#i started a list of foods that i will reliably eat

[i-hate-people-1]

~Mid to West~

Eddie Munson x Henderson reader road trip AU

Pairing:Eddie Munson x Henderson reader

Warnings:none

Words: 1,800

A/N: Had this idea a while ago finally decided to write it down.

Dustin wanted something; you knew it. He’d been doing your chores, letting you use the bathroom to get ready in the mornings without complaining, letting you take the first shower, folding your laundry, which he knew you hated doing.

You hadn’t said anything, not one to look at a gift horse in the mouth. However, it finally came to a head when Dustin came into your room with this morning tray in hand (the one your mom always used to bring you breakfast in bed on your birthdays or when you were sick). a bowl of honey nut Cheerios, a glass of orange juice, and a bowl of mixed fruit sit on top of it.

“I made you breakfast,” he said as he walked to you.

You gave him a strange look as he sat it on your nightstand. It was the weekend, so you had just been lounging around reading your new book since you woke up. “Why?” You finally asked, sitting up against your headboard, taking the food and starting to eat, still looking at him quizzically.

“What can’t a little brother just do something nice for his older sister, whom he loves so much?” Dustin defended unconvincingly.

"Yeah, they can, but you don’t,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Come on out with it, shitbird, you wait much longer. I’ll have finished my food, and you’ll have to wait till you can make a whole other meal,” you joked, popping a grape into your mouth.

"Alright, fine,” Dustin sighed, sitting on the edge of your bed. “I do want something, and I want you to really think about it before you say no.” He trailed off, avoiding your gaze.

“Okay?” You egged, kicking his shoulder lightly, ready for him to get on with it.

"Well, you know how summer break starts next week, and I’ve outgrown science camp, and there’s no way mom would let me fly. You know how much planes scare her, and Susie’s parents wouldn’t let her either, but Mom would probably let me if you went to and drove me." Dustin paused, seeing the confusion on your face. “Would you take me on a road trip to Utah to visit Susie over the summer? Well, not the whole summer, but while it’s happening." Dustin finished rambling, looking at you hopefully with his best puppy dog eyes.

"Ugh,” you groaned. "Really, Utah, come on, it’s like the asscrack of America.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s Florida.”

“I don’t even have a car; how are we going to get there?” You asked, both loving and hating, the way your little brother's eyes lit up.

“Don’t even worry about that; I’ve got it covered. Is that a yes?” He asked far too excited at 8:30 in the morning.

“It’s a yes if you can find us a car and somehow convince Mom to let us go,” you told him, condescendingly.

“Yes! Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you; you're the best sister ever!” Dustin exclaimed, hugging you tightly.

"Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes as you tussled his hair. “I know, and don’t you forget it.”

***

That’s how Dustin found himself here, cleaning up after hellfire, about to ask Eddie if he’d be willing to drop his summer plans to drive him and his sister to Utah so he could see his girlfriend.

By some miracle, Dustin had convinced his overprotective mother to let him go, and Eddie was the last piece of the puzzle. Well, at least his van was deciding that even if it wasn’t the most reliable, it was the most spacious, meaning you’d have to spend less money on motels along the way, and you could fit more people, Lucas and Steve, on the top of his list to invite once he got the older boy to agree to this somewhat questionable plan.

“You’re oddly quiet, Henderson. What’s going on in the ginormous head of yours?” Eddie asked teasingly as he packed up his dice and began sliding his books into the book bag he’d had since his freshman year.

“What are your plans for the summer?” Dustin blurted it out, unable to keep it in any longer.

"Umm, I don’t know. Maybe plan a new campaign. I'm going to try to deal at some of the parties and make some extra cash. You know, I really enjoyed my last summer before I’m hurdled into a life of adulthood,” Eddie said, shrugging and throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic about finally graduating, but now I have to actually grow up. It's a bummer." Eddie sighed jokingly, getting ready to lock up. They had one more hellfire meeting before school was over; it was all oddly emotional for him.

“Well, how fun does a road trip to Utah with your favorite little buddy sound for summer plans?” Dustin propositioned himself, smiling hopefully at him.

“Like actual hell,” the older boy deadpanned, walking out of the old drama room.

"Oh, come on, please, it’ll be fun, I promise, and me and Y/N really need your van,” Dustin pleaded, following after him.

“Y/N will be there?” Eddie asked, stopping in his tracks and smiling brightly when Dustin nodded. "Well, why didn’t you say so sooner? Utah sounds great!” Eddie exclaimed.

"Really, you only want to go for my sister?” Dustin asked with mock sadness in his voice.

“No Dustin I only want to go for your hot sister,” Eddie paused, laughing at the way Dustin’s nose wrinkled in disgust at his words. "Besides, you only want me to go for my van,” Eddie pointed out as they began walking to the parking lot.

“Fair enough,” Dustin shrugged, walking beside him.

“So where’s Utah, like Canada or something?”

“Oh my god,” Dustin mumbled, shaking his head, already regretting asking him to come.

***

After a week of anticipation a graduation ceremony where you, Robin, Eddie, and Nancy walked the stage and a lot of time spent making Eddie look at a map, it was finally time for your trip to begin. Dustin had been practically bouncing off the walls all morning, and he was excited to spend what you had calculated to be almost 23 hours in a car, not including stops.

Somehow, you ended up with six people coming on your little road trip: Eddie, Dustin, Steve, Robin, and Lucas.

Lucky for you, the Wheelers already had plans to visit the Byers, so you didn’t have to shove two more in there, and Max was going to summer camp.

