#clean lines tier

[iguanodont]

A couple of monster girls for @thecreaturecodex! Meet Jade Seven and Ada Shorewalker, a knowledge hungry gorgon and a selkie who loves life beyond the waves… and if you’d like to meet them in your future Pathfinder games, stay tuned with thecreaturecodex, for original statblocks and details on their stories to come, as well as all sorts of other cool custom creature stats :)

[babsvibes]

Rank your favorite seasons of Bob’s Burgers!

Here’s mine ☺️

[creepyjirachi]

uh oh i’m back in mspaint

[jusiri]

birthday cake for me :)

[grimalkinmessor]

I ship Andretya now, apparently.

Oops...?

[headspace-hotel]

I will write this thought about Veganism and Classism in the USA in another post so as to not derail the other thread:

There are comments in the notes that say meat is only cheaper than plant based foods because of subsidies artificially lowering the price of meat in the United States. This is...part of the story but not all of it.

For my animal agriculture lab we went to a butcher shop and watched the butcher cut up a pig into various cuts of meat. I have had to study quite a bit about the meat industry in that class. This has been the first time I fully realized how strongly the meat on a single animal is divided up by socioeconomic class.

Like yes, meat cumulatively takes more natural resources to create and thus should be more expensive, but once that animal is cut apart, it is divided up between rich and poor based on how good to eat the parts are. I was really shocked at watching this process and seeing just how clean and crisp an indicator of class this is.

Specifically, the types of meat I'm most familiar with are traditionally "waste" parts left over once the desirable parts are gone. For example, beef brisket is the dangly, floppy bit on the front of a cow's neck. Pork spareribs are the part of the ribcage that's barely got anything on it.

And that stuff is a tier above the "meat" that is most of what poor people eat: sausage, hot dogs, bologna, other heavily processed meat products that are essentially made up of all the scraps from the carcass that can't go into the "cuts" of meat. Where my mom comes from in North Carolina, you can buy "livermush" which is a processed meat product made up of a mixture of liver and a bunch of random body parts ground up and congealed together. There's also "head cheese" (made of parts of the pig's head) and pickled pigs' feet and chitlin's (that's made of intestines iirc) and cracklin's (basically crispy fried pig skin) and probably a bunch of stuff i'm forgetting. A lot of traditional Southern cooking uses basically scraps of animal ingredients to stretch across multiple meals, like putting pork fat in beans or saving bacon grease for gravy or the like.

So another dysfunctional thing about our food system, is that instead of people of each socioeconomic class eating a certain number of animals, every individual animal is basically divided up along class lines, with the poorest people eating the scraps no one else will eat (oftentimes heavily processed in a way that makes it incredibly unhealthy).

Even the 70% lean ground beef is made by injecting extra leftover fat back into the ground-up meat because the extra fat is undesirable on the "better" cuts. (Gross!)

I've made, or eaten, many a recipe where the only thing that makes it non-vegan is the chicken broth. Chicken broth, just leftover chicken bones and cartilage rendered and boiled down in water? How much is that "driving demand" for meat, when it's basically a byproduct?

That class really made me twist my brain around about the idea of abstaining from animal products as a way to deprive the industry of profits. Nobody eats "X number of cows, pigs, chickens in a lifetime" because depending on the socioeconomic class, they're eating different parts of the animal, splitting it with someone richer or poorer than they are. If a bunch of people who only ate processed meats anyway abstained, that wouldn't equal "saving" X number of animals, it would just mean the scraps and byproducts from a bunch of people's steaks or pork chops would have something different happen to them.

The other major relevant conclusion I got from that class, was that animal agriculture is so dominant because of monoculture. People think it's animal agriculture vs. plant agriculture (or plants used for human consumption vs. using them to feed livestock), but from capitalism's point of view, feeding animals corn is just another way to use corn to generate profits.

People think we could feed the world by using the grain fed to animals to feed humans, but...the grain fed to animals, is not actually a viable diet for the human population, because it's literally just corn and soybean. Like animal agriculture is used to give some semblance of variety to the consumer's diet in a system that is almost totally dominated by like 3 monocrops.

Do y'all have any idea how much of the American diet is just corn?!?! Corn starch, corn syrup, corn this, corn that, processed into the appearance of variety. And chickens and pigs are just another way to process corn. That's basically why we have them, because they can eat our corn. It's a total disaster.

And it's even worse because almost all the USA's plant foods that aren't the giant industrial monocrops maintained by pesticides and machines, are harvested and cared for by undocumented migrant workers that get abused and mistreated and can't say anything because their boss will tattle on them to ICE.

[northern-passage]

Here are our contributors for the Interactive Fiction Raffle for Palestine!

Over 50 artists and authors from the IF community here on tumblr have joined together to run a donation drive this month! The raffle will be running from June 7th - June 21st. A separate post will be made with more information, including the rules and ticket submission form, once we're ready to launch.

Our goal is to raise as much money as possible for five specific fundraisers; we hope with us focusing our efforts we'll be able to make a tangible impact for these families. Tickets will be the equivalent of the minimum GoFundMe donation ($5USD/€5), and you will be donating directly to the families and then providing us proof of donation in exchange for your ticket(s).

We plan to raffle off all prizes. Below the cut is the list of contributors for both prize tiers, along with the prize they'll be offering. (Beware, this is a long post.)

While this drive is aimed at the Interactive Fiction community, a lot of the artists have offered to take requests from winners that include non-IF characters. These are specified with "non-IF characters included."

@beezhive

One half body couple “clean” sketch with flat color, non-IF characters included.

@depressed-sock

Half body to full body, single or couple, fully rendered in my style. Non-IF characters included.

@dast4rd

A painted single character portrait. Non-IF characters included (Any other media except for live action characters).

@fat-rolls-frictions

Halfbody of single character in SuperGiant Hades' style, less details, simple grey/no background, non-IF characters included.

@greypetrel

A painted single character portrait, non-IF characters included. (Bioware characters, Tolkien universe, Star Wars, the Arcana, DnD/Pathfinder/roleplaying fantasy games)

@hadrassians

One painted semi-realistic bust OR one half body couple sketch, non-IF characters included.

@harumeau

A full color single character bust portrait. Non-IF characters included (FFXIV, Baldur's Gate, Dragon Age)

@jdstrations

Single character, bust or half-body. Fully rendered or sketchy. Can be MCs, or a favourite character (IF or Non-IF included).

@matrinki

One painted single character portrait, IF exclusive only.

@merry-harlowe

Fully rendered full body single character with a simple background!

@moonless-if

One full-body character, coloured and rendered, IF characters exclusive only.

@morticrows

One full-body character in a chibi style, non-IF characters included.

@pdrrook

Portrait/bust, semi-realism, non-IF characters included.

@rab-bitly

Half body character in an illustrative style, non-IF characters included.

@swimmingrat

A character portrait (OC, IF, non-IF characters included) in watercolour, ink or mixed media.

@trashy-corvian

Half body couple/single, fully rendered. Non-IF characters included.

@vakarians-babe

Half body couple, flat colors (monochrome or full) with finished lines. IF and non-IF characters accepted.

@cowboyhell

Painted one character with background scene, OR one custom chibi keychain charm. Non-IF characters included.

@violetaristea

A fully rendered bust or half body of one character with a simple background, non-IF characters included.

@atheone

Fully rendered single character bust, non-IF characters included.

@harbingersecho

Painted single character or couple portraits (bust or half-body) with a simple/non-detailed background, non-IF characters included.

@i-am-gogo-btw

Offering half body couple, full color, finished lines, simple background, no furry, no mecha, no gore, no nsfw and no complicated stuff (like armor), OR a full body, full color, finished lines drawing of a single character (same restrictions). Non-IF characters included.

@doctormortum

Winners choice between A) one full body drawing, lined/coloured, of one character OR B) one ~waist up drawing, lined/coloured, of two characters interacting (romantic, platonic, anything goes!) original characters or fanart, IF or non-IF, all OK! SFW only.

@cryptidling

One or two character, half or full body painted/rendered drawing, minimal background, non-IF characters included, open to nsfw.

@ligiawrites

Rendered portrait of one or two characters with a transparent background. Non-IF characters included.

@night-triumphantt

Half body couple fully rendered with simple background, or full body single character full render, non-IF characters included.

@silkhorse

Half body couple/single semi-rendered, non-IF characters included.

@neloangelo0

Rendered half body, will do couples, simple backgrounds, non-IF characters included.

@artist-faur

A single character half-body with simple background, either rendered (with ink wash or pen shading techniques,) as lineart, or in a sketch style - all using ink and pencil. Characters are from both IF and non-IF (preferably from small, obscure fandoms and media) are included.

@phanosis

A single character portrait in a painted sketch style, non-IF characters included. Monochromatic background.

@kithj

One custom, but in-character & non-spoiler, scene based on the winner's prompt with their MC and one LI of their choosing from either The Northern Passage or Blood Choke. Explicit prompts included.

@damnation-if

A 1k~ non-spoiler, in-character snippet featuring the winner's MC and a character of their choice from Damnation and Buggery. Fluffy, angst, etc and explicit prompts included.

@of-crowns-and-echoes

A 1k non-explicit, non-spoiler snippet including characters from Of Crowns and Echoes. Could be MC + RO interacting, could be just ROs interacting with each other, or a snippet with some side characters. No gore or explicit stuff.

@attollogame

A 1k non-explicit, non-spoiler snippet including characters from Attollo. Could be MC + RO interacting, could be just ROs interacting with each other, or a snippet with some side characters. 

@burning-academia-if

A 1k~ prompt featuring your MC and chosen RO/poly from Burning Academia. Both Explicit and Non-Explicit prompts are fine! The prompt cannot include spoilers.

@hpowellsmith

An interactive playable date scene with an RO or polyamorous duo of your choice from one of my released games or WIP. Non-explicit - please specify if you'd like a kiss and/or fade-to-black included in the scene.

@nyehilismwriting

A ~500-1000 word snippet ft winner's MC and their RO of choice from Project Hadea doing activities as requested by the winner, so long as it is a) in character and b) non-spoiler related.

@mayhem-writes

A 1k non-explicit, non-spoiler snippet including characters from Sanctuary. Could be MC + RO interacting, could be just ROs interacting with each other, or a snippet with some side characters.

@devilishmango

A 1k snippet including an MC + RO from either Kenneski or The Story of Sin, based off a prompt from the winner. Can be explicit!

@gamesbyalbie

A ~1,000 word, non-spoiler, in-character snippet featuring characters from Zorlok, Mousetrap, Creating Goncharov, or System Processing. Could be a scene focused on the winner's MC interacting with one character, a scene focused on two characters interacting with one another, or a scene with the winner's MC and/or multiple characters present. Fluff, angst, spice, etc. are all possibilities as long as the scene is non-explicit.

@thecottageworkshop

500-1k word snippet with winner's MC + RO from Simple Moments or a general description of preferred favorite RO type (with the creation being at writer's discretion) with MC; fluffy or angst prompts included (could do monster ROs)

@tosahobi-if

A ~500-1000 word snippet with the winner's MC and their RO of choice from Tosahobi so long as it is in character and non-spoiler related. Any type of prompts including explicit are ok!

@if-mirrormine

A snippet between 500-1000 words featuring the winner's MC and RO of their choice from Mirror Mine. The theme (fluff/angst) and prompt is up to the winner as well.

@heart-forge

A ~500-1000 word snippet featuring winner's choice from Manor Hill, Bad Ritual, or Hybrid IFs. Can feature winner's MC, NSFW/angst/hurt & comfort/AU on offer as well as regular fluff, domesticity, etc. Winner may specify what they want to be happening, or let me choose.

@chthonicchromestudio

500-1k word snippet with winner's MC + any character from FFS, Another Northern Duke?! or a general description of preferred favorite RO type (with the creation being at writer's discretion) with MC; fluffy or angst prompts included (could do monster ROs)

@fiddles-ifs

A custom, non-spoiler, in-character snippet featuring the winner’s MC and a character of their choice from Greenwarden. Fluffy, angst, etc. and explicit prompt included. AUs also included.

@springsaladgaming

A 1k~ non-spoiler, non-explicit, in-character snippet, featuring the winner's MC and an RO of their choice from either Ninelives or Valiant. Prompts may be fluffy, angsty, etc.

@oblivious-melodies

One custom, in-character 500-2000 word snippet set within the world of Oblivious Melodies. It may include characters already in the IF or an original character within the world, designed to fit the winner's specifications. Snippets may include adult themes, but will not be fully explicit.

@chrysanthemumgames

A snippet of ~500-1000 words featuring the characters of the winner's choice from Fields of Asphodel (including the winner's PC if desired). Topic can be anything from platonic interaction to a lightly-spicy romance scene, subject to character and setting constraints.

@yuveim

A romance scene featuring the winner's MC on one of six romance routes, or a character-centred scene for one of five main characters in The Spirited: Origins.

@blood-teeth

A ~500-1000 word snippet of the winner's MC and their select RO from The Mouths of Elysium from a requested prompt from the winner. This snippet will not include spoilers.

@oscarwrites

A 500 to 1000 words snippet featuring the MC and/or any characters from the games The Eight Years Revolution, Gonzague or Better Off. Explicit prompts included.

@thelonelyshore-if

A 500-2k~ custom, non-spoilery snippet featuring the winner's MC and RO (or polyship or other character) from The Lonely Shore. Fluff, angst, non-explicit romance (kissing, fade-to-black, etc.) are all welcome.

[erodasfishtacos]

Melt Your Cold Heart

prompt: harry’s been alone for years. a bland, bleak life where he needs nothing but his dog then he stumbles upon someone who gives him a purpose…even if for a few hours. word count: 8k

warnings: heavy angst, emotionally unavailable harry, suicidal/depressive thoughts, mental health struggles, mentions of trauma, discussion of sex work

authors note:

There is 3 more parts to this up on patreon (and currently being updated this month!).

I upload a piece of writing every 1-3 days.

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 3 mini one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here!

++++++++

Harry hadn’t wanted to pull over but it was impossible to continue on the highway without potentially causing an accident.

The snow was coming down hard enough that it was a white sheet, the high speed winds were making it to be a tornado of pure smokescreens that made it impossible for his windshield wipers to work.

The semi-truck had eighteen wheels but they were all at risk of hydroplaning or losing grip on the layers of black ice that covered the asphalt without a second thought.

With such a heavy piece of equipment, he didn’t have to only look out for himself but anybody else on the road because one wrong judgment call could turn the semi into a weapon of destruction.

It meant that he was going to be at least twelve hours behind on his delivery which was making him on-edge as it was because he hated having to deal with the dickhead client that he was delivering to.

The town he stopped in was small, nothing to note, and not unsimilar to the towns he had stayed in before in his twelve years on the road.

A small Midwest town that had a truck stop with a twenty-four hour gas station, a diner that was already closed for the night, and a pavilion of bathrooms for truck drivers to clean off.

It was just about midnight when he parked his rig, taking off his baseball cap and running his hand through his hair, it was getting long and he was due for trim next time he was home but fuck, he was tired.

He never really stopped working, constantly moving across state lines and delivery shipments as a self-employed hauler - he was his own boss and he pushed himself like no boss would (who wouldn’t want to be violating labor laws).

This wasn’t one of the nicer stops.

The buildings were outdated, looking like they hadn’t been renovated since the eighties, and that was being generous.

The parking lot lights were flickering like in a horror movie, not that it frightened Harry, he has dealt with his fair on the road, and has seen a lot of things that he would have preferred not to.

It’s why he always carried, just on his hip, in case.

He would wait until the next stop to shower, at one of the more luxurious, updated places where the showers were actually decent, there was privacy, and it didn’t feel like bathing in a back alley.

For now, he just needed the restroom and a drink.

