified enough. Go to a nutritionist to see if there's anything you can do. If not, make sure to eat plenty of protein and fibre, limit your junk food intake and drink lots of water. Make lots of salads and fruit bowls. Overnight oats are healthy, filling and delicious.

What I like to do, is eat everything in moderation. Say I've had a healthy breakfast, lunch and dinner. I won't deny myself a nice bowl of ice-cream (again, not a sundae, the key is moderation). But if I've had greasy food for lunch and takeout for dinner, I'll probably settle for fruit instead. Know that you can eat without punishing yourself, but remember not to go overboard. Food is fuel, remember.

Other tips:

Skincare: Don't make it too fancy. I know influencers and the like have those weird 15-step skincare routines, but it isn't necessary. I use the Cetaphil Gentle Skin Cleanser, and the most basic Cetaphil face lotion I could find along with an organic lip balm my mom buys. It works like a charm and itsn to too fancy. I also take an ABC smoothie (Apple, Beetroot, Carrot + some water.) This is such a game-changer.

Abundance mindset: I like to think of the universe constantly working in my favour. It's always looking out for me, and I'm the luckiest girl in the world. What you think is what you attract. If you think negatively, you will begin to see only bad things around you. Stay positive.

Wardrobe: Go thrifting, or DIY some old clothes. Pinterest has tons of amazing ideas. Paint your T-shirts, dye your skirts, make cute jewellery at home. There are no limits.

Makeup: I don't recommend it honestly. I'm more or less anti makeup to the point where I only own two pieces of makeup(eyeliner and lip gloss) and even those are used sparingly. Don't get used to your painted face. Your natural beauty is beautiful; and should not be hidden. There's something so amazing in someone who is confident in their own skin. Own yourself, and people will love you more for it.

This post became incredibly long lmao, but I hope I was able to help. DM me if you want more tips. You got this xoxo

<3

[rachelxhan]

BASICS

FULL NAME: Rachel Fenna Han

NICKNAME(S): Rach, Rachy-Roo 

D.O.B / AGE: October 23, 1982 / 42

RESIDENT IN BLUE HARBOR: Moved here in September 2021

GENDER: Cis-female 

PRONOUNS: she/her 

SEXUALITY: Bisexual 

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic 

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Divorced; Single 

HOMETOWN: Boston, MA 

OCCUPATION: Op-Ed Journalist of The Blue News

NEIGHBORHOOD: Deer Park 

PETS: dog- Dachsund; Walter (named after Walter Cronkite) 

PERSONALITY 

LIKES: books, coffee, travel, music, learning, family/friends, news, crocheting, eating food, volunteering (she volunteers at Bright Sparks), playing softball (she is in a community league)

DISLIKES: disappointing others, pretentious people, know-it-alls, cooking food 

POSITIVE TRAITS: smart, kind, gregarious, social, brave 

NEGATIVE TRAITS: selfless/self-sabotaging, quick temper, overthinker, martyr-complex

TW: infertility, depression, cancer

Rachel Hargrove was a city kid through and through. She was born and raised in Boston and was independent from an early age. Her parents were both world renowned surgeons working at Massachusetts General Hospital, first generation United States citizen on both sides. Her mother Dutch and her father Chinese. She did have a privileged lifestyle even if it could be a lonely childhood at times. She had her curiosity though, always asking questions that didn’t come with easy answers. A tradition she always loved was watching the nightly news. She wanted to know what was going on in the world. The love of informing others made her realize just how much she wanted to become a journalist. She wrote for her school newspapers, she got a job while she was still in high school for the town paper, she was committed to knowledge and spreading that to others. 

When it came to looking for colleges, her mother and father said they would spare no expense for her. And although she did love the schools in Boston, Rachel felt the need to go explore. So she applied to go to University of California-Berkeley for journalism. It was a dream school and she knew it could be a long shot, but she had good grades and an impressive amount of extracurriculars (newspaper, swim, volunteering, student government, etc.) She got in and moved out West, filled with a brand new excitement. She was in awe of the beauty California had to offer. She found herself becoming a more generous and open person too. Some of the walls she had put up were melting down. The want for knowledge was still there, but some of her competitive attitude made way for more vulnerability and empathy. The articles she wrote for the school went from being declarative pieces to op-eds that gained her employment in San Francisco.

She still found herself missing Boston a bit, the dream of working at the Boston Globe still in the back of her mind as she worked on fluff pieces at work. She at least had made friends though including her photographer that she worked with, Luke. She was 24 when she went to Luke’s birthday party and met Charlie. Rachel had never been one for dating in the past, but there was intriguing hard softness to the man that she fell for quickly. Their passion was overflowing and it made her realize just how much she saw a future that included him and a family with him and that dream became a reality when he asked her to marry him. A few years later, the second part of the dream came true when she got a call from a former college classmate that had been working at the Boston Globe for a few years said she would be perfect for the position opening up and had already recommended her for it.