You could practically hear when Eddie pulled into your street loud vehicle blasting music and erratic driving, doing nothing to keep him stealthy.

“Are you sure you guys really want to go?” Your mother asked you for the hundredth time. “Maybe you should stay.”

Dustin threw his head back, dramatically letting out a groan. “Come on, Mom, we talked about this. We’re going to be fine. You’ve got to give Dusty Buns a little freedom, plus I’ll be with him the whole time.” You paused walking over to Dustin, who was giving your mom puppy dog eyes, pinching his chin in between your fingers. “Besides, who could say no to this face?” you coed, knowing that as overprotective as she was, she had a hard time telling him no.

"Okay, okay, just be careful and call me,” she conceited, pulling you both in for a hug that you gladly returned as Eddie stopped his van. “I love you both; be careful,” your mom said, finally heading inside after one more hug for the both of you.

"Alright, come on guys, we’ve still got two more stops,” Eddie yelled from the van.

“Come on, DustyBuns, your damsel awaits,” you said, ruffling his hair and walking to the van.

***

After a few hiccups, I.E. Steve packing everything he owned you were finally on your way out of Hawkins Eddie driving you sitting shotgun with Dustin Steve Robin and Lucas in the back.

“I can’t believe this was the best way to spend my summer,” Robin groaned.

"Oh, come on, you guys, stop acting like we’re not going to have a blast,” Dustin said. "Besides, we’re already out of Hawkins, so you’re stuck,” he told you guys, mockingly pointing at the leaving Hawkins/Hell sign.

“Oh yeah, I guess we are,” Eddie said, distractedly casually flipping the bird to the sign as you passed it. “I guess you can probably come out now, red,” Eddie said, making everyone look at him in confusion.

“Finally!” You heard making all of you jump and shriek as you saw a figure jump out of the pile of blankets sitting in the corner of the van.

“Maxine Mayfield, what the fuck are you doing here?!” Steve yelled, clutching a hand to his chest.

"Yeah, she’s supposed to be at summer camp,” you scolded, seeing the smirk grow on Eddie’s face.

"Oh, come on, sweetheart, I couldn’t let one of my sheepies rot while we had all the fun,” he said, wiping the smirk off his face to pout at you comically.

"Yeah, Eddie was just helping me,” Max said, working her way to the front of the van and joining Eddie in looking at you pitifully. “Please don’t tell my mom I want to spend the summer with you guys.”

"Yeah, come on, doll, can we keep her?” Eddie asked hopefully.

"Yeah, let her stay,” Dustin and Lucas said, joining the side of Eddie and Max.

"Yeah, come on, we could use another girl." Robin joined in, leaving only you and Steve.

“Aww, what the hell, yeah, let’s let her stay,” and now you’ve lost Steve too.

“Please?” Max said one last time you looked at the whole van teaming up on you, eyes wide and sad as they waited for your answer.

And you almost held your ground until you looked at Eddie, his big brown eyes peering into your soul. His bottom lip jutted out.

"Fine,” you sighed, making the whole van erupt in cheers.

“Thank you, thank you,” Max said, hugging you.

“You’re really the best!” Dustin Lucas Robin and Steve all cheered one after the other as they went to talk amongst themselves, happy to have added a member to the group.

“Thank you, you’re my hero, princess." Eddie’s words caught your attention, finding his eyes already on you and smiling brightly.

"Oh, shut up,” you laughed, rolling your eyes as your face flushed at the nickname “And look at the road before you kill us all.” You finished pushing his chin to make him look at the road as you both laughed.

“Alright, road trip, baby, let’s go!” Eddie yelled, making the van erupt in cheers once more. You joined them this time, happy to be spending the summer with people you cared about.

Boy, were you guys in for it…

[nope-4]

a/n: I wrote this a couple weeks ago and have not continued it since, so I decided to just post what I wrote

Danny was tired. It was exam season, the ghosts hadn't eased up on their attacks despite the stress he had with school, Jazz was off for college (meaning his parents expected him to pick up the slack and add her chores to his chore list...) he was more than tired. He was EXHAUSTED. You couldn't really blame him for what happened. ...at least that's what he's been telling himself.

Why is be being so dramatic, you ask? Well... he may have... sorta accidentally spaced out while flying and found himself waking up out in the middle of a forest full of pine trees. And this forest looked NOTHING like the forest in Amity park.

Now this wouldn't usually be a problem, right? Amity has such a big ectoplasmic presence, he could sense it from anywhere in the world! Except... as previously mentioned, he was physically and mentally exhausted, had barely eaten 3 sandwiches in the past week, hadn't gotten more than an hour of sleep a night (some nights getting no sleep at all) for over a month now... and to make things even better, he couldn't even ask for directions to a nearby city!

Ever since the whole Pariah Dark incident Amity (as in the city spirit of amity park) had decided that staying in one place was "too dangerous", so she'd started moving amity around the US with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Maybe it was because amity was a rather young city spirit, but this didn't achieve anything other than getting the GIW out of amity (they weren't able to reliably track the city location quickly enough to get there before it moved again, and amity has developed a tendency to leave them behind while moving herself, at this rate they would lose their funding before they managed to develop a way to locate amity quickly enough)

All that to say he's currently lost in an unfamiliar forest in the middle of nowhere, barely conscious, just praying to all the ancients (that he hadn't fought) that he could get some food and sleep before anything hostile could find him in this weakened state.

So far he had only heard a few distant animal noises, and there was no way he was attempting to eat something from a forest (he might have grown up eating ecto-infused food, but that didn't mean he had no standards for the food he put in his body! He wasn't going to attempt to eat something from an unfamiliar forest!