The bathrooms were just as foul as he expected, washing his hands with extra hot water to give himself a sense of cleanliness before he’s trailing over to the gas station next door.

The wind was insane, blowing the snow directly into his face, and sticking to his eyelashes.

His eyes burned with the freezing temperatures, blinking harshly as he tucks his head down until a warm gust of air hits his face as he enters the building. The lights were blindingly fluorescent and he had to adjust for a minute after driving in the dark for hours by now.

There was an older man at the counter, sitting on a stool and watching a static-filled rerun on a small television next to the register, and his skin was a sickly yellow, most likely from working the graveyard shift for far too long.

The man nods in acknowledgement but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Harry walks towards the back, towards the line of coolers to grab something to drink, a soda that he normally didn’t drink but he was craving carbonation, he hadn’t eaten yet today.

He was definetly a bit too skinny.

Truck drivers were normally the opposite, out of shape, and overweight from lack of movement.

They were sat in trucks all day, every day with nothing to do but snack.

Harry was the opposite, though he was too lean, he took pride in his appearance and maintained his muscle from strapping down, unloading, and all the physical work of the job that he did himself (unlike most drivers).

He did not eat well, he knew that but found it hard to care.

Harry was in a slump, he had been for the last few years.

With being on the road, missing all major holidays, and never sticking around one place enough to settle down - he was depressed, an understatement but no one was around to listen or care.

He was alone, truly, and at some point, that had become comfortable to him.

Harry went through the motions, driving, hauling, delivering, sleeping, and repeating it over and over again.

The only thing he had was a Fire Bird (Birdie) his cattle dog who was named after his favorite car growing up, one that had been in his grandfather’s shed, and was only taken out on the town on very special occasions.

Birdie kept him sane, gave him a reason to get his ass moving every morning, and to take breaks because though he was convinced that his dog was the laziest bag of bones. Every few hours, she required a field, her ball, and Harry throwing it for her for at least twenty minutes before she passed out on the passenger seat for a few hours.

It was his routine.

Their routine.

He had found when she was a puppy.

Some trucker at a stop in Milwaukee had left the pup in the field next to the lot after she’d chewed through one of his seats.

She was malnourished, overheated, and covered in fleas.

Harry had never had a dog on the road, never thought it practical but the first time he had seen this spotted puppy with the saddest brown eyes and its tail wagging timidity on the ground.

Well it was the first time Harry had felt anything in a long time.

That was eight years ago, Birdie was a bit slower now, a gray coating her muzzle, and an attitude of a spoiled queen.

A lot more days than Harry would like to admit, she’s what keeps him going because it’s definitely not work or the money.

Harry had a hefty sized bank account from all his hard work but it sat and sat, he never spent it on anything but bare necessities so it continued to stack and stack which wasn’t a bad thing but it was nothing that brought him excitement.

It wasn’t the dream life of a thirty-three year old.

Harry had grabbed a coke before snagging a bag of overpriced jerky off the nearest display - he can’t remember the last time he ate something that wasn’t heavily processed.

There was a girl in the store too.

Harry had just caught the slightest glimpse of her as she stood by a cooler on the other side of the store, browsing the energy drinks.

She was out of place.

Harry hadn’t seen a car parked in the lot, only two other semis, and she wasn’t a truck driver by the look of her outfit.

It wasn’t weather appropriate at all.

Not for winter in the Midwest.

The woman had on a fitted black dress, it wasn’t overly fancy but it hugged every inch of her body, and high heels of all things.

Harry wonders if she was with one of the other drivers.

He doesn’t pay much mind to her until she faces him, a purple can in her hand, and she’s noticeably pretty, more so than average.

Harry wasn’t trying to be an asshole but women who hung around these areas weren’t typically most attractive.

This woman was.

Albeit the makeup she had on was too much, thick eyelashes, her blush too heavy, and a rouge lip that contrasted the complexion of her skin in an off-putting way.

Her heels click as she steps over to the counter, putting the drink on the counter, along with a protein bar, and rifling through a small purse on her shoulder.

“Eight thirty-three,” The cashier announces after scanning it, his eyes crudely running up and down the woman’s body before focusing on her face again.

The woman is rustling through her purse, pulling out crinkled bills that had been shoved carelessly in the clutch.

Harry stands a safe distance behind her, in line, watching as she smooths out the one dollar bills hastily as the cashier looks completely unamused.

“I only have five,” The girl mumbles embarrassed after she comes up empty with no more money to be found, “Can you please take off the protein bar?”

Harry doesn’t feel much often.

Tonight, he does.

A little glimmer of compassion.

But very much like himself, the girl is too skinny, not eating enough, and from what he can infer - not being able to afford food to feed herself.

“I got it,” Harry interrupts, stepping up next to the woman, and putting his stuff down aside hers, taking his wallet out of his back pocket to pluck out his bank card.

It’s the first time they make eye contact, “Oh, you really don’t have to. I’ll be okay with just the drink-“

“I’m not asking,” Harry replies curtly, tapping his card to the screen when the total rings up before tucking his wallet away and grabbing his items.

“Here,” She insists, trying to hand him the crumpled bills that she had laid on the counter, five dollars that she needed much more than him.

“Keep it,” Harry waves her off, refusing the money before walking towards the door without another look her way.

He was drawn to her.

He wouldn’t offer most, really anyone a handout - he never got one.

Harry can feel the woman’s eyes on his back as he stalks out of the station, hugging his jacket tighter against his body as he walks back to his truck to sleep for the night.

“S’fucking cold, Birdie,” Harry had complained as he locked the doors, placing up all the blinds to keep wandering eyes out.

Birdie was currently dead to the world, unbothered by his words as she snores softly from her fluffy dog bed on the floor of the cab.

Harry had just tugged off his winter jacket when he hears a knock at the driver’s side door - for a moment, he’s convinced that it’s the wind but then a few seconds later, it comes again.

“Fucks sake,” Harry grunts with annoyance, he much prefers when people leave him the fuck alone, and he has a hunch it’s the gas station cashier or another driver.

However, when he opens the door, after unlocking it, and having to use a good amount of effort to push it against the force of the wind - it’s neither.

It’s the girl from the gas station.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around her middle.

Her lips were quivering as she tried to prevent her teeth was chattering, blinking harshly through the wind up at him.

“What?” Harry asks, it wasn’t overly friendly or friendly at all.

“Are you looking for company?” The woman replies but she’s the furthest thing from confident, eyes darting around but not meeting his, “I…My rates are reasonable.”

And oh, this is what she was doing here.

Harry couldn’t tell you the amount of times that he’s had a knock on the door and been propositioned for ‘company’.

Most drivers indulged in it, they were lonely and usually away from their spouses for long spurts of time that led them to pay for the replacement.

Harry had never.

Nor did he plan to now.

As he said, this woman was fucking gorgeous, would be even more so without the cakey makeup and slinky outfit.

But he wasn’t ever going to be that lonely.

He grew up with a mom in that line of work, he felt like it was disrespectful to put a monetary price on a woman’s worth, and he had never been into casual hookups.

So yes, he would absolutely love her company but not ever under these circumstances, where she’s offering out of need and not desire.

Harry can’t remember the last time he’s had sex but the depression had killed his sex drive for the most part anyways.

He didn’t seek it out.

“No,” Harry responds flatly, not indecisiveness in his voice at all, “Not interested.”

Typically when Harry turned a proposition down, the woman wouldn’t be too thrilled whether she delivered him a ‘fuck you’ or spit on the door of his truck - that was normal response.

However, not for this girl, her face drops in a twist of embarassment and shame, and it’s also the first time someone apologizes for offering.

“I’m sorry to…to bother you. Um, have a good night. Safe travels,” She stutters out, it was obvious that she was flustered and mortified which again, made him feel just a twinge of empathy.

Harry’s about to assure her that it wasn’t a big deal but she was already turning in her heel, walking briskly back to the pavilion and disappearing inside.

He shuts his door, slumping down in his driver’s seat for a second as he rubs his hand across his face with a groan, he was too tired for this shit.

However, the thought of that girl offering her services to the other drivers or having to sleep in that dirty, run-down building wasn’t acceptable to him.

“The fuck is wrong with me,” Harry mutters to himself as he tugs his jacket back on, he never cared about any before.

Why now?

Harry’s body detests being lured back into the frigid weather, missing the warmth of his cabin instantly as he shuts the door behind him.

By the time he’s walking toward the building, the girl had disappeared inside, and wasn’t visible to him anymore.

What was he even doing?

He should turn around and go back to his truck.

But he finds himself tugging open the door, it was warmer than the outside but not by much, the heater must be in its last leg, and it was sticky - almost humid.

Harry’s nose twitched in disgust at the smell of cheap disinfectant, a half-ass cleaning job, and garbage that hadn’t been taken out soon enough.

He doesn’t see her right away, figuring he may have to go towards the women’s restroom - he follows the sign towards the back of the building.

Harry finds her, tucked into the corner of an alcove, resting against the side of a row of vending machines - smushed and hiding.

She had taken off her bag, bundling it up, and pushing it between her head and the machine to create a makeshift pillow.

Harry wishes it didn’t make his chest ache, he was so used to not feeling, and it was pissing him off that he wasn’t feeling numb to it.

Her eyes were closed but her body was tense like he knew shouldn’t couldn’t full let herself relax because she wasn’t safe.

Harry clears his throat, standing in front of her with his hands in his jacket pockets.

She startles as she hadn’t heard him approaching, bumping her head off the hard plastic of the machine covering and wincing as she tenses.

“Let’s go,” Harry waves his hand impatiently.

Yeah, his communication skills were not the best.

The woman blinks up at him in confusion, reasonably nervous as she shuffles off the floor, stumbling as she pushes herself up on a knee, uncoordinated and clumsy as she tries to get re-oriented.

Harry sighs impatiently, sticking out his hand for to take, and when she very gingerly puts her freezing cold one in his, he yanks her up to her feet with little effort - she couldn’t weigh much.

”Did you…uh,” The girl’s voice is shaky as she grabs her purse, a backpack, “Did you want to know my rates?”

Harry stops, turning back towards her, and starting to unzip his heavy, down winter coat as he shakes his, “Don’t need ‘em. I’m not interested in your services.”

The girl pauses too, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, “Why did you come get me then?”

Harry doesn’t make eye contact as he shoves his jacket unceremoniously towards her, “Put this on.”

She accepts it but doesn’t move to, “Why?”

Harry grunts out an annoyed huff, shoving his hands in jean pockets, “S’not safe for you to be sleeping in a place like this. It’s freezing in here, you’re not dressed for the weather. You can stay the night in my cab before I head out.”

YN swallows anxiously, weighing out her options before there’s a banging noise.

Someone barging through the front doors of the pavilion, a large middle-aged man that had dirty overalls on, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and a scraggly graying beard.

When this trucker sees the woman, he smiles like a cat who just got the cream, and doesn’t hesitate to ask in a raspy, smoker’s draw, “How much for the night, sweetheart?”

Her eyes widen in unwelcome surprise, lips twisting as she struggles to find a response.

”Um…”

”I already got ‘er,” Harry gives the man a hard, faux-possessive look (maybe it wasn’t as fake as he thought it was because he really did feel a protectiveness over her for some reason), “Tough shit.”

”Let me know if you finish with her early,” The man laughs, his gaze was predatory and foul, it made even Harry feel unsettled to just see the way he was looking at her - like an object.

“Fuck off,” Harry dismisses the man easily, though Harry was skinner than he’d prefer, his muscles were still prevelant and enough to intimidate, especially the out-of-shape man.

The girl tugs the jacket on hastily, the other trucker clearly motivating her not to stay in here.

”That’s why you shouldn’t try to sleep in here, you think he would think twice before dragging you to his truck?” Harry scolds as he steps forward, without thinking, he zips the jacket for her because the zipper can be finicky at the best times - it was old and needed replaced three winters ago at least.

”I know you could lie,” She says softly, the most she’s really said thus far, “But you’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

It was dumb question, on her end.

Why would anyone tell her the truth if their real intention was to cause her harm?

Harry really should be questioning what he’s doing.

Never once in the past has he ever taken it upon himself or felt the need to do what he was doing for this girl.

He should mind his own business and realize that she isn’t his responsibility.

“No, I’m not going to. You can get warm, get some sleep, and tomorrow at five in the morning I’m kicking you to the curb,” Harry informs her, trying to maintain the coldness that he normally keeps in his tone but he feels guilty even talking to her like that.

“Okay. I…Thank you. I’m YN, by the way,” She tells him, still shy as ever and really a contradiction to how a sex worker is - outgoing and assertive.

“Harry,” He replies as he walks them towards the exit, not looking forward to having the freezing temperatures hit the bare skin of his arms nor have the wind throwing icy clumps on snow in his face but he would take it if it meant YN stayed a bit warmer.

YN’s face pinches up when the door opens, the cold hitting her aggressively enough that her hair goes flying behind her in the wind, every which way as it tangles into a bird ‘s nest.

Harry is lucky he turns around to check on her because right as he does, she slips on a patch of ice which has her nearly falling backwards.

He grips her forearms tightly, a gnarled frown on his face as he gripes, “Who the fuck wears heels in below zero temps?”

He expects a snarky response back.

And he feels even more like a piece of shit when she tucks her chin down, mumbling an embarrassed apology as he guides her, keeping a hold of her arm.

Harry unlocks his truck, swinging open the door, and steps back, “Go ahead.”

YN hesitates for a moment, glancing back at the pavilion and seeing the truck driver from early emerge, winking at her.

She hurries inside as quickly as she can in her outfit, trying to tuck her dress to her thighs to avoid it flipping up and giving Harry a view.

Harry shuts the door behind them, locking it tightly, and double checking both side of the doors before he’s unfastening the blinds - blocking the outside world.

Last step is to put up the privacy screen along his windshield as YN keeps tucked carefully by the corner of the driver’s side.

“C’mon, I have a dog. She doesn’t like anyone but me so just leave her alone and she won’t bother you,” Harry informs her as he pushes back the curtain to his cabin, it was always spotless, and clean which was probably surprising to her.

It was a luxury sleeper, it wasn’t anything extravagant but Harry had put his savings to good use about three years ago.

A small kitchen, a dining room table that folded his bed out, and a television mounted on the wall that was usually on for background noise more than anything.

“This is really nice,” YN stands timidly in the breezeway of the front of the truck, unsure, and looking out of place.

Harry just grunts in agreement, questioning what exactly his plan was, and he grabs fresh sheets out of a small cabinet.

“You can have the bed,” Harry tells her as he strips off his sheets, they weren’t dirty but he had slept on them a few nights, “I’ll take the lounger.”

It wasn’t the most comfortable chair but he’d survive.

“No, no. I can take the chair,” YN insists sincerely with a shake of her head, her teeth still clenched as her body shook from the cold.

Harry ignores her, tugging the new fitted sheet onto the mattress, changing the pillowcases, and the comforter - he’s lucky he had a spare.

He doesn’t say anything else before gathering the comforter he’d just taken from the bed and tossing it on the lounge chair.

“Go to sleep,” Harry signals impatiently because she’s just standing there, shaking with how cold she is and he moves over to bump up the heat.

YN listens, walking slowly towards the bed, her eyes catching on Birdie’s sleeping form (who hadn’t even stirred) - what a shit guard dog.

YN sits on the edge of the bed, her hands were trembling from the cold and nerves, fingers stiff, and when she leans down to unstrap her heels - she can’t get a grip.

Harry watches for a moment before stalking over, kneeling down and wrapping his fingers around her ankle to hold of still.

YN watches him quietly as he slips the shoes from her feet, annoyance prevalent in his words as he asks pointedly, “Why the fuck would you wear these today? Do you have no self-preservation? You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite.”

She shuts down again, like earlier when he had questioned her clothing choices, and doesn’t respond for a long second, voice soft when she does, “They’re the only pair I have.”