Asking Charlie to move his life away from a place he had grown up and lived in all his life felt selfish, she tried convincing herself it was just for the job and telling him just how amazing the universities in Boston were as well. But, part of her knew that she also wanted to be closer to her family again, which looked more picture perfect than Charlie’s own family. When he agreed, she felt so grateful for his sacrifice. When they moved into their new home, they started trying for kids. It was amazing at first, the excitement of it all, until they both realized nothing was happening. It was time for a consultation. Rachel had endometriosis and the likelihood of her being able to not only become pregnant, but carry a child to full term was 0.1% She felt at fault, she wanted to give Charlie a family so badly, but she couldn’t and it made her feel like a disappointment as a wife. 

For a while after the news, she couldn’t tell if Charlie was upset with her or if she was putting this burden she felt on him. Rachel began working more, their routines conflicting, no more days of relaxing in bed all day or going on adventures to learn all they could, no more sitting in their favorite armchair together having silly arguments over specific books. Sometimes they wouldn’t even see each other unless it was bedtime. And when they did see each other their arguments were about not spending enough time together or small things that led to bigger things and she would feel as though she had taken Charlie’s life away from him and not been able to give him anything in return. The longer they stayed together, the more she hated herself for making him stay with her. She loved him so much, but what she couldn’t do was love herself. And instead of reaching out to him for help, she pushed him further and further away until she knew the right thing to do by loving him was to let him go. She asked for a divorce, and let him know he could have anything and everything, he deserved it for what she put him through. 

When all was said and done and Rachel moved out of their place to let him have it, the emptiness was all consuming. Her motivation to work and will to do much of anything was gone. It took her a few months to ask for help, but finally she started the process of finding a therapist, knowing it was time she needed to re-enter the real world. What she began to realize though as she found herself becoming more and more aware of how she was feeling was how much she still loved Charlie. He was everywhere she went, she began to realize she had made a colossal mistake. Instead of telling him she needed help, instead of fighting for them, she had failed him and herself. She had done wrong by him and she wanted to see if she could reconcile. But when she got to their old place, he was no longer there. So she called Luke, pleaded with him to tell her where Charlie had gone. He finally cracked. Blue Harbor. 

Rachel quit her job and told her therapist she was going to fight like hell for a second chance. She packed up her belongings, which had shrunk quite a bit after the divorce, and asked her mom for a ride to the airport. Her mom kept asking on the drive if she was sure this was a good idea and how risky it could be and asked what if he said no or what if he had moved on and she was stuck living in the same place as him. Rachel just simply said, “I can’t let that stop me from doing this, because he deserves to be swept off his feet.” She got on the plane and promised herself that once she got to Blue Harbor and settled into her house, the first thing she’d do is find Charlie.

When she did; everything had changed between them. The man she’d promised forever to had rightfully felt betrayed and there she was again upending a new life he had created for himself. He was trying to move on and even though Rachel felt as though he deserved to know what she was feeling it only confused things for Charlie even more. And as time went on she realized that letting him go was the best thing she could do to show him her love was still there. 

She really did intend to do her best at making a new life in Blue Harbor, but life certainly threw her another curve ball and she learned she had stage 2 ovarian cancer. Telling her loved ones was rather difficult. There were very good chances she could come through with the surgery, but she hadn’t realized just how scared she was until Charlie found out and quickly filled the role of her doting husband. With a successful surgery, she was in remission and all throughout her recovery he stuck by her side. 

Things started progressing quickly between them, it was difficult to not feel pressure like this was the final chance at it. Rachel wanted to make sure they did talk about their problems so they started couples therapy. She went from being a freelance journalist to writing the op-ed section at The Blue News. She and Charlie were trying to reverse back into dating but it was hard to do when it quickly just went back to feeling like they were married again. As time went on, she started to let go of some of that pressure, but it seemed like for him they’d rushed into things too quickly again. In the end there’d been too much trust broken and although she always will love him, he was asking for them to both move on. 

And that’s what Rachel is trying to do. The more time she spent in Blue Harbor, the more it started feeling like home. She has friends here now and things she enjoys doing, she has somehow become part of the community despite it all. This is her new home now and it’s a good life that she intends to live. It is filled with a sense of belonging that she is happy that she gets to live her next chapter of life here.

[readtherunes]

Things I'm Trying To Let Go Off In No Particular Order To Meet My Own Creative Potential

I spend most of my life as the awkward girl. I loved to study and read and spend hours in libraries and at parks. I always felt like some invisible glass wall stood between myself and my peers. Maybe it was because I was homeschooled and grew up in a religious cult. Maybe my brain just works differently. It wasn't that I was a prude by any means. I relish good sex and good food and have a lot of hedonistic tendencies if I let myself veer too far in that direction, but I just never understood why the people around me found joy in the things they did.