Danny hadn't gotten any closer to civilization from what he could tell, and he was running out of energy way too fast. So in a move of rare intelligence, he decided to find a tree with a strong looking branch, fly up to it, and drape himself on the branch for some hopefully undisturbed sleep. He didn't want any big forest animals finding him while he was asleep after all.

- - - - - - - - dipper pov - - - - - - - -

"hey mabel, isn't it weirdly quiet here today?"

Dipper and Mabel had gone into the forest with hopes of easing their boredom (and more importantly, get away from grunkle Stan and Ford's bickering), but so far they hadn't seen even a single red pointy hat peeking out in between the pine branches.

"maybe there's some new creature in the forest today..." he voiced out loud, a small part of him still wanting to prove himself to ford by finding something he had missed in his exploration of gravity falls.

"if it's scaring away all the other creatures, wouldn't it be better to call ford for help?" Mabel replied, worrying they might not be able to deal with it by themselves.

"nah, we can totally deal with this! we survived bill's weirdmageddon, we can definitely survive some weird new creature! have some faith in our strength, Mabel!"

"yeah, you're probably right, there's no use worrying"

[triforce-of-mischief]

@ailesswhumptober day 24: Deconditioning

Summary: Amidst gossipy civilians who don't care for nuance, Ravio wishes that his body wasn't a visible reminder of the past he can't seem to break away from.

Contents: references to past famine, eating disorder, weight issues, body shaming

Words: 1400

AO3

Please reblog to show your support! Likes do nothing.

Ravio couldn’t help it, even after all this time; he heard the pantry open and his ears perked up, instantly alert. He ran through his mental list of reassurances before he panicked over such a little thing.

Link is home. The house is secure. Sheerow would warn me if there was a thief. It’s not mealtime yet. Link must be hungry for a snack. We have enough that he can eat and we will have food later.

That made him feel better, enough that he was calm as he stood from his desk. Ravio wasn’t hungry, he never was before dinner, but he liked to see what Link had grabbed from their stores. It was an anxious habit, one that was older than his practice with keeping inventory of his shop, and Link understood by now. When Ravio came up beside him, Link simply held out a handful of cookies for Ravio to see.

“How many is that?” Ravio asked, and counted them. There were three cookies, and he tried not to let the worry show on his face. “Three- there were three left, right?”

“Yeah, I’m finishing them,” Link said. He opened the jar, angling it so Ravio could see that there were only crumbs inside. “Did you want one?” He offered one, but Ravio shook his head.

“No, I just-” Ravio wrung his hands, knowing how stupid he would sound. “We won’t have any left.”

“They’re going to be stale soon,” Link pointed out. “We can always make more.”

“What if we don’t have the ingredients? Or the time?”

“Then we can buy some from the bakery.”

“If we’re low on rupees?”

“Ravi, when are we ever low on rupees?” Link was starting to frown at him, and Ravio hastily backed up.

“I- you know what, it’s fine, actually. Enjoy the cookies,” he said quickly, and turned on his heel.

Link knew what to expect from him, but that didn’t mean he was aware of the irrational terror that Ravio felt every time some of their food ran empty. He gave his hero reason to worry enough, and he tried to keep it that way. Link didn’t mention it again, or food at all until he asked Ravio if he wanted to visit the Milk Bar that night.

Ravio didn’t see any harm in it. He liked socializing, and odd eating habits were easier to overlook in public. The bar was busy, and the two navigated bustle and chatter to order their drinks and find a table between a pair of similarly mismatched groups. A party of Hyrulians were opposite one of Lorulians, and both conversations could easily be heard from where Ravio sat in the middle.

“It’s disgusting, really,” said a Hyrulian woman with a wave of her hand. “Our hero revives their land and how do they thank him? By gorging themselves on their newfound harvests without a care for their health or their appearance.”

“It’s a repeat of what happened with the Zora queen,” her friend agreed. “She lost her restraint, and with it, her beauty.”

“I heard that the Zora, at least, has a magical scale that keeps her size in check!” the first woman chortled. “What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on one of those!”

Ravio felt heat rush to his ears, a telltale sign of slowly rising anger. He had known for a while now that Hyrulians were a bit vain about their weight. It was the fashion to stay skinny; rounder bodies were mercilessly mocked for no real reason. Link, with his small stature and lithe, slightly muscular frame, seemed blissfully oblivious to the twittering. Ravio, on the other hand, was painfully aware of the difference in the way that he was treated compared to his fellow Lorulians.

The Hyrulian women were correct, in one regard. With the loss of the Triforce came years of famine, insecurity, hoarding… Until recently, most Lorulians had reflected the lack of reliable sustenence. Even Ravio and Hilda, living in the castle, weren’t spared the hardships of a barren land. His princess, for so long, had resembled a ghost of her possible self, gaunt and frail, and Ravio wasn’t any better. With the return of their sun, and food, most Lorulians lived much happier, healthier lives. They were proud to maintain their gained weight, a symbol that they had made it, they had survived, and they were free to eat their fill and know that there would be plenty tomorrow.

“This place still gives me a weird feeling,” a Lorulian stranger muttered from behind Ravio. “These freaks recreate our famine in an attempt to look fragile and say that we’re the ugly ones.”

“Even the few who think they can act better have the most backhanded insults masquerading as compliments,” another chimed in. “Give them a taste of their own medicine, I say. Take that twig in purple, over there. He’s so adorably brittle, I could snap his arms in two.”

Ravio’s hands- his fragile, skeletal fingers- tightened around his cup. He hated this. He hated knowing that he looked like he didn’t belong. He hated the assumption that he liked having something wrong with him.