And…well Harry didn’t think of that.

Harry doesn’t have anything to reply with so he makes quick work of taking them off her freezing feet and she needs socks - they felt like ice under his own cold fingers.

He stands up, turning to a built in storage unit to his left as YN nervously moves to lay down, completely unsure as she lift the comforter.

“Not yet,” Harry gruffs as he digs out what he was looking for - a waffle-knit henley, a soft pair of flannel pajamas pants he never wore because he much preferred his underwear, and a pair of thick wool thermal socks, “Here. It stays relatively warm in here but it’s freezing outside. Put these on.”

“Thank you,” YN replies quietly as she stands up, without hesitation she reaches for the hem of her dress and begins to pull it up.

“Jesus,” Harry mutters as he quickly turns, giving her the privacy she deserved, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose.

“I’m dressed,” YN tells him after a minute of rustling as she changes into the clothes provided, “I didn’t mean to, um, make you uncomfortable. Most men want something in return, I figured you wanted to see me…change.”

Harry feels disgust seeping through him.

Not at her.

But at the deplorable men she had to be in the company of when at these types of stops.

“I told you, I don’t want shit from you. M’just trying to be a decent human being and I’d rather not see your picture on the morning news tomorrow. This is a horrible part of town,” Harry was too blunt, was constantly scolded for it during his upbringing but he never got better at it.

YN was still nervous, trembling at that as she sat down on the edge of the bed - all of the clothes were hanging off of her, the shirt slipping down her too-thin shoulder.

“I really appreciate it. I haven’t been able to sleep somewhere even half this nice without…you know, working,” YN sniffles as tears start to gather in her eyes, “I’m so tired.”

Harry feels that same tug on his heartstrings, a sensation that reminded him that he even had a beating heart.

“You’re safe. I know you just have my word but I won’t let anything happen,” Harry promises, feeding his own need to keep her safe and also make her feel that way too.

YN nods as she wipes her eyes, the makeup smearing around the edges thay has him sighing and getting up to head to the small bathroom.

He runs a clean washcloth under warm(ish) water before wringing it out.

Harry steps out to walk closer to her again, her chest was heaving as she let out emotion that Harry didn’t understand.

He doesn’t say anything - he wouldn’t even know what that would be because he hadn’t had real communication with anyone other than the other truckers on the radio for years now.

Harry is slow in his motions so that she’s not taken surprise at any point, with barey any pressure, he cups her face with one hand.

He brings the cloth up to wipe gently at the layered, tacky makeup that comes off in a thick muck, wipe after wipe.

When her face is clear of the overdone eyeshadow, harsh blush, spidery mascara clumped lashes - its startlingly how beautiful she is.

Her skin is perfect or nearly close to.

Smooth, clear, glowy in the dim light of the sleeper.

Her lips a puffy, delicate rosé pink - full and pouted.

The clean face takes at least a few years from her, that makeup had accentuated every wrinkle and crevice - aging her more than she was.

Fuck, she was pretty.

Harry tosses the cloth in his hamper, walking towards the lounge chair and kicking off his heavy, steel-toed boots.

He wasn’t obviously going to sleep in his briefs tonight and he had just handed her his only pair of pajama pants.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in his jeans nor the last, some nights he was too tired to strip them off before collapsing in bed.

“Goodnight, thank you,” YN murmurs after a mute snuffle, he watches out of the corner of her eye as she wriggles down into his bed - looking like she fucking belongs there.

“Sleep well,” Harry rumbles as he shuts off the lamp, throwing the cabin into darkness - the only light filtering through the curtains of the neon gas station sign - bright enough to grab the attention of people on the highway.

Harry reclines the chair, he didn’t normally sleep on his back but he would manage for tonight - for her.

The wind was gnarly, scraping against the sides of his truck - the occasional loose tree branch hitting, the sleet pattering against the windows.

+

Harry didn’t sleep in, his body didn’t allow him.

He ran on five hours of sleep at max before he needed to get up, move around, and get on the road.

When he blinks his eyes open, blearing at clock on his wall - three fifty-four am.

Normally, Harry wouldn’t waste much time.

He’d be on the road within the next thirty minutes after letting Birdie out, getting her breakfast, and popping into the gas station to get the biggest size coffee they had.

However, when he glances at Birdie’s bed, he has to do a double take because she’s not in there, and his heart starts pounding instantly.

Harry didn’t care about much on this earth, really barely anything but he cared about his dog - the snappy, crotchety thing.

She was always in her bed.

Harry sits up quickly, a horrible thought that the girl he let sleep her had stolen her but as soon as he is standing - he hears a telltale snore from the dog.

He follows the noise and to his utter dismay, literal dismay, because Birdie didn’t like anyone but Harry (and she didn’t like him sometimes either).

The mutt is currently being spooned by YN.

It was the most absurd thing he had ever seen.

YN was on her side, facing towards him with her face half-smushed in his pillow, her arm was slung over Birdie as the pup was nuzzled into the shape of her body.

Birdie was relaxed as can be, snoring up a storm, and pillowing her head in the crook of YN’s shoulder like they’d known each other forever.

The dog hadn’t even woke up when YN had entered.

Traitor.

Harry tucks back into his boots, tugging on his winter jacket that YN had discarded on the back of the kitchenette chair.

As he fills the disposable coffee cup, black - no cream or sugar, he tries to map out his course to Washington state.

He had done the trip many times before but having to account for horrible road condition would tack on at least a day of travel - if not more.

Harry had to get on the road as soon as possible if he didn’t want to be later than that extra day.

The weather hadn’t changed, granted, it was only nearing four in the morning but he swears that the temperature dropped even further.

As he steps back up into the cabin, his eyes trail to YN and Birdie, all cuddled up like this was their home together.

Harry needed to wake her up, kick her to the curb like he had told her (and himself) but he couldn’t imagine waking her.

Not when only a few hours prior, she had cried as she told him how tired she was, and fuck - where did his heartlessness go?

He didn’t mess with sex workers, not that he judged the profession but Harry was never a casual sex kind of guy.

And anyways, the depression that was nearly constant killed his sex drive to the point where he rarely got the urge to take care of himself - let alone pay someone to do it for him.

Harry sighs as he contemplates his choices, he was going to be behind, and he couldn’t find it in him to shake her awake.

He decides to shower, even though the rest stop was foul because he had the time and he sure he has showered in worse places.

The water doesn’t get as hot as Harry would like but the pressure get good on his aching back, he’d always had a bad one, and sleeping in the lounger would make him sore for days.

Harry takes him time, washes his hair extra well, shaves off his stubble, and he’s not doing it to be more presentable to YN - he’s not.

By the time that he’s dressed in clean clothes, it has to be close to five in the morning, he refills his coffee on the way back before he’s unlocking his truck again.

Harry’s met by Birdie, who was acting strange, she rarely waited at the door and didn’t often whine like an injured pup.

However, Birdie was clearly upset as she anxiously paced in the small area, these high pitched yowls coming from the back of her throat - head upwards as she howled.

“What is it?” Harry asks her, automatically concerned as his eyes dart to the bed.

She was gone.

The bed had been made as neat as a pin, the clothes she had borrowed were folded on top of the comforter, and it’s like she’d never been there.

Harry should feel relief because he wouldn’t have to wake her up, kick her out but it doesn’t feel anywhere close to relief,

Not when he had this vicious, innate urge to protect her.

He didn’t know what made her so special.

Harry had stumbled upon countless women down on their luck before, it was part of working around the country, stopping as places were those people tended to populate, and he had never felt any desire to help them.

He knows she must have either went to the gas station or rest stop, she didn’t have a jacket so she couldn’t have gotten far.

A sickening thought of her getting into the scumbag from last night’s truck makes him close the door and head back toward the building.

He was just in the gas station to get another coffee, he would have seen her, and when he goes back into the dank rest stop - he walks towards the women’s bathroom.

Outside the door, he can hear the patter of water streaming from one of the ancient showerheads, and knows that has to be her showering.

And so he waits.

He hears the telltale signs of heels clicking and he has to laugh when she exits the bathroom.

Her hair was sopping wet because she didn’t have a towel, her black dress was waterlogged where the ends of her hair were kissing the fabric - all while wearing those god damn shoes.

YN’s eyes go wide, scared instantly as she stutters, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Harry’s replies, brow knit in confusion.

YN’s face contorts, eyes darting away for a moment, “Um, I don’t know? You look upset with me. I-I left as soon as I woke up like you said.”

Was Harry upset?

Yeah, he guesses he actually was.

But not with her, not really.

He was upset that she was in a ridiculously small dress with wet hair (and clothes) in sub zero temperatures.

“What is your plan?” Harry answers instead, watching as goosebumps erupt all over her skin - it was a sticky humid in the cinderblock building but the cold couldn’t be ignored.

“My plan?” YN repeats, he hates how nervous she is around him - he understands but it’s so unnecessary, he wants to keep her safe.

He should leave.

Let her do her thing.

It’s not his business.

“Where are you going? What’s next?”

YN picks at the skin of her thumb with her index finger, chin tilted down, “I am hoping to get enough cash today to get a jacket, maybe a hotel room? That, um, that guy yesterday is still out in his truck and offered me a hundred and fifty so that’s why I was..showering.”

Harry wanted to be sick, his stomach was actually churning the coffee he had chugged down because she deserved better than that.

“No,” Harry says without thinking.

YN’s eyebrows raise in surprise, “I don’t know-“

“Three grand,” Harry interupts her, “I’m going to Washington. I’ll give you cash today to do the trip with me. Five or six days overall. I’ll buy your food, get you clothes, anything you need. On the way back, I’ll drop you off here again.”

YN is rightfully confused, biting at her bottom lip, “And what do you expect of me?”

“No sex,” Harry assures her, “I won’t try anything.”

“But why? This doesn’t make any sense. It’s just wasting money,” YN points out, she was starting to tremble from the cold.

Harry tugs off his jacket once again, this time he holds it out, and YN slips her arms in without complaint - she was freezing.

“You seem easy-going. I’ve been on the road for five years, guess I’m lonely and some company would be nice,” Harry shrugs, a rueful smile as he adds, “Also I’ll be damned if you’re getting in that scumbag’s truck. You deserve better than that.”

YN does something that shocks Harry.

She steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around his middle, her face burying in her chest as she hugs him.

The tips of her hair are dampening his own shirt but he cannot find it in him to complain.

This hug makes him realize just how long he’s been without human touch.

Harry is stiff, still processing, and YN must realize that because she starts to pull back with wide eyes, “I’m sorr-“

He shakes his head, finally moving his arms to wrap around her back, and he pulls her back into the hug - just for a moment.

“I got you, alright?” Harry rumbles as he pulls away, taking a step back, “Do you have a cell phone? Is there anyone you need to let know that you’re leaving for a few days?”

“No to both. I don’t have a cell phone, it broke a while back, and I couldn’t afford a replacement. And no, I don’t have anyone who will be concerned,” YN replies quietly, her voice was soft and sweet and filled with hurt.

“Okay,” Harry responds because he doesn’t know how to put into words that he doesn’t understand why she’s in a place like this, with no one.

She didn’t seem to have a bad bone in her body.

Harry guides YN back to his truck, as he opens the door he tells her, “I’m going to run Birdie for a few minutes. The clothes are still folded on the bed. I’ll get you new ones on the way. There aren’t stores for the next long stretch of miles.”

YN nods in agreement and as soon as Harry opens the door, Birdie is down the four steps and bounding towards YN.

Birdie jumped up on her hind legs, tail going wild as she accepts ear scratches and coos from YN, leaning down to kiss her snout.

And that’s another thing Harry doesn’t get, Birdie doesn’t do that with other people, normally she growls and bristles, bares her teeth and barks to get them away.

Birdie gets her love before bounding into the snow-topped fields, swallowing her up until Harry can only see flashes of black and white as she darts around.

It’s too cold to give her the normal amount of time and plus, he didn’t have his jacket so Birdie only got ten minutes before he whistled for her to come back.

Birdie’s whiskers are ice-tipped, snow dusting her beard, and she races back into the cabin with no issue in escaping the cold.

YN was already changed again, sitting on the bed.

Harry would be okay if he never saw her in a tight black dress or high heels again.

“I’m going to go refill my coffee, do a quick check of my truck, and then we’ll get out of here, okay?” Harry asks as he wipes Birdie off with a towel to get her dry - her fur was coarse and pretty water-resistant as it was, “Do you want food, a drink?”

YN shakes her head, declining as if it’s the polite thing to do, “No, thank you.”

Harry nods before disappearing back out of the truck.

The gas station is as desolate as it’s been the other two times that he’s gotten his coffee but now he had an armful of things.

Juices, water, hydration drinks, granola bars, a breakfast sandwich, a few cellophane-wrapped pastries.

The same clerk is still behind the register, his skin almost translucent from how pale he was, purplish veins contrasted the yellowish tone of his skin.

The man is old, his name tag reads ‘Gary’, and he scans the items with a bored expression, eyes blearing up to Harry at one point.

He had a rough, mid-western accent that made him harder to understand as he spoke, “Never a good idea to fall in love with a hooker.”

Harry is taken aback, startled by the comment as he replies, “What did you just say?”

Gary nods towards his truck out front, he clearly had seen YN going back and forth from the rest stop to his rig.

Then he nods down at the snacks, “M’just saying, son. Don’t put your eggs in her basket. They’re all smoke and mirrors. They’ll say and do just about anything for cash. Remember that.”

Harry is silent as he taps his card to the screen, he wasn’t in love with this girl, he had just met her mere hours ago under weird circumstances.

He didn’t feel anything towards her.

At least that’s what he was going to continue to tell himself so that he can remain headstrong on the promise he made to himself that he doesn’t need anyone.

He’s fine by himself.

Just him and Birdie.

Harry doesn’t give him a reaction nor a response, grabbing the plastic bag, and trudging back out into the cold.

Ready to get the fuck out of here.

YN is still where he left her but Birdie had finished her breakfast and was currently nuzzled up next to her thigh like she was her mother.

Harry unceremoniously drops the bag of items next to her, opposite of his traitorous dog, and doesn’t say anything - awkward and unsure.

YN opens the bag, glancing inside before looking up at him.

“It’s for you,” Harry waves his hand dismissively before moving to rub the back of his neck, why the fuck was he acting like this?

Like he was trying to court her with cheap gas station food and his clothes.

“Do you do this often? For girls like me?” YN wonders out loud, it’s not necessarily judgemental but curiously confused.

“I’ve never had a girl in here before, so no,” Harry shrugs, unable to hold eye contact because she’s pretty and he’s embarrassed.

“Do you…” YN hesitates, glancing down at her hands, “Nevermind.”

“You can ask me anything,” Harry doesn’t have much of anything to hide, “S’fine.”

“You don’t have a wife and kids at home, do you?” YN is timid, like she’s worried about how he’ll react to such a question.

Harry snorts, nonplussed, “No. I don’t have any family and I call this rig my home. No wife or kids.”

“Guess we’re both alone,” YN picks at a loose thread on the pajama pants, it was a fact for both of them, and the air was solemn between them.

“Well, for the next few days we have each other, right?” Harry huffs as he turns to the cabinet, out of sight, he punches in the code to his safe, and takes out the cash he promised, “Here’s the money.”

YN’s eyes go wide, taking it after a moment, running her thumb nail under the bills as they flutter before she’s tucking it into her backpack.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness but I am so grateful,” YN said earnestly, her eyes were doe-like and molten like heated caramel.

And Harry realizes for the first time since he’d met her that he hadn’t thought about his depression, about how he didn’t want to be here most days, and how most days had been all of his days lately.

She had given him a reason to keep on going for at least the next few days because he had her to take care of, protect.

Birdie was the only thing that had kept him here for the last three years, when it’s started to get really bad because he’d never abandon her.