I remember being at a college party, fixing my face into a smile, forcing my head back when I laughed loudly at something I found unfunny, my head swirling from cheap booze, the small of Victoria's Secret Body Spray and vomit and liquor filling the air.

Here's the thing though. I didn't like these things, but when I grew up a bit and became a bit more beautiful and learned to play the part a bit better, and people saw me as just one of the group, it was a relief. I no longer stood out, and there is something very soothing about being able to move through life as a part of a bigger organism -- a group of people with generally the same thoughts, and likes, and dislikes.

But like any sort of lying, it has grown tiresome. I have been getting back to who I was from the beginning. And it isn't a high-powered career woman, although I am great at my job. It isn't a popular blonde girl, although I've played that role with varying degrees of success over the past five years.

I've decided that with my move to a new city I am going to start letting go of some of these crutches that I've used to prop myself up over the past few years. Here are a few in no particular order.

Stop forcing relationships.

A loathsome part of trying to be popular and appear "normal" is that you have to at some point force relationships that just don't feel natural. You find yourself sitting with people who -- on a deep level -- you have nothing in common with. But you sit there and nod along and pretend to be interested in every gory detail of their lives, because that's just what you do. You find yourself going to their parties and inviting them to coffee, until one day, you're sitting there, watching that person talking, and you think to yourself that you could be doing literally anything else with the precious minutes that are ticking away. You could be writing or painting or spending time in nature or pursuing that interesting person that you actually love to be around and are inspired by. I want to stop pursuing any relationship that will fall apart if I am simply myself.

Stop forcing interests/activities.

On a similar note to the above, I want to stop forcing myself to participate in activities or interests that bring nothing to me. I have often been accused of "trying to be different," or "not be like other girls," when I simply enjoy different things. I don't enjoy the feeling of makeup on my skin, I love loose comfortable clothes I feel like I can create in, and my idea of a perfect night is reading a novel on my patio and listening to the rain, or having an intimate dinner with a few people I can examine real ideas with. There is nothing inherently wrong with any interest or activity, but certain things do bring more social capital and reward, and I am simply tired of pretending I care about things like sports scores or reality TV. I can enjoy my interests while still supporting everyone else's right to enjoy theirs, even if I don't personally enjoy them.

Stop relying on social media for the CREATIVE RUSH that I should be getting from creating.

Social media can be a great marketing tool and can be very entertaining. But it can also be the swirling pool where all of my creative impulses go to die. It is so easy to spend hours scrolling, looking at aesthetic mood boards and watching other artists talk about their work and diagnosing myself with yet another "trauma response" that is just part of the fucking human condition.

I don't hate social media by any means. But I know that when I spend my creative time on these apps instead of sitting down into the terrible and messy work of actually creating something new out of nothing, my creative impulse dwindles, until even the simplest creative act becomes an enormous effort.

So I am limiting the time per week I'm allowed to spend watching videos of others doing the thing I should be doing myself, and I will spend that time dedicating myself to my work.

Stop relying on food for a dopamine rush.

Yes, I am a disappointing part of the cliché of creative women struggling with every kind of eating disorder there is. I consider myself recovered, at a normal, if not aesthetic weight, and I try to focus more on creating art than on turning my body into some type of object for the world's viewing pleasure.

But my love affair with food has remained. How many nights have I smoked a blunt and rummaged the fridge just looking to feel something. Or, to avoid feeling something. When I should have been having a deep conversation or working on my book or even just getting some sleep, so I can face the world without being exhausted in the morning.

I will always love a fresh croissant or a beautifully cooked meal. The colors, the textures, the layers of salt and heat and sweetness singing together. But what I don't need to do anymore is depend on food to pick me up after one of those days-that-simply-won't end. Instead, I need to get into bed and sleep, and end the day.

Stop waiting for inspiration and do the damn work.

Inspiration sounds lovely. It really does. It's in so many movies and books and Instagram posts and TikTok reals. The artist madly working away in a dark environment, coming out pale and triumphant with the NEW WORK. And yes, we've all had a brief session driven by mania, where our lives may look like this for a day or two, but the reality is that growing in any craft requires day-in-and-day-out dedication to sitting your ass down and working away at the damn thing even when it feels like you're slogging through mud. I suppose this goes along with the social media point -- since I'd often find myself scrolling for hours, looking for just the right sliver of inspiration to trick my brain into action, rather than just sitting down and pushing my way through the hard beginning of a work session.

My creativity is like a well-pump. When I work every day, even just a little, it stays primed. When I ignore it because of self doubt, or because I've reached a difficult part of a project, it dries out, and it takes a long time to get the flow working again.

I will be trying to follow this list over the next month and will report back with the results. If you're a creative of any kind, what do you find gets most in the way of your own creative flow?