“Link,” Ravio said quietly. “I’m going home.”

“What? But we haven’t-” Link started to protest, but Ravio had already pushed his chair back. He pulled his baggy sleeves over his hands, tugging his hood down to hide his face.

Link caught up to him before he left Kakariko, walking silently back to their house. Ravio paused just inside the front door, and Link guessed why.

“You haven’t eaten enough today, have you?” Link asked.

Ravio almost brushed it off. He knew that he hadn’t, but he wasn’t hungry- but as soon as the thought entered his head, he realized that he was. It hit him all at once and he nodded, trying not to look desperate.

“C’mon, we have plenty of cheese,” Link said, and Ravio followed him to the kitchen. Link handed him some cheese and Ravio took it, his hands shaking as he took a bite. Link brought him some bread, too, and an apple, and Ravio tried to pace himself though he felt like he might faint from hunger. He was satisfied before long and he pushed Link’s next offer away, pretending not to notice his unhappy frown. Ravio was aware that he hadn’t eaten enough for somebody who had inadvertently starved himself all day, but if he ate any more he was going to be sick.

Ravio went to lay down and Link trailed behind, sprawling on the bed beside him. Link’s hand found his and he intertwined their fingers, tracing his thumb over Ravio’s skin. Ravio tried not to squirm under the attention but Link noticed and fell still.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Link whispered.

Ravio was silent for a moment, then relented. “Why does everyone think I want to be like this? I don’t care about being skinny, and I’m not afraid of gaining weight. In fact, I want to. But I can’t. I have to convince myself that I haven’t made a grave mistake every time I eat. If I try to force myself to eat more, I’ll lose it before it does any good. I barely eat enough to get by and it’s not my choice but I don’t know how to do better. If I could adapt like the rest of Lorule and feel safe enough to eat what and when I want, I would do it in a heartbeat. I don’t have anyone who’s willing to help me- Lorulians see my very existence as proof that I hate their bodies, and Hyrulians refuse to believe that I want to change mine. I thought everything would be easier once we fixed our Triforce, but- but it’s not. It’s not for me.”

Link rolled over to face Ravio, still holding his hand. “I care. Ravio, I care so much, and I want you to know that you can talk to me about this- about anything. You grew up in a horrible situation, and it’s okay if it takes time to trust again. I want to help you stay healthy.”

“I- thank you, Link.” Ravio snuggled closer, resting his head on Link’s arm. “I wish I knew where to start. It’s not fair to ask you to help when I don’t know what needs to be done.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to know,” Link said. “We don’t need to rush. You can take your time.”

[tinkerbelle05]

Pavitr x reader

Readers having her period

Now let me take care of you, okay.

Characters: Pavitr x Fem!reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: (Requested) Thanks for the reqs 🧡

Warnings: Period, Period Symptoms: cramps, bloating, vomiting, nausea.

Sundari = beauty

At first, Pavitr was kinda clueless about the whole thing. And you being parts embarrassed and parts prideful, you never let him in to see that side of you. So the most you’ll do is send him to the store and have him pick up some pads or tampons if you really need it. But he always has raspberry and black tea stocked and ready for when your period comes and you are craving it. He was really considerate like that.

And he always offered to do more for you even though he knew you’d say no. Like he’d offer to message your shoulders and lower back. To cook your meals and clean your house for you. It warmed your heart that he’d do all of that for you but you didn't need his help.

You were fine with planning. You cleaned your house the week before and you meal prepped things you know you can eat. You got any important work done and made sure no social plans happened during your period. You’ve been doing it this way for year and you were a pro at it.

That’s what you kept telling yourself as you laid on the ground, withering in pain. That you didn't need anyone’s help.

The cramps were getting too much and you couldn't keep down the pain meds either. And of course your heating pad had gone and disappeared on you as well.

Tears of frustration and pain swelled up in your eyes while you descend into further despair. Your phone was so tempting right now. It’d be so, so easy to grab it and dial Pavi’s number. But it'd be so hard to accept the help that’d come with it.

You couldn't explain the reason but being self-reliant is something so ingrained into who you are as a person. Maybe it's because you’ve been disappointed more times than you can count on your hand? Or maybe it's because you are naturally distrustful of strangers?

But Pavitr isn't a stranger.

He's the love of your life. He trusts you with his whole entire being and he showed you time and time again that a he's reliable person. Maybe you should call him. Despite your pounding heart and shaky hands you do so.

“Hey Sundari, how are you?” he greeted you, sounding cheerful.

“Hi Pavi, honestly I’m not doing too well. Can you please come over?” You asked him and waited with a baited breath for a response.

Immediately his tone changed to something more serious, “Of course I will come. Is there anything that you need?”

You listed off the things that you would like him to buy for you, pausing frequently when a particularly strong cramp hits you. And Pavitr listened to you with patience and understanding. God, that alone made you want to cry right then and there.

Within 30 minutes your front door opened revealing Pav holding a mountain of bags that you couldn’t help but gawk at. What you asked for wouldn’t even make up for half of what he was holding.

“Oh my, are you alright?” He questioned, with alarm in his voice. He dropped the bags carefully on the ground and rushed over to where you laid. “Do you want me to help you walk or carry you?”

“Carry please,” you respond. You closed your eyes a bit and just lent into his hold, he was warm and smelt good too.

A bit too warm but it was way better than the floor. Your back was starting to sore. He walked slowly to your bedroom and laid you on your bed carefully.

He sat at the edge of it and squeezed your arm lightly, “Are you cold or hot?”