Even if it meant enduring his own suffering for her - he would do anything for that dog, his lifeline, his lifesaver when he’s drowning.

He’s getting that same feeling with YN and he knows that’s dangerous because she could want to jump ship tomorrow and he’d be alone again.

Despite Gary’s forewarning, Harry might be putting his eggs in the basket of a girl he met less than twenty-four hours ago.

[carlyraejepsans]

Rate UT characters on likely they are to eat spoiled food

premise: as monster food does not spoil, this speculation is based on how i think they'd treat human food in the post pacifist ending

frisk. trash burger. enough said. (also i hc that they grew up on the streets, so... not a lot of chances to be picky with your food.)

sans. second most likely. there's milk in the fridge bought specifically for him to drink out of the carton whenever frisk's or papyrus' friends come to visit, like a stereotypical disney channel older brother (he loves being annoying on purpose). it's been there for a month. he's still not done with it. it's probably rancid. enjoyer of food and lover of even shittier food. mr worst burger on the menu. he is ESPECIALLY gross about food and he is gross about it on purpose, he will peel an apple for papyrus and then take a bite out of it before cutting him a slice. and then call him a wuss when he acts disgusted. ("stop being a baby bones, we have the same germs anyway" "NO WE DON'T. *YOU* HAVE GERMS! AND I DON'T WANT ANY OF THEM!!" "why? they're pedigreed" "OUGH!?!!"). he mostly uses it as a chance to make a gag (or a lack of gagging, lol) but his strong stomach did also come in handy in the early days of papyrus' interest in cooking

mettaton, of sequins-and-glue hamburgers fame. he's technically tied for 2nd place with sans, but i put him in third because i feel like sans does it on purpose, for mettaton it's more like... a side effect of starting life off as a ghost. few people question it since he's a robot now.

alphys. she doesn't go out of her way to do it, but she buys her snacks in industrial pallet-fuls to reduce social interactions to a minimum, so by the time she reaches the last 3 or 4 packets of blue takis, they're well past their expiration date. not that it stops her. now, this wouldn't happen on the surface because she gets better and has a solid support system, but if monster food could spoil back when she was going Through it with the amalgamates, i feel like she'd either be too depressed or tired to care and eat it, or she'd tumble into a "g-god. you can't even take care of your own f-food. is there anything you can't fuck up" self-deprecation spiral and lose her appetite altogether

flowey. did it to see what would happen. nothing did. never did it again. tbh I just don't think he eats much of anything, spoiled or not.

undyne. getting into the "wouldn't eat spoiled food" tier. she actually thinks it's really gross but papyrus tricks her into doing it by challenging her machismo. she gets SO sick from it. they do this aprox 3 times a month. rinse and repeat

asgore. he's a gardener, and i can see him working in a community garden on the surface, so he'd have access to a lot of fresh produce, for both himself and to give away. however, if some of it were to go bad, he'd probably cut off the affected bit and eat the rest so it doesn't go to waste.

toriel. she is SUPER careful about expiration dates and mold and checks to make sure all she owns is still safe to eat almost weekly. this level of care, however, is mostly meant for other people, not herself, but she would really rather not eat anything that's gone bad. same reasoning as alphys', IF monster food could spoil when she was still in the RUINs, i could technically see her biting the bullet, if only because 1) she was also heavily depressed and struggling to take care of herself, though i think she might sooner skip out on the meal altogether, rather than eat something spoiled, and 2) the awkward stares from the other monsters in the RUINs supermarket might not be something she's willing to deal with on any given day.

papyrus. he would NOT. no way. master of cleaning, germophobe extraordinaire papyrus (well, not really, but he plays the part). if toriel is meticulous, papyrus is obsessive. there better not be a SINGLE spot on his food. and no lines or plaid patterns either!! he WILL wash it untill it goes away. with soap probably. canonically a picky eater to begin with (his picks are just weird as balls). can should and WILL get on sans' ass about his unhealthy eating habits, and that includes eating food that's gone bad.

[izurou]

“i mean i know ‘samu makes rice balls for a living now, but i’m sure he could do a wedding cake.”

rintarou has been in your ear for the past fifteen minutes, mumbling about whether or not osamu could pull off three whole tiers of cake while also making it taste good.

he really thinks it’s a no brainer, as if onigiri and wedding cake go hand in hand—if you know how to make one, surely the other is under your belt as well. he used to help his mom in the kitchen when he was a kid so, obviously he would know.

the only thing is—you’re not engaged, and you don’t plan to be anytime soon.

“rin, seriously?” you scoff, leaning back against the edge of the countertop.

you’re at his mom’s place for a little family dinner—something she loves to do every once in a while to catch up with her son. you’ve just finished your meal, and rintarou being the angel he is, offered to clean up—but not without your company, of course.

“what? it’d save us some money,” he says, diving a hand into the soapy water filling the sink.

“your grandma was just bugging us,” you hum—swirling the dark liquid in your glass around. “she knows we’re not ready for marriage.”

this was your very first time meeting her, and it’s safe to say you weren’t expecting such a loaded question mid meal. so, when are you two getting married? her words had the tips of rintarou’s ears turning pink, and made his sister howl like a dog, because the thought of someone liking her older brother enough to want to marry him was truly hilarious.

he kicked her shins under the table—a glimpse of the petty little boy you had always heard stories about. he did his best to get his grandmother off your backs as well, giving her a cliché answer—something along the lines of we’re both young, and just trying to focus on college right now.

he was in such a damn hurry to drop the subject—and now, he won’t shut up about it.

“okay, but,” he pauses, swiping a hand against the bottom of the sink to check for any stragglers. “he’s young and stupid now, there’s no way he knows how much a wedding cake costs. we can lowball him, get a good deal.”

“you think he’s that stupid?” you snort—having a little more faith in osamu than your boyfriend does.

“hope so,” he mutters, gesturing for you to toss him the hand towel sitting behind you. “he is related to atsumu, after all.”

“wow,” you gawk, “and you call yourself a friend.”

“i’m just looking out for us,” he shrugs, using the fabric to dry his hands. “bet ‘tsumu would do it for free if we asked right now.”

“he’s not going anywhere near our wedding cake,” you say, noting the way rintarou does a thorough wipe down of the counters—hm, so he does know how to clean. “not until it’s served on a plate for him to eat, at least.”

“good point,” he agrees, tossing his cloth over the tap and shuffling over to you. “but you have to admit, the guy’s pretty damn unstoppable when he puts his mind to something.”

“sure,” you hum, looping your arms around his neck and lacing your fingers together. “but you know rin, once you go pro, we won’t even have to worry about the cost of a wedding cake.”

“and if i don’t?” he asks—throwing the possibility out there. it’s something he’s thought about, but never voiced concern over.

“you will, trust me,” you say, pressing a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet—a promise of your word. “but if for some reason you don’t, we’ll beg the twins for a family and friends discount.”

“deal,” he laughs, pulling you flush against him for a hug—and you think to yourself, that when you leave tonight, you’ll love him a little more than when you arrived—if it’s even possible.

you enjoy the moment briefly, until you hear a pair of feet padding in the other direction—someone was listening?

“mom! rintarou is talking about getting married!”

[a-hermit-pining]

Sukuna as a House Husband

Genre: Fluff Pairing: House husband Sukuna x Reader AN: Might be OOC but humor me people. Coming up Geto as househusband 🥰

First few months of Sukuna's career as a househusband are nothing less than accidents that involved smoke alarms and questionable fire extinguisher techniques. The transition from malevolent kitchen to a less lethal one takes quite a minute.

From handing you Lunchables to becoming pinterest core this man takes quite a journey.

Everyday chores that start with ill concealed annoyance and were in the past pointedly pushed on to you are taken over the minute he notices the residues of shared lunch from another in your lunchbox.

How dare you accept someone else's food? The entire evening, Sukuna glared at the takeout pizza with enough intensity to melt the cheese. You swear the pepperoni visibly cowered under his icy gaze.

And the revelation that some random Joe- Shmoe, a pathetic nameless mortal, had lent you his lunch is enough incentive for this man get in action.

This old man has lived his share of luxury as the king of curses. So, the minute he decides to flex his culinary skills your lunches take an immediate promotion.

The obsolete cooking technique no one can replicate...? You bet he's pulling that.

Puts Uraume on the speed dial as the trials of kitchen begin for him. This time, though much to both their disappointment limited to animal meat.

Does not take long before both become grocery shopping buddies for life. Sukuna scowling at unfamiliar vegetables while Uraume patiently explains the difference between shallots and scallions to his Lord.

Weekends take a turn for the… interesting as you become their resident TikTok handler, phone propped precariously on the counter while they attempt to recreate the latest viral trends. Fruit Roll ice cream remains mind blowingly top tier in your household. Getting a reaction even from Uraume.

Sukuna preens under the praise at office potlucks, basking in the envious stares directed at your lunchbox. Every "wow" and "that looks amazing" fuels his ego.

But the real win? Insanely proud when he sees you take pictures of the lunches he makes and even more so when you show him the stories you post on the internet (save his old soul).

Deep into his retirement phase of immortality, Sukuna discovers the joy of aesthetic. This man takes one look at dark academia, gothic Victorian mood boards and not your living room looks like a lair worthy of a final boss villain (which, to be fair, it kind of already was)..

Super into thrifting or picking a random haunted piece of furniture to add character to your living space as he insists, despite your very real concerns about the wailing coming from the armchair at 3 am.

Still a baddie tho. Will get into fights with loud neighbors or bachelor pad finance bros when their trash isn't sorted properly. And it, unfortunately is your responsibility to drag this man back home.

Cleaning is where he draws the line. You will not spot Sukuna with a duster. Ever. So, hiring a cleaning service seemed like a brilliant solution. Except, Sukuna couldn't resist micromanaging their every move. The poor cleaning staff — a battle-hardened group of professionals — withered under his endless critiques on porcelain dusting techniques. Needless to say, generous tips were the only reason they continued to show up.

The King of Curses, a being who once feasted in halls of obsidian and dined on delicacies fit for gods. Yet, the peace and ownership of your little townhouse is sweeter than any other possession of past. His dirty little heart is endeared to his home with you.

[livelaughlovekny]

You bake with him

Notes: Modern AU, Gender neutral reader, 2nd person POV, Streamer!Reader, OOC!Muichirou

Summary: You try to bake a cake while Muichirou just watches.

a/n: ohmygod y'all its the way i tried writing muichirou as he was before he got his memories back and then halfway decided to try and write him after he got his memories back and changed it but the thing is I cant write EITHER personality well SO ITS LIKE HIM BUT NOT HIM CRIES also this is like really long and written without any er proofreading so IMSOSORRY

  “Hello everyone! Welcome back to ‘Can I Cook It? Yes I Can!’, a series in which I try to create all sorts of foods, ranging from a bowl of chicken soup to macarons! Today’s objective is to bake a simple one-tier cake. Oh and, we have a guest today! Everyone, do welcome my beloved, Muichirou! He’s just here to observe, haha.” Stepping to the side, you allow your audience a view of your lover. Muichirou looks at the camera before glancing down at the comments section. It became extremely active the moment you moved aside.

  You were by no means the most viewed streamer, though you did have a dedicated fanbase of your own. On normal days, there would be a steady stream of comments. Occasionally, there would be a large influx of comments and views, but that only happens when you’re celebrating festivals by creating challenging foods. (The last time you tried, you ended up spending the entire next day cleaning up your kitchen.) So, it was quite surprising to see the number of viewers suddenly increase. You looked at the comments section too.

————

gluedcheeks: OMG?? THATS YOUR BF ??

antidepressants98: HUHUHUH IM SUDENLY GAY

InADitch247: ahhh you two look so cute tgt!!! ><

allthingsblack: how does it feel to be gods bias?

EATINGRAMEN: @ allthingsblack right, GOD I SEE WHAT YOU DO FOR OTHERS

————

  The rest of the comments that followed had similar contents. You were stupefied. You were under no such impressions that Muichirou was anything less than gorgeous, but after being with him for so long, you naturally got used to it a little. Seeing the reactions of people who never had the chance to be graced by such a beauty for, you couldn’t help but a little smug and sneak a glance at your boyfriend. Surprisingly, he was already looking at you, having lost interest in the reactions of others earlier. Smiling a little, you moved back to block your audience’s view of him. Ignoring the flood of dismayed comments, you resumed your talk. “Now, let us get started! I’ll be sharing the link to recipe I’ll be following later. After last month’s baking incident, I decided to pick an easier recipe to follow today.”

————

OKOKOKOKOKOK: understandable as you should

LALALALALALALA: its a surprise youre still willing to bake

————

  What could you and the comments possibly be talking about? Muichirou was mystified. Still, he silently watched you curiously as you grabbed the necessary ingredients and preheated the oven. Once you were done adjusting the settings on the oven and lining the baking pan with parchment paper, you moved on to the next step. You grabbed a bowl that you deemed big enough and dumped in some flour, baking powder and salt. Seeing this, Muichirou couldn’t help but blurt out “How do you know how much to add?” He did not see you measure the ingredients beforehand and the amount of each ingredient you poured in seemed questionable.

  “I don’t.” Ah what a simple response, but it gave Muichirou a better idea and guess of how “last month’s baking incident” could’ve happened. He mentally prepared himself for a “today’s baking incident”. Perhaps he should’ve worn a raincoat? He wasn’t familiar with baking but he was familiar with your uncanny ability to mess things up ridiculously so. He watched with new found interest as you whisked the ingredients before moving on to turning on your stand mixer. After fumbling with the switch and buttons a little, you managed to turn on it and waited a few minutes for it to beat the butter and sugar.

  Muichirou moved closer to you and looked over your shoulder. The butter and sugar now looked pale and creamy, which (to Muichirou’s surprise) matched what the recipe stated. Oh, maybe you weren’t that bad at baking? Unaware of your boyfriend’s skepticism, you continued with the next steps: adding two eggs. Now this was easy. You’ve cracked many eggs before. However, it seems that today wasn’t your day. You must’ve used too much force because the moment you tried cracking the egg apart, it burst open. The slimy egg whites and yolk now stained the front of your shirt and kitchen walls. Some of it already began to drip down your kitchen counter too. Muichirou silently concluded that you couldn’t bake.

  Without hesitation, he shook his head at you, sighed, and reached over to crack both eggs for you. He then proceeded to help you wipe off the egg remains from the walls and counter. Pointing at your stained shirt, he asked, “Are you not going to change? If you don’t wash it soon, it’s going to stain forever.” You wave a hand and laughed. “Of course not, I’m too lazy. This is my streaming shirt, no matter what happens, I’ll until I’m done to wash it.” That explained why this originally-purely-white shirt had all sorts of weird patches of colours on it.

————

imachicken: AHHHHH HE LEANED OVER TO HELP YOU AJHHH

xstrxnxut: that’s literally the hottest thing i’ve ever witnessed

EATINGRAMEN: HOW TO BE EGG

whywouldiknow: taking a bath with my hairdryer rn !! :D

EATINGRAMEN: HOWTOBEEGG

allthingsblack: HOWTOBEEGG

————

  Unlike your extremely active comments section, Muichirou decided to keep his thoughts to himself and chose to observe what else would happen.

  After adding milk, oil and vanilla into the bowl (all volumes were eyeballed obviously) and mixing it, you added the entire mixture of dry flour in and beat it until all ingredients were combined. (you were supposed to add half first, beat it, then add the other half but you wanted to “save time”). You then poured the batter into the baking pan. The recipe stated that you should use a spatula to smooth out the top. You could not find yours and decided to just move on to stuffing it into the oven. The recipe stated that you had to wait a minimum of thirty minutes. No troubles arose so far, impressive! Keep up the good work!