You thought for a moment, feeling the air around you. Your legs were burning, it felt like everything was burning and on fire. “I’m really hot,” you muttered out.

He nodded his head, “I’ll find the remote and get you some water, okay? Are you hungry? Nauseous?”

Your stomach felt empty but you also felt really sick. The thought of food made your stomach twist and churn uncomfortably. You shake your head no.

Pavitr hums in response and brushes the sweat from your forehead. “Okay, I'll get a cold rag. Hang tight Sundari.”

He came back a few minutes later with some tea, a cold bottle of water, and a cold rag like he promised. Using the remote that he found, he turned on the AC and placed the cold rag on your burning skin.

“Okay, you rest up. I’ll cook and clean. Let me when you are ready to eat or need anything else.” He told you but a weak protest on your lips.

“Pavi, you don’t have to-.” You started to sit up in your bed, body feeling heavy and weakened from the lack of food.

He pushed you back gently, smile on his lips and twinkle in his eyes, “I don’t have to but I want to because I love you. Now let me take care of you, okay.”

Tags: @sodapopzs, @ellatienesuscosas, @justbeethings, @jam-skullz, @hoeboat101, @butterfi, @dreamxcollide, @sleepdeprivationis4coolkids, @itstooearly-its3am, @eight-cats-in-a-box, @maypersonne, @rosebunny, @midnight-the-shadow-wolf, @emgavi, @sawi-06, @niktwazny303, @nagi3seastorm, @ghostsimp000, @vixqn, @angelzira, @keawio, @nerdyparker616, @jell0buss-37, @mur-docs, @shibble, @somber-starz, @emgavi, @707xn, @cloudstrifefantatic, @yourtsahik, @im-jisoo-im-okay, @1uvvmi, @minimari415, @luci1fer, @centipider, @randomhoex, @universallypeanutpizzapersona, @baddiebehaviourxx, @m4rihrts, @laylasbunbunny, @andhdi68a, @avatarl0v3r, @spider-bren, @wraithlueintheirlittleworld, @ca1ist0, @liuralibrar

Taglist & Masterlist & Reqs Info

Request are open!!

[tampon-eater]

Hey YOU!!!! Yes, YOU! Do YOU have a history of posting online about activism but not actually doing any activism? No shame in that (unless you don’t have any intent to change that fact). Do YOU have any intent to change that fact???? You DO?? AWESOME!!!!! Below is a list of things you can do to actually benefit people!!!!

1. Attend protests!!!

Not all of us can organise, obviously, but it’s a lot easier to grab a cardboard sign and attend what someone else has organised. Now, don’t get me wrong, they can be dangerous (especially in the states). Be sure to read up on your rights and how to protect yourself before heading to one. And, for the love of god, don’t record shit.

2. Volunteer!!!!

“But Silas,” you say, “I can’t attend protests!!! [insert valid reason like lack of reliable transport, disapproving parents, etc]!!” Don’t fear, my child. Check out your local soup kitchens, food banks, and charities. Work the till at a charity shop. Dish out a hot meal to people who can’t buy one. The world is your oyster.

3. Care packages!!!

“Silas!!!” You cry. “Didn’t you hear me???? I can’t just turn up to places!” Well then, my pretty, do I have the solution for you. Construct yo’self a care package for people in need. It doesn’t have to be much. Things like socks, toothpaste, pads and a nice note tossed in a ziploc (jkjk please actually construct these with care) is enough. Keep care packages with you in case you find a person in need or give these to your local shelter to give out on your behalf.

4. Donate!!!

Old clothes? Charity shop. Food you won’t eat? Community pantry. Spare change? Gofundme and start clicking. You’d think this would be one of the easiest. You’d be surprised. If you have a favourite charity or a cause your passionate about and a fiver kicking around, go crazy.

5. Torture your government!!!!

Okay. Let’s say you’re broke as fuck with no way to get around. You still have petitions. Actually important ones that go to the government (and not ones that are kinda baseless like “end world hunger” or whatever) can do a lot of good. Call your representatives. Write to your MPs. Harass them until they can’t ignore you. Make a fuss!!!

If there’s like other stuff then idk add it on babygirl don’t be shy!!

[molagboop]

What are your headcanons regarding chozo newborns/fledgelings?

OH BOY do I have information for you.

A few basics:

Chozo lay eggs.

Most Chozo are born with an egg tooth on the tip of their beak which helps them break free of the shell to be born.

"Boriha" is a Chozo word used to describe children who have yet to fledge.

Chozo hatchling (very new guy edition) with an egg tooth.

The Chozo tribes evolved with different traits on their homeworld, which have only diverged further following their departure.

Mawkin and Thoha hatchlings are altricial: they're born blind and depend wholly upon their parents for the first few months. It takes two weeks for altricial babies to gain a full coat of down.

Thiloo (a tribe of penguin-like Chozo) hatchlings are semi-altricial: they open their eyes within the first 24 hours of hatching, and are born with a thin coat of down that reaches full thickness within three days.

Hatzu (ratite Chozo: think emu, ostriches, and cassowaries) babies are precocial upon hatching: their eyes are open, and they're covered in natal feathers. The strong-legged Chozo of the Hatzu tribe are the only ones capable of walking fresh out of the shell. The Hatzu are the only Chozo who lack an egg tooth: instead, their babies kick their way out of their shells.

There are more tribes than I've listed here, but the Thiloo and Hatzu have the most notable differences upon birth.

Pictured below: a Thoha baby, a Thiloo baby, a Hatzu baby, and two images of newly-hatched baby Raven Beak. The altricial babies look like little naked old men (not unlike many real baby birds: shout outs to baby pelican).