  Proud of yourself, you grinned before turning to the camera. “Haha, guess today’s baking session will be a success! I’ll now be making the cake’s frosting.” Grabbing the bowl used to beat the butter previously, you placed more butter into it and dumped some sugar in and allowed your stand mixer to beat the mixture. With a soft smile on his face, Muichirou leaned against the counter as he watched you dump more sugar (?), milk and vanilla into the bowl.

————

OKOKOKOKOKOK: i didnt know frosting had salt in them

LALALALALALALA: thye don’t

————

  There was still a lot of time left so you decided to interact with your audience. A quick glance at your viewership left you shocked. The numbers were nearly triple of your usual viewership and it was still steadily rising! Was having a new face really that effective in gaining more viewers? Of course not, the effectiveness depended on how attractive that face was! Perhaps you should invite Muichirou to join your streams more often, it seemed your fans really liked him and were extremely interested in him.

————

coconut_972: how did you guys meet????????

user4356892: how long have you guys been tgt

lovelove: YOU TWO ARE SO CUTE WHO CONFESSED FIRST

WEEVHJ: WHATS YOUR BFS SKINCARE ROUTINE

dontclickonmyname: YEAH WHAT PROCUCTS DPES HE USW

EATINGRAMEN: what kind of ritual did you perform to be so lucky

allthingsblack: none, if youre not gods fav you obv wont get someone liek that

EATINGRAMEN: 😔

allthingsblack: 😔

————

  Wow, you were certainly not expecting so many questions. You glanced over at your lover, silently asking if he was okay with all the attention. Muichirou simply smiled at you before answering a question at random, “Everyday, I made sure to stand on my head for three minutes while reciting the following line aloud ‘I have no doubt that even if everyone in the world opposes us we will get together because our love for each other is so great that it’s greater than the universe itself’ two hundred and ninety seven times. You have to make sure that you say it two hundred and ninety seven times within three minutes. You will definitely get your soulmate if you do this. I’m living proof.” He said all that with a nonchalant look. For a moment, you couldn’t tell whether or not he was serious. In the end, you decided not to dwell on it. After all, who cares? (Your audience certainly did. The comments section exploded with multiple users commenting that line along with the cartwheel emoji repeatedly.)

  Looking through the comments, you found a question to answer. “Oh, what’s our love languages? Well, mine is all of them, HAHA. And his is probably acts of service and words of affirmation. He used to be bad with his words but he’s getting better now!” You smiled lovingly at your boyfriend and he couldn’t help but smile back. Indeed, when the two of you first met, he was cold and aloof and held great disdain for anyone who wasn’t part of his family. But slowly and surely, he warmed up to you and now, the both of you have been together for quite some time and he has learnt to express his feelings a little better.

  The two of you spent quite some time together answering the questions. It was mostly you going through the comments, picking out questions out of the sea of “🤸 I have no doubt that even if everyone in the world opposes us we will get together because our love for each other is so great that it’s greater than the universe itself 🤸”. You answered most of the questions, with Muichirou occasionally chiming in to provide some tidbits about the both of you. He didn’t talk much but whenever he had something to say, it would either be to praise you or an affectionate insult (which was actually still clearly a compliment for you!!). He did not look at the camera or the screen but rather at you. He loved watching you excitedly talk about stuff.

  It was a while until you saw the following comments:

————

OKOKOKOKOKOK: hey how long has the cake been in there already

LALALALALALALA: HAHA I THINK AN HOUR. AT LEAST.

————

  Oh no, you completely forgot about the cake! Rushing to the oven, you put on your gloves before opening it, reaching into it, and pulling out the pan. It did not look like the golden brown it should be. And while the recipe stated you wait for the cake to cool before adding frosting, you decided that at the point, time did not matter. Haphazardly, you used a large spoon to scoop out the frosting and spread it on the cake.

  The frosting looked very uneven no matter how many times you tried to smooth it out. Oh well, who cares? Definitely not you! Using the same spoon, you scooped out a large chunk of the cake and turned around to offer it to Muichirou. He saw how the cake looked when it came out the oven. In fact, he could still see black peeking out of the uneven layers of frosting. How could he deny you though? Resigned to his fate, he opened his mouth and ate the cake obediently. He paused after the first bite. He slowly chewed again.

  You watched his reaction intently but could not tell what he was thinking. Finally, you asked, “Well?” Muichirou swallowed before answering. He smiled brightly. “Really good. In fact, you should let me finish the rest.” A beautiful bright smile blossomed on your face as you excitedly took a bite for yourself. Your blossomed smile immediately wilted. It. Was. Salty. And So. Very. Very. Burnt. Really good my foot! You had added large amounts of salt into the frosting instead of sugar and the cake tasted like charcoal (you did not know how charcoal tasted like but you were positive that this was how it must taste like)!

  You couldn’t even swallow the bite and spat it out into the bin. Looks like this baking session was a fail too! How disappointing, maybe better luck next time!

————

EATINGRAMEN: im so jealous he could still smile and offer praises

allthingsblack: OHMYGOD RIGHT ?? like he even tried to make sure that only he would have to suffer

OKOKOKOKOKOK: I KNEW IT IT WAS SALT NOT SUGAR

LALALALALALALA: at least today wasn’t exactly a baking incident like last time

————

a/n: ill really do anything just so I can avoid revising omfg

[noneorother]

The art director & the Good Omens book cover tier list of doom, part 3

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3

I am your resident Art Director/Good Omens enthusiast, and welcome to my completely meta-free book cover tier list. Listen, making a book cover is HARD. I should know. But while we salute these artists for their hard work and time, I think we can all admit that once in a while, the vision is just not on. And on very rare occasions, publishers seemed to have managed to commission the cover art directly from hell... here's where we left off last time:

21. Labas zīmes, Latvian cover

Our boys are back! And they are so ready to join the Dead Boy Detective agency. I would say that Latvians don't wear much tartan, so Argyle might seem like a similar print, but it just seems so... not Good Omens. Much like Crowley's flying purple people eater tail and Aziraphale's Conan the Barbarian sword, we're straying into niche AU fan fiction territory here. I mean, it's not *wrong*, but it certainly ain't right, either.

Tier: Does the Job

22. Bons Augùrios, Portuguese

Let me start by saying this cover is so close to being in the blessed category. The layout and spacing are divine, the imagery is simple and whimsical, it reflects the humour inside the gravitas to give you an idea of the *feeling* of reading Good Omens. So few of these covers have gotten this aspect of good design right. Honestly, I would slow clap if it wasn't for that random FLAME JIZZ stuck to the bottom right hand corner of the book. Who's idea was that? Dagon's?

Tier: Great

23. Semne Bune, Romanian cover

I admire two things about this cover: 1) Their utter commitment to a clean 3-colour palette and comprehensible layout. 2) Symbolic demon giving a principality head joke RIGHT ON THE FRONT COVER. This designer had balls. cotillion-sized balls. Now, does Aziraphale's sword have a sentient rooster tassel that watches said head-giving in horror? I sure hope not, but I don't see how that could be allegorical so, I'm torn. I feel like this goes in two categories for completely different reasons. And seeing as I'm in charge around here...

Tier: Great & Not so Good (Omens)

23. Semne Bune, Romanian cover cont.

Compared to the last cover's gigantic double-entendre, this feels so tame and logical. The text is centred and balanced. There's breathing room, and we have wing symbolism! I've never seen a cover try to split Terry and Neil's names like that, which is a fun twist but BY GOD that center line is not straight near the right end of the feathers and it is sending this cover straight down to Does the Job. It's grounded there forever.

Tier: Does the Job

25. HYVIÄ ENTEITÄ, Finnish cover

In this list, having something actually *relevant* to the main plot of the book and not mangling and main characters really puts you in rarefied air. All the motorcycles are book accurate which means somebody read something! Would I have ever picked the empty parking lot of Famine's restaurant as a subject worth a cover? Absolutely not. But the sick 80s lightning tips it into "fine" territory. The text is yellow. It's pretty.

Tier: Does the Job

26. Head ended, Estonian cover.

My face after staring at this cover for ten minutes and finally realizing that this is Hastur and Ligur waiting around for Crowley to pull up:

The artist's face after watching me do that:

Do I even need to rate this? It's called HEAD ENDED. I don't know how to be funnier than that.

Tier: WTF

27. Dobry Omen, Polish cover

Some good points for trying to be original with the layout of the title by drawing a custom pitchfork "Y", but the heinous kerning and the fact the whole text block is not even centred kind of makes me take all the points back. I feel like we're pretty heavy on the demonic, extremely light on the angelic in this take. Maybe it's because on his death bed the lead guitarist of White Snake will finally admit to having designed this cover in his spare time.

Tier: Not so Good (Omens)

28. Good Omens, Hungarian cover

If I told you this designer did not read the book, and instead just watched the trailer of The Omen (the movie) and vibed this heinous brown carpet swatch into existence, you would one hundred percent believe me. I can't even talk about the faux belle-époque font right now. I am irrationally angry.

Tier: WTF

29. Good Omens, Bulgarian cover

WHO. IS. DADDY. WIZARD?? Is all I can think when I look at this cover. Aziraphale & Grommet are recognizable enough, and you could make the case for telescope monkey being Adam, but I need to find this cover designer and shake them until they tell me who this deranged Gargamel is supposed to be. I must know.

Tier: Bad

30. BELAS MALDIÇÕES, Portuguese cover

After all we've been through on this list so far, this truly sucks. It's not even weird. It's just puce text layered atop text to create a great yawn of a cover. Shout out to the designer of the Diablo PC game font, I hope you got paid.

Tier: Bad

Part 3 roundup:

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 8

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 8: Invitation

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 10.3k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food, AA meeting mention, jealousy, alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, internal conflict, suggestion of sexual assault, trauma response, verbal argument, we're gonna pretend i know what i'm talking about w the criminal justice system but lets be real i don't

Notes: HEY HI! First of all big thanks to @frannyzooey for beta reading for me, I appreciate you with all my heart. Ok so up until a few days ago, this chapter was going to be this plus the birthday party. But I made an executive decision I think it will be better. So here's this and just know I already have a pretty solid head start on the next chapter lol. ANYWAY let me know what you think, ok love u bye.

[ Previous ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next ]

“…Happy birthday, dear Sarah, happy birthday to you!”

Sarah’s pudgy little feet patter in place on the seat of the dining room chair. Frankie rubs her back and says, “Blow out the candles!”

“Wait sweetie, let me just,” Angie scoops Sarah’s long chestnut curls into a bundle, “Ok go ahead.”

She leans over the small, two-tiered cake and blows them out one at a time.

“One… Two… Fwee… Four!”

All three of them cheer as the ribbons of black smoke dissipate into the air. Sarah claps her hands and squeals, looking up at her parents with big, sparkling eyes. Frankie can’t wipe the smile from his face. His heart aches with adoration.

While Ang plucks the spent candles from the cake and cuts it into sixteenths, Frankie takes a seat next to his daughter and asks, “Did you have a good day today?”

“Yes,” Sarah nods, watching her mom slip a chef’s knife under the biggest slice of cake and plop it onto a plate. Angie slides the plate in front of her and gives her a fork.

“What was your favorite part?” he asks.

“Ummm,” Sarah stabs the chocolate sponge cake with her fork and manages to tear off a wobbly chunk, “The penguins.”

“The penguins! I never woulda guessed,” Frankie chuckles, glancing up at Angie when she hands him a plate, “Thanks, hun.”

Sarah carves a line into the air with her nose, a smile digging out dimples in her chubby cheeks.

“Got to stay at the aquarium for a long time today, huh? What kind of penguins did we see?”

“Mmm,” she pauses her attack on the cake to scrunch her face up and think about this, then resumes as she tells him, “King penguin… rockhopper penguin… emperor penguin… little penguin…”

“So many penguins!” he grins.

She giggles, “Yes.”

“And then we got pizza, and opened presents, and now we’re having cake.”

She wriggles around in her seat and giggles some more, “Yes.”

“That’s a good birthday, huh?”

Sarah nods and plunges a finger into the pink strawberry frosting.

“Use your fork, sweetie,” Angie reminds her, taking a seat adjacent to Frankie. 

Sarah sticks her finger in her mouth to clean off the frosting, then obediently picks up the fork.

“What should we do after cake?” he asks Sarah before taking a bite. 

The little girl hums thoughtfully, tapping one confectionary-coated finger to her chin, “We can… watch Happy Feet?”

Her big, dark eyes sparkle, a mirror of his own, and Frankie grins from her to Angie, “What do you think, Mama, should we watch Happy Feet after cake?”

She checks the smartwatch on her wrist and shrugs, “Sure, we can watch it for a bit before dropping Daddy off.” 

A pleased smile spreads across Sarah’s face as she digs her fork into the cake. Frankie turns his attention to his own plate, and a content silence falls over the table as the three of them eat. 

The silence is broken when Sarah asks, “Daddy, why don’t you sleep here anymore?” 

He stops chewing and looks over at Angie, who just tilts her head at him like she, too, would like to know the answer to this question. 

“Well,” he swallows a mouthful of cake and clears his throat, “Daddy, uhh… Daddy did something bad and got in trouble with the police.” 

She frowns at her cake, seeming to consider this, then looks up at him,  “Like when you and Mommy were fighting?” 

The response zaps him. Stuns him. His lips part to respond, but he finds himself speechless. 

What the fuck is she talking about? 

He combs through his memory and hits a snag. 

They just got back from some kind of a trip. Ang was giving him the cold shoulder. He recalls drinking in the garage, fuming by himself, trying to work up the courage to confront her. Yelling. Not just him, though, Angie too. Both of them just fucking screaming at each other. Blue and red lights outside. Doorbell. Cops. 

The scraps of his memory bind together and he remembers… it wasn’t a trip they all went on together. It was just Angie and Sarah. Not a fun vacation, either. More of a spur-of-the-moment trip to her parents’ house in Texas, inspired by his recently uncovered infidelity. 

Wasn’t Sarah sleeping? How the fuck does she remember that? 

Frankie shifts in his seat, glancing at Angie, whose face is inscrutable, then back to Sarah, “No. Well, kind of, I guess. Except worse. They took me to jail.” 

Her dark eyes go wide, “But bad guys go to jail.”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Leaning forward onto the table, he presses his fingertips to his lips and watches her sponge-like brain absorb this information. He’s getting into the weeds. Keep it simple. 

“They let me go, but now I have to have a babysitter like you do. That’s why I don’t sleep here,” he reaches over and tucks a loose ringlet behind her ear, “Does that make sense?”

Her brow furrows, “Is Chacha your babysitter?” 

Jesus fucking Christ, this kid. Asking all the right questions to make him squirm. 

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah, she’s pretty much my babysitter now—”

Angie scoffs. 

He shoots her a sharp glance, “Until we know how much trouble I’m in, at least.”

“I saw Chacha at the park,” Sarah informs him, as if he wasn’t there. 

The nickname makes him chuckle. She hasn’t used it in forever, now twice in one night? 

When he thinks about how your face will light up when he shares this news with you, warmth sparks in his guts. 

“You did see Chacha at the park,” he gives Sarah’s arm a playful pinch, “She told me she was happy to see you, and that she misses you.”

At this, Sarah giggles, dimples and all. 

And, at this, Angie shoves her chair out behind her and stomps out of the kitchen. Like a fucking child. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

The thought strikes him square between the eyes. Brief, but distinct. He sweeps it under the rug of his mind to deal with later. 

“Mommy don’t like her,” Sarah tells him in a loud whisper when the bedroom door slams closed.

He has to stifle laughter. 

“Don’t worry about that, princesa,” he waves off the petulant outburst, leaning in to ask, “Would you like it if Chacha came to your birthday party?”

Sarah studies him for a moment. When the question registers, she smiles wide and nods, “Yes.” 

“I’ll talk to Mommy about it later, ok?” 

“Ok.”

“Whaddaya think, should we finish our cake in the living room? Put on Happy Feet?” 

She giggles, hopping off the chair to spin in circles and clap her hands. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he snorts.

Once the birthday girl is sufficiently distracted, Frankie follows his wife’s warpath to their bedroom. He pauses at the closed door, hand hovering over the shiny knob, grimacing at what will follow. 

Did Sarah hear their whole argument that night? 

What else does she remember? 

Does she remember the days he’d call off work to take the two of you to the butterfly house? Or how he would sneak up behind you when you were cooking and kiss your neck? Does she remember you scrambling out of the house, half-naked, gasping for air, while Frankie held Angie back?

Probably not. 

Hopefully not. 

He takes a deep breath and twists the knob, pushing the door open. 

Inside, Angie is sitting at the foot of the bed, texting furiously. Frankie enters the room, closing the door behind him. He approaches cautiously and sits down beside her. Brings his hand to the small of her back. 

She doesn’t acknowledge his presence. 

“Amor,” he murmurs, sliding his palm up and down her rigid spine, “You can’t get pissed at me every time she comes up in conversation. It’s not—” 

He cuts himself off with a thick gulp. 

This catches her attention. She tosses her phone aside and blinks, “It’s not what? Not fair? Is that what you were gonna say?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know, Ang,” he shakes his head, leg bouncing, “It puts me in a weird spot. Whether you like it or not, she’s a part of my life—” 

“Oh, for fucks sake—”

“And—and Sarah, she picks up on that, you know? That you don’t like her—”

“I don’t give a shit if she knows I hate that bitch, Francisco,” Angie spits, “Why shouldn’t I, huh? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t.” 

Answers deadlock his throat. 

Because I care about her, and Sarah cares about her, and she cares about us. Because she has helped me more than any other human has, more times than I deserve. Because she saved my life, and you should be fucking grateful. 

The thought makes him shiver as it replays. 

You should be fucking grateful.

He tries to bypass the question, clearing his throat before taking Angie’s soft hand and meeting her eyes, “I know this arrangement has been hard for you.” 

Her features sharpen. She pulls away and crosses her arms in front of her chest. Unease rings out his stomach. 

But a sense of familiarity dawns on him, too.

It reminds him of conversations he’s had with you the past two months. Those “State of the Union” discussions that loom, dark and terrifying, but end up making him feel ten pounds lighter when they’re all said and done with. 

And, fuck, he wants this to feel better. Wants to be in the same room as his wife and not feel like he’s walking on the razor’s edge. 

“Hey,” he takes back her hand, “Stick with me, ok? We can talk about this.” 

Angie glares at him, but waits. 

“We are friends. That is it. Just like Santi and Benny and Will—”

“Remind me, did you fuck any of them?” 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

He stares back into her piercing gaze, with pleading eyes, “Ang.”

Her jaw clenches and she shakes her head, but doesn’t storm off or start screaming at him, so he continues. 

“I know I fucked up by having sex with her. It was—It was a mistake.”

Angie’s features soften. Relief floods his veins, warm and buzzing and sedative. Like the first drink at the end of a stressful day. 

And, much like when he would finish his first drink, he aches for more. 

“It was impulsive. I was so fucking numb, I needed to feel something, and she was around. I’m not, you know, into her, or attracted to her—”

Angie scoffs. 

“I know it sounds like bullshit. I know,” he squeezes her hand, “But if I could go back in time and do anything over, it would be that day.”

She studies him, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

“It didn’t mean anything, amor. I love you. I mean, fuck, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying.”

Her shoulders slump. She swallows hard and looks down at the floor. Her nails twitch against his palm and the rush it gives him flips his stomach upside down. 

“I’m sorry, Ang.” 

“You’re sorry you got caught.” 

“I’m sorry I betrayed you. I’m sorry I broke your trust. I’m sorry I was so fucked in the head I found comfort in someone else. I took you for granted, and I’m so sorry.”

Angie lets out a little sob. He should feel remorse. At the very least, he should feel something other than sick satisfaction at her finally breaking. Just a little bit more. Almost there. 

“But that day is behind us now, and what I have with her is entirely platonic. She has Rory, and I have you, and we are friends. She’s helping me out right now by giving me a place to live, and driving me places while my license is suspended, and just being… a really, really good friend to me. I know that’s hard for you, and I’m sorry that it makes you uncomfortable, but I promise that’s all it is.” 

“I hate it.” 

“I know,” he nods, pulling her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, “I know, baby. I just need you to trust that I’m doing this for you and Sarah. The two of you are everything to me. I love you.” 

Angie sniffles and straightens her spine, then looks over at Frankie, “Can you promise me something?” 

Her warm gaze is glossy and full of emotion. He leans into it, answering, “Anything.” 

“When the trial is over, and you leave her house—I don’t want you to talk to her ever again.” 

It sobers him instantly. 

He pulls back, shaking his head, “Ang, I can’t—”

A fire comes to life in her eyes.

“If you give a single fuck about our family, you can and you will. You told me your friendship with her is a means to an end. Is that still true, or no?” 

Slowly, he nods, but it feels wrong. The dull blade of guilt rips his belly open. 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

“Then you cut ties with her when this is done. Do that for me and I will put my feelings about her aside.” 

That’s what Angie tells him, but what he understands is this is a reprieve. A stopgap. It buys him some time to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do because—

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

He swallows the thought down with a thick gulp and says, “Alright.” 

Angie blesses him with a peacemaking smile. 

Despite his churning stomach, he returns the smile and squeezes her hand, “Can… Can you do me a favor, though?” 

“What?”

“Let me invite her and Rory to Sarah’s party.” 

She stares at him like she doesn’t understand, then scoffs, “No.” 

“Why not?” 

Jumping to her feet, she shouts, “Because she fucked you in our bed, Frankie, do I really have to explain that?” 

He stands too, “You just said you’re putting those feelings aside, and she’ll be with her boyfriend, I don’t understand what the big deal—”

“Why does she even want to go?” Angie crosses her arms and scowls. 

“She misses Sarah. And Sarah obviously misses her, too. I mean, you heard her at the table earlier.” Frankie approaches her, placing his hands on her waist, searching her face, “I’m with you, amor. I promise. This would just mean a lot to both of them. Especially if they won’t be able to see each other again.” 

She softens a little. Her jaw ticks to the side, then she sighs, “Fine.” 

He represses the smile from his lips and murmurs, “Thank you,” before pressing a kiss into her forehead. 

She hooks her hands behind his neck and drops her eyes to his mouth. His pulse jumps as she captures his lips in hers, alive and wanting. The sugary sweetness of strawberry frosting makes his taste buds perk up and want more. 

Her long, red nails work into the curls at the nape of his neck, scratching that deep, aching itch for her favor. That’s the thing about Angie. She gives her affection sparingly, and when he earns it, it feels so fucking good. 

He can’t remember the last time she touched him like this, with enthusiasm and hunger. 

It was before he quit drinking. Before the failed attempts at marriage counseling. Before Angie came home from work early and caught her husband fucking the nanny.

It’s strange how something as trivial as early dismissal can alter the trajectory of so many lives. His own path seems to be an infinite freefall, always bracing for impact but never meeting the ground. 

Drinking more. Fighting more. Pushing you away again and again and again while trying to transplant these feelings into the right relationship. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Especially now, when Angie kisses him, and all he can think about is your lips, your tongue, soft and slick and writhing on his. The heel of your hand kneading against his stiffening cock. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, eyelids fluttering open to meet her gaze, not yours. 

He wishes it was you. 

But he closes his eyes and lets her guide him back to their bed, settling for the next best thing. 

Frankie hears the buzz of an incoming text message from his pants pocket. He kisses Angie’s sweaty forehead and departs from her body, snatching the discarded jeans off the floor. 

> MARIPOSA:  > Rory is over here fyi, let me know when you’re on your way 

A nagging, confusing spring of jealousy bubbles up in his chest. Something else, too. Like guilt, but deeper. An infection festering away inside him. 

“I should get going before the birthday girl falls asleep. I don’t wanna have to wake her.” 

“Can’t you stay?” Angie asks, stroking his arm, “I mean, really, Francisco. Your PO won’t ship you off to jail for spending the night with your wife, will he?” 

Her gentle touch is a branding iron on his skin. Searing. Territorial. He has to stop himself from lurching away. 

He slides his pants back on and shrugs, “I don’t really wanna find out.”

“So fucked up.”

“I know, baby,” Frankie fishes his shirt off the foot of the bed, tugging it over his head, “I have to, I’m sorry.” 

She releases a sigh and pulls her shirt back on, “Oh, don’t forget, on Thursday my parents will be here.” 

Nodding, he stretches his arms above his head. How could he forget? 

“Try to get along with my dad.” 

He rolls his eyes before turning to face her, “Tell him the same, yeah?” 

She snorts and fastens her jean shorts, raising an eyebrow, “I will, but you know how he is. Don’t take his bait.” 

Frankie grunts in response while buckling his belt. Fully dressed, they meet at the door. Angie looks him over, giving him a rare warm smile before telling him, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

She kisses him, and he places that rotten feeling: shame. 

Frankie walks up the cement path, craning his head up towards the cloudless sapphire evening sky, admiring the way it contrasts the tangerine siding of your post stamp of a house. The sun hangs just at the horizon, and its absence lends relief from the stagnant July heat. 

It’s a nice night, but he’s still a little surprised to find you and Rory are sitting out on the front porch swing, his arm draped around your shoulder with you all tucked into his side. Sure, it may be better than coming home to your closed bedroom door, with just the indistinguishable murmur of your voices to drive him crazy, but still… not ideal. 

The sight causes something deep within Frankie’s chest to clench and pulse, growling, “MINE.” 

Fuck, he couldn’t be more a hypocrite. 

“Whatta we have here, a couple of swingers?” he jokes while climbing the front steps.

It’s a bad joke, and in poor taste given the circumstances, but the sneer on Rory’s lips gives him a rush of satisfaction. 

Conversely, you light up when you see him. Your smile is fucking luminous. A goddamn heat lamp. He feels himself melting into the floorboards. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

You sit up and put a little space between Rory’s body and yours, “Hey! How’d it go?” 

“Good,” he crosses his arms, leaning against the banister with a shrug, “Went to see the penguins, had pizza, presents, cake, all that.” 

“Did she like her gift?” 

“She loved it. She said she’s going to sleep with it tonight—Oh, that reminds me—Ang gave the green light for you two to come to her party on Saturday if you still want to.” 

“Holy shit, really?” you ask, eyes widening, then chuckle and shake your head, “Sorry, I’m just surprised. She really said that’s ok?”

“Yeah,” he smiles despite the guilt condensing in his stomach, and asks Rory, “Know if you can make it?” 

Rory’s head jerks back a little, and he frowns, “Well, this is the first time I’m hearing about it. But, yeah. I have nothing else going on,” he looks at you, “If that’s ok.” 

“Yeah, of course.”

Your words come out airy and unconvincing. Rory studies your face.

Frankie calls your attention back to him, “Guess what she called you earlier.” 

You avert your gaze from Rory’s, tucking your hair behind your ear before you chuckle, “Oh god, did she learn it from her mother?” 

He laughs at this, shaking his head, “No, she called you Chacha.” 

“Shut the fuck up, did she really?” you gasp.

Frankie nods, “Hand to god.”

You sit with this for a few gleeful seconds before your smile falters, and you say, “I miss her.” 

“She misses you, too,” he tells you, “She’ll be happy to see you this weekend.”

You nod, then look to Rory, whose mouth is flattened into an unamused line. He stares at you a beat too long for comfort. The air around the porch swing seems tense.

Frankie glances between you and Rory, then clears his throat and says, “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair.”

You mumble a brief, distracted, “Oh, ok,” before he walks into the house. 

As he closes the door and leans back against it to untie his work boots, he hears you ask, “What?”

Both the sharpness in your voice and its volume make Frankie halt. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the curtains rustle from a light breeze. Quietly, he pulls his boots off and sets them on the shoe tray. Morbid curiosity keeps him rooted in place, barely breathing as he listens in on your conversation. 

“You didn’t tell me we were invited to his kid’s birthday party.”

“He said he would ask, but I wasn’t going to invite you until I knew for sure whether or not we could go.”

More silence, then your voice again, “Oh my god, what is your problem?” 

“I don’t like how you are with him.” 

“How I ‘am’ with him? What the hell does that mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.” 

“I really don’t, could you explain it to me?”

Rory pauses for a beat, then says, “You’re flirting, both of you, right in front of me. I don’t like it. And—and I want it to stop.”

“What am I doing that you think is flirting?” 

“It’s not just you—”

“What he does is irrelevant, he is his own person—”

“It’s fucking disrespectful.”

The silence that follows writhes under his skin. 

This is private. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But he can’t bring himself to move. Some fucked up part of him wants to hear what you say to Rory about him. How do you defend yourself? Do you throw him under the bus, too? 

Are you just as bad as me?

Your voice comes through the window again, metered and firm, but shaky. 

“What am I doing that you consider flirting?” 

Rory scoffs, then says, “It’s the way you look at him and talk to him. Always smiling at him, and joking with him, and asking him how his day went—”

“Wow, how dare I ask my roommate—my friend—how his day was.” 

“That’s not what I mean. It’s—it’s—I know it when I see it, ok? There’s obviously something going on between you two.”

“Obviously,” you deadpan, “Because I smile and joke with him, and ask him how he’s doing, we are so obviously fucking. You’re totally right, Rory. You caught me.”

“He’s a fucking loser, you know that, right?”

Another long pause. 

“I want you to leave.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously, get the fuck off my porch.” 

“I don’t have my—”

“I’ll get your shit.”

Frankie hears the porch swing creak and his heart jumps. He launches himself forward and manages to collapse on the couch as you swing the door open. 

You freeze when you see him. Your eyes flick from him, to the open window, then back to him before you scoff and stomp off to your bedroom. 

Rory steps into the doorway, standing at attention with his hands shoved in his pockets. Frankie stares at him. Something protective and instinctual, almost paternal, wells up inside him and fine tunes his nerve endings.

From the back hallway, you holler, “What the fuck are you doing? I told you to get the fuck off my porch.”

Frankie can’t stop himself from laughing.  

Rory glares at him, “Fuck you.”

You steamroll into the room wielding a backpack and shove it into Rory’s chest, “LEAVE.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“I sure am. Get the fuck off my property.”

Rory holds your gaze for an intense moment before turning to go. You slam the door behind him and deadbolt it, then go to the front windows and do the same with them. 

“I’m—”

You hold up a hand to Frankie and exit the room. A few seconds later he hears your bedroom door click shut. 

After scrubbing his skin raw in the shower and changing into pajamas more comfortable than he deserves, Frankie tries to go to sleep early, but finds himself restless. 

He stares at the ceiling, at his phone, at the walls. When he hears running water in the bathroom, he wonders if you’re getting ready to go to bed. Wonders if you’re ok, and if you would accept his company. 

He thinks about his wife. Her nails digging into his shoulder blades, her hot breath on his cheek. The electric squeeze of her cunt as he came inside her. 

What would you do if you knew? 

Would it tear you apart, or could you care less?

Fuck, why does he feel so guilty? 

For the sex just as much as the tentative agreement he made. 

You know he intends to stay with her, and there’s nothing going on between the two of you. Not really. Nothing certain, at least. Right?

Sure, there was the slip up the week after he moved in. And the panties. And, yeah, some flirting. Not intentional when Rory is around, despite what he may think. And maybe you got off next to each other once. Then there’s the cuddling, and the hand holding, and this deep, aching, maddening desire to spend every ounce of his free time with you. To know all of your favorite things, and your life story, and your ticks. To make you feel happy and appreciated and safe and loved. 

And loved. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

His muscles and tendons vibrate with anxious energy. 