The Hatzu kid pictured above is being picked up by an adult: the most stable method is to place your hands under the kid's chest and lift. Most Hatzu hatchlings will start to panic if their legs are restrained: it's a survival instinct.

Most Chozo babies use their sharp talons to grasp the downy feathers on a trusted adult's neck, chest, and back. It takes about two months for a hatchling to be able to reliably grasp. Grasping is how baby Chozo get around for the first few years of their lives. 18 months is around the time Chozo will be able to stand and walk independently, but they still rely on their parents to carry them around long distances.

That's not to say they'll rely solely on their parents for locomotion: once those babies can run, they run.

A few examples. The large compilation image is of Raven Beak's mother with a cameo from the big (little) guy himself.

Baby Chozo ask for food by nudging the nearest adult's throat or negging them with screechy cries. The corners of their beaks are flexible and pronounced at this age so they can open their gullet wide for room service. They can eat some solid food (little bits torn off of an adult's dinner, grubs, small insects), or their parents can regurgitate nutritious, partially-digested matter from their crop.

Raven Beak and his dad. Baby guy opens very wide for optimal screechage and to ensure oncoming food makes it into his face-hole.

Pictured above: a Thiloo hatchling (left) and a Thoha hatchling (right). The corners of the Thoha kid's mouth are brighter and more flexible than that of an adult, allowing it to open comically wide.

Doodles of a newborn baby Mawkin and one with natal feathers (not to scale).

Hatzu hatchling doodles.

Chozo kids begin to fledge properly around five years old and learn to fly at seven. Mawkin children can start the preliminaries for their combat training as early as four and a half, but training starts in earnest at six.

This post talks about child-rearing practices and feeding. This post has more information about Chozo eggs and a basic child development roadmap.

[sohcah--toa]

bullet train/マリアビートル details ~

Hello!! I recently dug up the Bullet Train script (if you search it up, you should be able to find it relatively easily!! I'm not sure if it's completely reliable but it seems to be the first version) and listened to the soundtrack. (It's awesome, you should listen if you haven't already!!)

There's a lot of stuff here about マリアビートル, I hope you enjoy reading 🥳 (It's really ridiculous)

-- 1 ) LEMON'S CHILDHOOD // BACKGROUND(??)

I attached a photo for reference in the book!! :D (there's highlighter marks, I'm sorry) His backstory is tragic and aahh noo 🥹... I won't say much on it because we're all thinking the same thing. In the script, this is carried over when Lemon passes out because of the water. But apparently, in the final movie, this isn't shown a lot. In the book and movie, they aren't brothers and have a considerably colder relationship, so I can understand why the childhood scene in the cut is so much more wholesome. (Still supersuper cool though!!)

-- 2) "I'm forever blowing bubbles"

The original reason why this song was chosen for Bullet Train was because of Tangerine's West Ham United sticker (turns out, that's a football club). Hey!! But wait a minute!! There's a funny coincidence because Ladybug in the book was trying to become a football star. He has a quote that's like "my friend told me that someone like me could either become a footballer or a criminal, so I did both" and he says that his first crime was stealing a football.

The song delves into themes surrounding fortune as well!! I love their music selection 🙇‍♂️😤

-- 3) THREE ASSASSINS/グラスホッパー REFERENCES

Okay this part (in a way...) contains spoilers for Three Assassins, which is the first book of the "series"! ! The story revolves around a guy named Suzuki, who appears again in Bullet Train!! He kinda-sorta becomes friends with Ladybug and it's like 😊 they are so happy. To be completely honest, Suzuki's a bit traumatised but so is Ladybug, right?? Lovely friendship!!

It's also so interesting that he's reading a hotel buffet menu because his wife used to love eating at buffets and he adopted the habit of hoarding all the food as well. He's on the train to meet with his dead wife's family (which was extremely difficult for him after her passing).

-- 4) BULLET TRAIN REFERENCES IN THE MANTIS/AX

There's this other book in the series called The Mantis or AX for the Japanese version. This one isn't talked about a lot but if you like family stories, this book is so so soo good. It really pulled at my heartstrings when I first read it but I can't say too much without spoiling everything. Anyway, it makes a few references to Bullet Train and literally starts with the main character, Kabuto (an assassin), having a flashback to talking to Tangerine and Lemon during one of his missions, where they had the same target so they worked together. The Twins really respect him, actually, but find it funny that he's so careful around his wife (YES KABUTO, AN ASSASSIN, HAS A WIFE). Some characters reappear so.. :")) yay!!

-- 5) 777

Ladybug comes back!! He comes back in the latest book in the series; 777. So far, the Japanese reviews have been pretty positive and I think there's an English translation coming in November!! 🥳 I like how the title is 777; 7 like 7 tails in Nanao (七尾), car 7, his favourite number is 7 (if I recall correctly), 7 the "lucky number".

-- 6) THIS GUY

No one asked but I heavily dislike the Prince in the book. (to be honest, who doesn't...) He's just mean for no reason and likes ruining people's lives, makes fun of poor Ladybug (this really isn't that bad compared to the other stuff he does) and yeah, the list goes on. Also apparently he (heavily) tortures other schoolmates and it's not like he gets paid for it like the Twins or the other guys. He just does it for fun?? OK!! The premise of his character is amazing and it's great to see a villain that's actually just straight evil but since he's designed that way, we are validated when hating him ww. He talks about politics as well for some reason... keeps referencing historical tragedies.... man.