It brings him to his feet and compels him to wander through the dark, silent house, into the living room, confirming its vacancy. He starts off towards your bedroom. The light from your open door slices through the dark back hallway like a beacon. Floorboards creak under his step as he makes his way towards it, and when he arrives, he leans against the door frame. 

You’re stretched out horizontal across your bed, belly-side down, facing away from him, hovering over a thick book. He studies the curvature of your body, lingering on the generously exposed swathes of soft skin that lead to the hem of your shorts. 

“Are you just gonna hang out in the doorway like a weirdo?” you glance over your shoulder, then back at your book. 

“Sorry, I, um... I wasn’t sure if I was interrupting.” 

“You’re not,” you sit up and crawl to the head of your bed, tapping the empty pillow beside you, his pillow, his spot. “Come on in.”

While he walks over to the furthest side, you plump the pillows on your side of the bed and stuff them behind your back, then resume reading. 

“What’s that?” he asks as he stretches out across your bedspread.

You lift the cover to show him and sigh, “Still chipping away at Doctor Sleep.” 

“It any good?” 

“Terrible, that’s why I’m reading it.”

Frankie snorts and shakes his head while digging his phone from his pajama pants, “Are you doing ok?”

“Wow, you’re full of great questions tonight, huh?” 

“Maybe you’re just full of sass tonight, ever think of that?” 

“Doesn’t sound like me.” 

He raises his eyebrows and murmurs, “No comment.” 

“That’s, like, actually a comment though, in itself—”

“Weren’t you reading?” 

“Weren’t you—I don’t know, reading the news or whatever dads do on their phone?”

“Looking for car parts,” he corrects. 

“Same thing.”

Frankie drops his phone on his chest and looks at you, “Not even close.”

You peek around the corner of your book, “It’s like, equal levels of dad-ness, though, so basically, yeah.”

“Levels of dad-ness,” he chuckles under his breath, shaking his head, “You’d know something about that, huh?”

“About what, how daddy you are?” you laugh.

He shrugs, meeting your eyes. You hold his gaze, mouth cracked open in a mischievous smile, then shake your head and look back at your book, “No comment.” 

Grinning like idiots, you both go back to reading and browsing, respectively, although Frankie can’t concentrate for shit with you next to him. His skin aches with the heat of your body so close. 

He listens to every breath you take, every wet swallow, every microscopic wiggle bringing you closer. Minutes go by, but he doesn’t hear your page turn once. 

Eventually, you let out a powerful yawn, and it spreads to him. 

You grab the bookmark off your nightstand and tuck it between the open pages before closing it, “I should go to bed soon—” another yawn interrupts you, “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” he sits up, stretching his arms over his head, then looks back at you, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Your features melt and soften, lips parting as you meet his eyes. This invisible force keeps him anchored there, tugging at his chest, urging him to move closer to you. He glances at your mouth, at the pink flash of your tongue wetting your lips. 

He doesn’t want to go. 

He wants to stay and kiss you breathless, to fall asleep with the warmth of your body lining his, to wake up in your bed and never fucking leave. 

He wants to take back everything he said to his wife earlier today, to defend your honor like he should have, like you would do for him, like you did for him. 

Fuck, he doesn’t deserve you. The hole he dug for himself is a just punishment. He needs to let you go and allow you to find peace with someone else who won’t hurt you like he has. Like he will inevitably do again. 

You reach out and place your hand on his arm, thumb grazing his tingling, heated skin, “Do you want to stay?” 

The contact floods him with feel-good chemicals that his hungry synapses gobble up. 

“I, umm—”

His throat swallows around his thudding pulse. It fucking hurts how bad he wants you right now. He finds himself leaning back on his elbow, gravitating closer to you, resting his hand in the dip of your waist as you roll on your side to face him. 

“Is that a good idea?” he asks. 

“Probably not,” you search his face, your gaze catching on his mouth.

His heart skitters and he doesn’t really notice that his fingertips dig into your side until your whole body shivers in reaction. Doesn’t really notice he’s been inching closer to you until your breath grazes his lips. 

The sound of your ringtone cuts through the thick air between your bodies. 

You sit up and shake your head, trance broken, then reach for the source of the noise with shaky hands, “It’s Rachel. She’s full bridezilla mode, this might take a while.”

“Ok,” he nods, “I’ll go.” 

You look over at him, apologies written all over your face. An impulse yanks hard on his body and urges him forward. Before he can talk himself out of it, he slips a hand behind your head and pulls you into a kiss. 

Your lips are soft and warm, fucking perfect, just how he remembers. They barely have time to respond before he draws back and tells you, “Goodnight.” 

You watch him crawl out of your bed, stunned silent for a moment, then answer the phone, “Hey, Rach—what’s wrong?” 

Frankie glances up at you as he closes the door behind him, and sees you tracing the dumbfounded smile on your lips. 

When he turns out the lights in his room and crawls under the covers, even though he knows damn well he won’t find sleep for hours, he does the same. 

Frankie is at work, elbows deep in the engine compartment of a Bell 407, when the call from his attorney comes. 

“Your case is on the docket,” the voicemail tells him when he returns to his small, shared office space, “Trial is scheduled for Wednesday, September 6th. We might still be able to find a favorable plea deal, so I’ll get working on that, but either way, I’d like to set up a call with you early next week to discuss your options moving forward. Give me a call when you get this, thanks.” 

He takes a seat at his desk and stares at his phone for a minute, then replays the message to make sure he heard correctly. He did. 

The earth tilts. 

Everything seems to crumble as reality dawns on him. All he can see are cold steel prison cell bars and stiff orange jumpsuits. Angie’s words from the other night echo in his head:

“When the trial is over, when you leave her house—I don’t want you to talk to her ever again.” 

A vast, unshakable hollowness overtakes him.

Or… or maybe it’s the opposite. 

Maybe he’s so heavy and full he’s just sinking deeper and deeper into the dark, endless pit of his mistakes, down, down, down… 

He unlocks his phone to return his lawyer’s call, but pauses when he tastes the salt of his own tears. Confused, he wipes his eyes and stares down at his damp hand.

Frankie just sits there for a moment, watching tears splatter onto his palms, stunned. When did he start crying? Why did he start crying?

He knew it was just a matter of time before the consequences of his actions became real. Now it’s happening and he’s blubbering like a baby. 

I need to get my shit together. 

He stands and shoves his phone in his pocket, shaking out his hands.

A string tugs at his chest, leading him to Michael’s desk. He watches the closed door as he carefully pulls open a drawer. Inside, he finds a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The string pulls taut, urging him to do it. 

He thinks about Angie. How her sour attitude always poisons his mind. How this thing between them feels so distant, so vacuous, he doesn’t know how he will ever restore it. 

He thinks about Sarah. How much he’s failed her as a father. He thinks about his own father and wonders if it’s pointless for him to keep resisting fate. Was it always going to be like this for him? Does it matter if he tries to be better, or is this all futile? 

He thinks about you. His chest aches and he feels tears burn behind his eyes again. He wishes you were here. You’d know what to say or do to make him feel better. 

Frankie takes the cell phone from his pocket and dials your number. He glances up at the door again as the line rings. 

“Hey,” you answer, sounding slightly confused, “What’s up?”

Kids squeal in the background as he tries to find his voice. Words catch in his throat, the only thing that comes out is a rasp. A sob. He’s fully crying now. Staring at the whiskey. 

“Frankie, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” 

Your concern is audible. It reaches through the phone and coaxes him to speak. 

“I, um,” he swallows hard and shakes his head, “I don’t know. I’m kind of freaking out right now.” 

“Why, what’s going on?” 

“I just got my court date,” he sniffles, clears his throat, then says, “I feel… hopeless.” 

“Where are you?” 

On your end of the world, Frankie hears a door click shut and the chaotic background noise becomes muted. 

“In my office.” 

“What’re you doing?” 

He pauses, so you repeat the question. 

“I’m staring at a bottle of whiskey,” he admits quietly. Just a whisper. 

“Ok,” you breathe, and he can hear your mind start to whiz into action, “Ok. Did you drink any of it?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Thank fuck,” a sigh of relief crackles in his ear, “Ok, that’s good. Good job. Can I come get you? I—I mean, do you want me to come get you now? Because I can—”

“No, sweetheart,” his eyes flick to the ceiling, trance broken, and he pushes the drawer closed, “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I will—”

He turns towards his desk, “No, really, it’s ok—“

“Oh my fucking god,” you huff, “Look, I am responsible for you. Not only that, but I—I care about you, Frankie. I need to know that you’re safe. And dry.” 

Warmth sprouts up beneath his sternum and branches out under his rib cage. 

“And—and it’s ok if the answer is no, because I can just come get you and bring you h-home,” you stumble a little on the last word, but you recover quickly, “Are you safe?” 

“Yeah. I just needed to, um,” he turns and leans back against the desk, pressing his fingertips to his mouth, then drops them and says, “Thanks for picking up.”

“You promise you’re not falling off the wagon?” 

“I promise.” 

“Good,” you say, your sweet, soft voice tinged with a smile, “If you’re lying to me, though, I’m gonna break your thumbs.” 

“Break my thumbs?” he chuckles. 

“Yeah, you know how many bottles you can lift with broken thumbs? None.” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “Alright, alright. Don’t get out your vice grips just yet, buster.” 

You laugh and Frankie feels his heart swell with adoration. There’s a bit of an awkward pause when your laughter fades out, then you murmur, “Thank you for calling me. Instead of… you know.” 

“Yeah.”

“Still need me to pick you up from your meeting later?” 

“If that still works for you.”

“Of course it does,” you coo, and he can hear the smile in your voice again when you say, “So, about my movie pick for tonight...”

He grins, “Uh-huh. You got a good one?”

“Well, the thing is, I was going to pick The Shawshank Redemption, but that seems a bit too topical now—”

Laughter bubbles up Frankie’s throat, and he shakes his head, “Hey, maybe it’ll give me some pointers for tunneling my way out of a prison.” 

“That is so true. In that case, maybe I’ll keep it. We’ll see,” you chuckle, “Ok, well… I’ll see you tonight, then?” 

“I’ll be there.” 

When Frankie sees your car pull up to the strip mall coffee shop that holds his Friday night meeting, a few thoughts populate his head almost instantaneously. 

At the very forefront is the reminder that he kissed you. 

It was a peck, really, just a quick kiss goodnight. But for three days, the first thought on his mind when he sees you or thinks about you or breathes or does anything really is that he fucking kissed you. 

After being notified of his court date, Frankie should only be thinking up ways to see minimal jail time. But every time he finds a still moment, before anything else, he pictures you sitting on your bed, rubbing your lips and smiling as he leaves your room. 

The thought that follows this one, on par for the past three days, is that he fucked Angie. 

Has anyone ever felt this fucking terrible about having sex with his wife?

Then, on top of that, he said shitty things about you and let Angie do the same. He knows he didn’t just betray you, but he betrayed himself, too. It wasn’t just wrong, it was disingenuous. That knowledge fills him with a heaviness so profound, at times he thinks it might break him. 

Which brings up the last thought that shotguns through his head following the kiss, then Angie: 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

What “this” is, he hasn’t quite figured out yet. His marriage? His obsession with you? Sobriety? Life itself? 

Fuck, all of the above? 

All he knows is he means it, and that “this” is not sustainable. 

He built a timebomb with no countdown. If he concentrates hard enough he can hear it ticking in his bones, whispering in his ear: 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Frankie opens the passenger door to your car and sits down, closing it behind him, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” you throw the car into reverse, craning your neck around to check for oncoming traffic, “How was your meeting?” 

“It was… good, actually,” he stretches out in the seat and shrugs, “Yeah. I, uhh, I think I needed that today.”

“Yeah?” you glance over at him, “So your opinion that it’s, and I quote, ‘total bullshit’ has shifted a bit?” 

He chuckles, “I guess so.” 

“Wow, look at you. A changed man,” you smirk, “You’re almost two months sober, you know that?” 

“Feels like centuries,” he taps his lips, then tells you, “But also days, sometimes. I don’t know. It’s weird.” 

“Is it getting easier?” 

Not at all. 

The thought surfaces from the hungry part of his brain. The beast that just wants and wants and wants, regardless of the cost. But that’s not necessarily accurate, even though it’s the loudest part of him. 

“Sometimes,” he admits, “Sometimes I can’t imagine being that person again. And—and sometimes all I want to do is drink until I don’t care about anything anymore.”

“But the meetings help?”

“Yeah, they do.”

“What step are you on?”

“Well… I haven’t actually started the steps. So, zero.” Before you can ask, he adds, “I don’t know why. I should. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it.” 

You nod in acknowledgement, then a few seconds pass before you tell him, “Last time I talked to Ralph, he suggested I check out an Al-Anon meeting.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“I’ve been thinking about doing it,” you glance between him and the road, “Would that be weird?” 

“I don’t think it would be weird at all,” he answers, tapping his fingers against his knee. 

“Really?”

“It might be helpful, talking to other people in similar… situations, I guess.”

“Ok. Well, yeah, maybe I’ll check it out.”

“You should,” he gives your arm a playful pinch. 

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. Your hand moves towards his, then the fingers curl back and you mutter, “Sorry,” before returning it to the steering wheel. 

Frankie studies your face, watching your jaw gnash around like you’re chewing on your goddamn tongue again. He lays out his hand, palm facing up on the center console. 

You look at it, then release your white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel to place your hand in his. 

Once you do, he interlaces your fingers and pulls your clasped hands to rest on his leg. His thumb absentmindedly works against your skin as he looks out the window at storefronts and restaurants rolling past. And, for the first time all day, he feels sated and calm, like he knows everything will turn out ok.

As the end credits to Moulin Rouge! run, Frankie looks down at you sleeping peacefully with your head on his lap. He rubs your arm, murmuring, “Sweetheart.”

You wake with a start, jolting upright, and clamber to the other end of the couch. Your wide, frightened eyes glow with the ambient light of the TV. Every muscle in your body is rigid and guarded. You look like a cornered animal. 

“Hey,” he holds up a hand, “It’s just me.”

It takes a moment for you to recognize him and your surroundings, but when you do, you slacken, burying your face in your hands, and release a sob.

He stares at you, afraid to move, not wanting to rattle you further. A minute goes by like this, while you cry and he sits there frozen and uncertain. 

“Sorry,” you sit up and wipe your eyes, shaking your head, “That was fucking weird I’m sorry.” 

“No, don’t apologize. It’s ok.” 

“Ok,” you stand on shaky legs, “Well, goodnight.”

When you walk past him, he calls out, “Hey, wait,” and grabs your hand, “Are you ok?”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t pull away, either. For a moment he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. When your breath returns, it’s a sob that racks your body. You shake your head and choke out, “No.” 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” 

You nod, so he stands and follows you to your room. The lights stay off as he crawls into bed beside you, ushering you into his arms. You feel so warm there, fit so perfectly, even with your stuffed panda bear cuddled into your chest. 

When he thinks about your nightmares, your panic attacks, the times like this when you seem stuck somewhere far away, he desperately wants to know who did this to you. 

He can connect the dots. He doesn’t need you to tell him the gory details. If he could put a name and a face to the scars in your psyche, though… 

He cuts his thoughts short, not wanting to see all the methods of vengeance his volatile brain can come up with. Not with you right here, safe in his embrace, drifting to sleep. 

The long, slow breaths expanding and contracting your rib cage lull him into a hypnotic state, and sleep comes to him easily, the way it only does when he’s with you. 

Frankie wakes in your bed at dawn.

Eyes still closed, he frowns when a breeze slices through the thick, stagnant air and cools his skin.

He mutters to himself, “You stole the goddamn blanket again, didn’t you?”

One eye peaks open and confirms his suspicion. At some point overnight, you managed to twist yourself up into a cocoon on the opposite side of the bed. 

“Hmm?”