-- 7) ASAGAO/THE PUSHER

The Pusher is back too!! Weee~ (not really)

In the movie, it seems as though this entire part got cut out which, like, is reasonable. I attached a photo from the Grasshopper (2015) movie for reference hahaha. The guy in the black suit is the Pusher!! Yeah, he pushes people!! (not in the fun way!!)

He is in charge of protecting Wataru from the Prince's guy, although he's reluctant at first. He's obsessed with bugs and stuff. Whenever he opens his mouth, it's probably going to be about bugs. The Pusher's also strangely poetic. Maybe it's because he likes old bands like the Rolling stones? Oh!! And he gets mentioned in The Mantis.

And speaking of the Kimura family, Yuichi Kimura says something very true and it's:

"who do they gotta make the train toilets so nasty"

-- 8) LADYBUG IS COOL

This is very much a fact. In Mariabeetle, he gets kidnapped when he's 8 years old because he gets mistaken for a rich kid (after he lost a bet with his wealthy friend and had to wear his "rich person backpack"), then in the place he's being held captive, he escapes by HIMSELF since his dad isn't able to give the guys money for his son back (since they took the wrong person!!). But heyy he's resourceful and smart.

AND guess what?? He gets traumatised because there was this other boy being held but Ladybug didn't save him and it's haunted him ever since. This is also one of the reasons why he ends up helping the Prince even though he knows it won't do him any good.

Obviously, it gets worse from there. He makes it back to his family and they're pretty happy. Unfortunately, they're far from rich and Ladybug has to study extremely hard to get into a college. Spoiler alert, he doesn't. THE THING IS!! He studied so hard!! It's just that during his exam, some kid sneezed on his paper and he wiped it, smudging all his work and even his name!! Nanao! No!!

-- 9) TANGERINE BOOK RECS

To the Lighthouse - Virginia Woolf

"We perished, each alone."

-> He really loves that quote. A lot. Also he's a Virginia Woolf fan!!

2. Forbidden Colours - Yukio Mishima

-> He's also a Yukio Mishima fan... I wonder if he's ever read "The Sound of Waves". What would he think about it? Hahaha this will keep me up at night 😅 (<- SLANTED EMOJI!!)

3. The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea - Yukio Mishima

-> To talk about Article 41 of the Penal Code of Japan. (Mr Kotaro Isaka, the author, studied law, by the way!! It's interesting!!) However, here, Tangerine quotes Mishima on Article 41 ;)

4. Hemingway and Faulkner

-> Actually it's a collection so it's not really a book recommendation but these two people are real - Ernst Hemingway (the Old Man and the Sea guy) and William Faulkner. They didn't really get along, by the way, and even though they respected the other's work, they criticised more than praised. Sounds like the Twins.

5. Demons - Fyodor Dostoevsky

-> "Crime is no longer insanity, but simply common sense, almost a duty; anyway, a gallant protest."

I think the author is a heavy Fyodor Dostoevsky fan, just because he also referenced his works in Three Assassins.

6. Crime and Punishment ;D

-> "Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world relies on self-interest."

(CONT'D) yeahh this book was referenced in Three Assassins and one of the characters is obsessed with it. Glad to see that Tangerine is a fan too hahahaha.

-- 10) LEMON IS AWESOME

Opinionated text here but Lemon is plain awesome.

"Between the principal's name and Doraemon's gadgets, it was blindingly obvious which one was more important."

To each their own and I know he's a criminal but he seems like he has no enemies. Sounds very wholesome.

-- 11) HORNET THE MVP

She's in Three Assassins AND the Mantis!! Hypercool. In both books, the Hornet is a team of a male and a female. The female is eliminated (this word choice ww) by Ladybug but the male is still up and kicking, though Ladybug feels bad about it. They use poison needles, like the movie, but they trigger anaphylaxis, which is a really dangerous allergic reaction that causes body shocks.

-- 12) SUZUKI: PHILOSOPHER AND ECONOMIST

"If people knew that they might be killed by someone tomorrow, economic activity would grind to a halt."

... well 😅 take from that what you will.

(that's Suzuki!!)

Cela dit... that's all.... so long, I'm sorry. But thank you so much if you read until the end!! I hope you at least found it a bit entertaining!! :"))

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 4

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 4: Fireworks

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 10.3k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, AA meeting and 12 step program, monologue (sorry for the big text blocks), talk of prayer & faith & higher power, triple frontier boys hiya (RIP tom), yoga, arguing in front of a child, jealousy, suicidal thoughts, fireworks, ptsd symptoms including flashbacks, racing thoughts, unprotected PIV sex, praise kink, food and food preparation

Notes: Hi, friends. I'm really hoping I got all the verbiage and characterizations for the other triple frontier characters to be ok lol I apologize if they seem off, I was going from memory alone! Thank you for reading.

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Even before consciousness has fully gripped his body, the thought at the forefront of Frankie’s mind is blaring and unavoidable.

I want a fucking drink.

The wanting has become a reliable companion these past few weeks.

It’s always tugging at his sleeve, begging to be known. Sometimes it’s a scream and sometimes it’s a whisper, but it’s always fucking there.

As he turns off his alarm. As he trudges his body across squeaking floorboards to the bathroom. As he turns on the shower. As he scours his body with a sudsy washcloth. As he gets dressed. As he pours steaming hot coffee into a travel mug.

I want a fucking drink I want a fucking drink I want a fucking drink I want a fucking drink I want a god damn mother fucking drink.

It’s your day off, so you’re still sleeping. The silence of the house juxtaposes his heavy movements and deafening inner monologue. He finds himself missing the background noise of your morning routine running parallel to his. The scratching of your pencil on paper as you plot out your day. Your hushed voice as you mutter to yourself. The soft footfalls of you tiptoeing around like you have to be quiet all the time.