The noise is muffled and groggy. He chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing. Go back to bed.”

The heap jiggles a little. Your hand pokes out from underneath it and grabs around for him. He scoots closer, peeling back a poofy duvet layer to reveal your serene, still mostly sleeping face. You wince at the dull light of day, but a smile ticks across your lips when you make contact with him, smoothing your palm against the heat of his chest before worming your way into his arms. He pulls the blanket with you, draping it over himself, even though the air is hot and soupy, just to feel your warmth because it’s yours. 

You mumble something into his shirt. The words all stick together when they dribble from your comatose lips and he can’t make out a single one. 

He smirks, “What’s that?”

This time, you tilt your head to the ceiling, notching the crown of your head between his collar and jaw, smacking your mouth a few times before repeating yourself. 

This time, he understands. 

“IIiii love you.” 

His heart skitters electric through his fingertips. 

He tries to keep his countenance calm when he peaks down at you. Your eyes are closed, breath passing through your slack lips in long, halting strokes. One foot in the door of consciousness, if that. 

Fuck it. 

“I love you, too.” 

Every synapse in his brain shoots off like the grand finale of a fireworks display when he says it. A sweet, sleepy hum sounds from your throat as you feel around blindly for him, patting up his arm like you’re searching for a light switch in the dark. 

When you reach his face, your wobbly fingertips twitch a little. They graze his stubbled cheek, then follow the curve of his smile. Your eyelids flutter open, and it takes a moment for your eyes to focus, but when they do, you don’t go to move or push him away like he was half-expecting. 

No, instead, your gaze slides to where you trace his lips, your own parting with a sharp breath. 

If he says anything, he’ll fuck this up, he’s sure of it. And he wants to squeeze every last drop from this moment. So he just watches you and tries to subdue the wildfire scorching his bones to dust.

“I had a dream about you,” you tell him in a hoarse whisper, as if someone might overhear. 

His pulse surges. He feels his limbs wiggle a little closer to you as he asks, “A good dream?”

You nod.

“What happened?” 

The answer tucks into the corners of your mouth and spreads across your face in a big party banner smile, “I dreamed that you, um…”

You lick your lips and shrug, raking your nails along his jaw, reeling him in closer. He doesn’t want to be the fool that makes the first move. Not unless you want him to be. 

“That I what?”

The question leaves his throat in a rumble. Permission, he needs your permission, baby, please—

Then you kiss him. Delicate and hesitant, like a question: “Do you want this?”

“I do,” every cell in his body cries, aching with restrained force when his lips move in response, pressing hard against yours like a declaration, “I don’t just want this, I need this. I need you.” 

A moan bows your vocal cords, vibrating onto his tongue as you yank on his shirt and roll onto your back, pulling him on top of you. It’s like second nature, how his hips arch into yours, the dull edge of your pubic bone grinding against his already stiff, throbbing length. 

He keeps expecting you to come to your senses and shove him away, but you don’t. You keep kissing him, pulling him closer, tongue rolling soft and wet against his—morning breath be damned, thank fucking god. If you tried to shoo him now, he might die, too much inertia from this pulsing, maddening energy rippling beneath his skin, it would tear him to shreds. 

Your lips part from his and you peer up at him through your lashes, studying his face as you tug at his cock over his shorts. His whole body shudders, a groan spilling from his chest, and you smirk, “Take them off.” 

“Are you sure?”

You glance at his lips, then meet his eyes, “No, but do it anyway.” 

Frankie sits up and strips off his clothes, watching you do the same. You pull him with you as you lay back on your elbows, lips meeting again and again in frantic, desperate kisses. His cock nudges against your slick entrance, and you whine, “Please—” 

He pushes forward, swallowed up by your tight, wet heat, catching the whine of “Fuck yes,” that escapes your mouth. A thick wave of pleasure rushes up his spine, and your hips work against his, taking him faster, the shared movements quickly escalating. 

“So fucking good,” he pants, nipping at the column of your throat as your head falls loosely back, “Sweet girl, you take me so well, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding up at the ceiling, mouth hanging open slack, eyes pinched shut, “Oh my god, yes, Frankie—”

“That’s it, baby, say my name,” he growls, this insane gush of hot, writhing ecstasy flooding his body, “Look at me.”

Your head snaps up and you meet his eyes. He slips a hand behind your head and cradles your skull, holding you here, fucking you in deep, long strokes, asking you, “Whose pussy is this?”

“It’s yours, Frankie,” you gasp, nodding, “It’s yours, it’s always yours, fuck—”

“Fuck yes it is,” his voice sounds far away, babbling all on its own as he grapples with the fire growing inside him, “Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?” 

You let out a pathetic whimper and shake your head, “No.”

“Do you think about me when you fuck him?”

A nod, continuing frantically when he asks, “Think about how you wish it was me to make yourself come?” 

“Fuck, holy shit, Frankie—oh my fucking god—”

You’re so fucking close. His muscles start to clench at the overwhelming pleasure. 

“That’s it baby, come on, let it go, it’s ok, be a good girl let me feel you come on this dick—”

Your moans grow louder, matching his fervid thrusts, and he feels you suck him in, the spasming squeeze of your plush, hot walls yanking him violently over the edge. Liquid static condenses, then pulses through him, and he lets out a guttural noise as he fucks his load into you. 

The rhythm of his hips slow, then come to a stop. 

He looks down at you, panting, and brushes his thumb against your cheek, searching your face for signs of regret, and notices you’re studying him in the same manner.

You smooth your hands over his shoulders, then pull him into a sweet, lingering kiss. When your lips depart his, you release a heavy sigh, dragging your nails through his damp bed head as you ask, “What time do you have to go?” 

An old, familiar ache returns. Reality setting in. He realizes what the day holds in store for him. Sarah’s birthday party. Spending the day with family and friends, playing pretend. 

When he thinks about being around you and Angie simultaneously, how he will have to act neutral or even cold towards you, his stomach twists and a sour taste rises in his throat. He’s been here a million times and it always leaves him nauseous with shame. It doesn’t feel right. It never felt right. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

Everything seems to click into place. He understands what he has to do. 

“Pablo is picking me up around 9.”

Your throat bobs and a crease forms between your brows as you avert your gaze, fingers still working through his hair, “Today’s gonna be a fucking nightmare, isn’t it?” 

“Mmm,” he presses a kiss into your forehead, right on the little worry lines, mumbling against your skin, “It’ll be ok.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “We just fucked, now we’re gonna spend the day with your wife and daughter, what could go wrong?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he chuckles, but you don’t find it funny. 

You flinch and look down, hands curling to your chest. Frankie tilts your chin up. When he meets your eyes, they’re bloodshot and watery. He opens his mouth to say something, frantically searching his brain for some kind of band-aid, but the box is empty. He’s not sure what to say to comfort you. All that comes out of his stupid fucking mouth is, “I—fuck, sorry.” 

“No, it’s ok,” you wipe your eyes and sit up, so he draws back, watching you scramble to put your shorts back on, “I, um… I’ll go make some coffee.” 

He wants to assure you it will be ok, that he’s going to fix this, make things right. Something he should have done years ago. But the words lodge in his chest. What if he can’t fix it? What if it’s another promise he can’t keep? 

So he just sits there and lets you walk away for the millionth time. 

After taking a shower and getting dressed, Frankie pours a cup of coffee and walks into the living room, where you’re scribbling in your notebook, limbs twisted up into a tight knot. Uncertainty paralyzes him in the archway between rooms. He takes a step back, pauses, then steps forward. 

You smack the notebook and blink at him, “Oh my god Frankie, just sit down, you’re making me nervous.” 

He nods and strides over to the couch, lowering himself onto the cushion beside you with a groan. Meanwhile, you return your attention to the notebook, furrowing your brow as you write.

Curiosity flips his stomach. Is it about him? About what just happened? 

Desperately, he wants you to share your feelings on the matter with him like you would your journal. The unfiltered truth. 

Do you want this like I do?

He takes a big, burning sip of coffee, then asks, “What’re you writing about?”

Your eyebrow arches and you continue to scribble as you narrate, “Dear diary, he’s gonna be super fucking weird about this now, isn’t he?”

Frankie snorts, shaking his head while you spear your pencil down the notebook’s wired spine and smirk at him. He tugs at one of your ankles, and you welcome the invitation, stretching your legs out across his lap and he scoots closer. 

“Am I being weird about it?” he asks, glancing down into his steaming mug. 

You exchange the notebook for your coffee and raise it to your lips before shrugging, “A little. But I think I am, too, so…” You take a loud sip, then lower your mug and ask, “Do you regret it yet?”

He doesn’t even think about it. The answer barrels from his heart to his mouth. 

“No.” 

A timid sort of smile curves your lips. It reminds him of the way a neglected animal would react to an outstretched hand. Cautious. Not sure if he’ll slap or pet you, but hopeful. 

“Really?”

He nods, searching your face, “What about you?”

“No. But—” your smile falters, eyes dropping to your coffee cup, “But I’m scared.” 

Guilt pools icy cold in his guts. His throat bobs on its own accord. He takes your hand, weaving his fingers with yours.

Your face twists into a pained expression and you croak, “What are we even doing here?” 

“I don’t know yet,” he shakes his head, “But give me some time—”

“I can’t be your mistress again,” you whisper, shaking your head as tears pool in your eyes, voice escalating, tinged with panic, “Please don’t ask me to do that again, it would kill me, Frankie, I fucking can’t—”

“Hey—no,” he sits up to place his mug on the table, takes yours and does the same, then scoops you up onto his lap.

You bury your face in his neck. Sobs work through your body with violent force—a horrible, tortured sound that pulverizes his heart. All he can do is squeeze you tight and do his best to restrain his own tears. It barely works. Self-loathing bubbles under his skin. 

His voice cracks as he tells you, “I won’t do that to you again, mariposa, I promise. I’ll fix it, I promise I’ll fix it, ok?” 

He clenches his eyes shut, cradling you as a few more strangled noises burst from your chest, each one driving the thought deeper: I don’t want to do this anymore. 

“Give me some time,” he rasps into your hair, “I promise I’ll fix it—”

“You’re just saying that because I’m crying,” you choke out in an accusatory fashion, then take a big, wet, gasping breath. 

“No, I’m not—hey, look at me.”

He pulls back to meet your eyes, but you shake your head in protest, covering your face, “I don’t want to, I’m ugly crying.”

“Ugly crying?” Frankie snorts, “I don’t know about that, let me see.” 

Your shoulders bounce with a soggy, muffled chuckle, “Shut up.”

He smirks at the spunky response as you sniffle and drop your hands, shooting him a glare he knows you don’t mean. Feigning seriousness, he pinches your chin to inspect your damp, puffy face. 

“Hmm,” he clicks his tongue and sighs, “Just as I thought. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.” 

To this, you roll your eyes and chuckle, “You’re a liar.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs, thumb sliding across the plush of your bottom lip, “But not about this.”

Your gaze softens as you search his face, “Which part?” 

“All of it.” 

“Really?”

Frankie nods. 

You study him, brow furrowed, eyes welling up. Everything is so silent and still, he wonders if the world stopped turning. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you croak out, “You better not be fucking with me, Francisco.”

“I’m not—”

“Because, I swear to god, if you’re lying—”

He cups your cheeks and holds your gaze steady on his, “I promise, ok? I’ll tell Ang later this week. But today…” He trails off, shaking his head, “I don’t know.”

A few tears break loose, so he wipes them away. 

The column of your throat bobs and you ask, “Do you still want me to go?”

He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, “Do you still want to go?”

“You first.” 

“I’d like it if you did. And it would mean a lot to Sarah,” he slips his arms around your waist and leans back onto the couch. You follow, laying your head on his shoulder, melting into him as he pets your hair and says, “But it’s up to you. It might be hard.”

“Because you’re still… with her, right? Like this?”

His chest aches. You flatten your palm against his heart and he tells you, “Yeah. Well, kind of. It’s different, but yeah.” 

“Different how?” 

I don’t love her. Not like this. 

“I, um… I don’t know how to explain it. She’s just a different person. Our relationship isn’t like this. It’s kind of like it was, but, you know… worse.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then ask, “Do you still fuck her?”

“No.”

The lie slips out automatically. Immediately, his stomach drops to the ground. He wishes he could take it back, and for a second, he considers it. But, at the same time, you don’t need to know about a one-time fuck up. 

He shifts a little, looking down at you, “But we’re still… affectionate sometimes. Which could be hard to see. So, it’s up to you.” 

You smooth your hand up his chest, to his neck, and sit up to meet his eyes, “I’ll go.”

Frankie nods, searching your face. 

“We can behave, right?” your eyebrow quirks, and you glance down at his mouth. 

“Uh huh,” he leans closer, inhaling your breath, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. 

But when his lips meet yours, and sparks ignite under his skin, he knows it’s just another lie. 

[marimbles]

Commissions open!

Tier 1: simple sketches—$15 base

Black and white or partial/low-opacity color

two characters: +$10

Tier 2: colored sketches—$25 base

full color with simple shading

two characters:+$15

Tier 3: full-render sketches—$35 base

full color, shading, environmental lighting, etc.

two characters: +$20

If interested, please DM me or email me at heymarimbles@gmail.com!

Reblogs appreciated💜 thank you!!

More details under the cut:

Will do:

fanart (miraculous ladybug, the owl house, and the legend of Zelda are my main fandoms, so those are the characters I’m most familiar with drawing, but other fandoms are also welcome!)

OCs/sonas (MUST provide references and detailed description)

real people (in my style)

ship art/light romance

Won’t do:

NSFW (or anything that feels too steamy to me djdjkd)

furry

mecha

gore

Other guidelines:

Prices are USD

Payment through PayPal or ko-fi

No price distinction between bust, half-body, and full-body

If you want more than two characters, we can talk about it!

Very simple background included in base price (like a solid color or gradient, a circle or square behind the character, etc). Anything else is negotiable depending on complexity.

Props and small companions (like kwami, palisman, pet, etc.) are negotiable depending on complexity.

These are sketches, so the lines will be somewhat rough and you may see structure lines underneath. If you are not satisfied with the level of cleanliness, I can clean it up a bit, but these tiers don’t include clean lineart. (If you do want clean lineart, though, we can talk about it!)

I tend to experiment a bit with my rendering tools/style, so if there’s a particular piece of mine you like and you want me to try to recreate that style, lmk!

References photos are super helpful! (And for OCs, they’re essential.)

If you’re interested in something that doesn’t fall under one of these tiers (like a comic, doodle dump, etc.), just talk to me and we might be able to figure something out :)

[neuroticbookworm]

This episode is full of delicious hypocrisies -- Ray pursuing Sand when he's official with Mew, Mew literally performing a makeout in front of Top after he had just asked Top and Boston if they're shameless enough to "do it" in front of the crowd, Nick trying to corner Boston with a "what you did was filthy" while having absolutely zero moral ground to stand on.

But this line in particular caught my attention:

Mew did not want this breakup. He had put in so much effort into the Top-Tier-to-Boyfriend transformation. He wanted to stay winning. He does not feel betrayed because Top cheated on him, he feels angry that Top has thrown all his efforts down the gutter, and has forced a social failure label on Mew. Mew is no longer the one who tamed Top Tier, he is now the poor guy who got cheated on by the college slut. Just another loser who got seduced and dumped as soon as his turn was over.

Which is why the savior stunt Top pulled for Ray is so interesting. It not only cleans his image a bit, it also gives Mew the perfect opening to start "forgiving" Top for his indiscretions. Mew will no longer lose face if he gives Top another chance.

I gotta say, all these bitches are young and selfish and messy, and yet Top and Mew are perfectly matched for each other. They understand what the other wants, and they know how to play social games to keep the other wanting more. Mew played Top in the first half of the show, using sex as a prize. And now Top is gonna play Mew, using social status as the bait.