He grabs his work boots and drags himself over to the couch, sagging into its worn cushions with a groan. The knotted muscles of his neck and shoulders protest when he bends over to shove his feet into the boots. A wince tightens across his face as he laces them up.

Michael honks his car horn outside.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frankie mutters under his breath and glares up at the window.

I want a fucking drink.

On the ride to work, he stares out the window, tuning out the sound of Michael’s blaring morning talk show radio. Every sip from his travel mug is accompanied by the hope that somehow the hot, bitter coffee has transformed into a drink with a different kind of burn.

He busies himself throughout the morning with aircraft system checks and diagnostic tests. While his hands and brain are working together on something challenging, it’s easier to hush the thirst.

On his lunch break, Frankie checks in with Ralph, then eats a cold ham sandwich. He wonders if you would notice him bringing home a bottle of booze. If he could just drink a little bit, just something to make the world around him go fuzzy around the edges. Something to quiet his racing thoughts.

He thinks of what you told him at family dinner last Sunday. Tries to pull from his blurry memories of Australia. How he felt the wall between his infatuation with you and his marriage start to crumble.

One day, when the wives were out, shopping and sightseeing, Frankie sat around drinking and reminiscing with Pope and the Millers. You were in the swimming pool with Sarah cradled on your hip, splashing and giggling. He couldn’t stop watching you, aching with adoration at the way you doted on his daughter like she was your own.

“You doing ok, there, Fish?” Pope grinned, following Frankie’s line of sight to you, “Anything you need to tell us? Say, I don’t know, maybe about the nanny?”

Frankie snapped out of the trance and looked across the patio table at his longtime friend, meeting his mischievous dark brown eyes, and shook his head, “I’m fine.”

He tipped a beer bottle against his lips and took a long swallow, savoring how chilled it was in contrast to the hot, still air.

“Oh, come on,” Pope chuckled, then glanced around the table at Will and Benny, “Am I the only one seeing this?”

“Not my monkeys, not my circus,” Will muttered, then took a swig of beer.

Frankie pressed his fingers against his lips and shook his head some more, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I went ahead and made a move on her, then?” Benny teased, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction when Frankie squirmed in discomfort.

“Jesus Christ, leave the poor girl alone,” he groaned and lifted his hat for a moment to run his hand through his hair, “She’s trying to do her job, not get harassed.”

“Who said I’d harass her? She’s single, I’m single, and if she’s into it, I mean…” a shit eating grin spread across Benny’s face as he shrugged.

Frankie sighed and glanced over at you in the swimming pool, grateful for how completely oblivious you were to the conversation.

“That is, unless you have a problem with it for some reason. Right, Benny?” Pope chimed in, leaning forward to study Frankie’s reaction.

“Well, yeah, but I can’t imagine why you’d have a problem with it,” Benny frowned, then looked at Frankie, “Of course, unless there’s something you wanna tell us.”

Frankie crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, “Go for it. Just—just don’t be a dick, ok? I don’t wanna have to buy an early flight back.”

Benny raised his eyebrows and smiled at Frankie in challenge, then swiveled his mischievous gaze to Pope, who started chuckling with amusement, “He’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Fucking instigator.

With this, Benny swallowed the rest of his beer and got to his feet. He strode over to the pool, and Frankie could hear a faint, “Mind if I join you ladies?”

Frankie’s leg started bouncing as he glared at Pope and muttered, “Vete al demonio.”

“Oh, lighten up, Fish. Let the kids have fun,” Pope teased, then finished his beer and stood up, “You guys thirsty?”

“Parched,” Frankie answered. Will nodded and lifted his index finger in agreement. Pope went inside, leaving him and Will in silence. Frankie tried to seem disinterested as you laughed at something Benny said, but felt his jaw tighten.

“I share a wall with her, you know,” Will informed him with a sideways glance.

“What?” Frankie’s gaze snapped to the blonde man sitting beside him.

Will smirked then, raising an eyebrow, “Can’t sleep on these kinds of trips, you know. Dani sleeps like a rock. But I’ll stay up until, 2 or 3 in the morning, and boy. I hear some interesting things.”

Silence settled like fiberglass under his skin. Frankie gnashed his jaw back and forth, then sighed, “Ok, look—”

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Will chided, shaking his head loosely.

Frankie ran a hand over his face and sat up, “Look, it’s not a big deal, it doesn’t even mean anything—”

“Bullshit,” Will boomed. Frankie noticed you and Benny fall silent, so he looked over and saw you both frowning at the conversation. Will followed his gaze and waved to indicate all good here.

Benny shrugged and said something to you that made you laugh. Frankie clenched his jaw so hard he wondered if his teeth would break.

Will cleared his throat and leaned in, quieter in his protest, “I can read you like a fucking book, Frankie. We all can. It’s obvious you have feelings for her.”

Frankie’s throat tightened. He looked down at his hands and muttered, “And what if I do? It’s not like it’ll go anywhere.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” Will grabbed his shoulder and jeered, “It’ll go to divorce court.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frankie snorted and shook his head. Will laughed at his expense, slapping his shoulder a few times before leaning back in his chair.

Pope slid open the back door and shuffled outside with a big, plastic cooler.

“But really, man. Do you remember what you told me when you found out Ang was pregnant?” Will asked quietly.

He nodded, but kept his eyes trained on Pope, who made a pit stop to give a beer to you and Benny.

“You said, and I quote, ‘Will, I can’t dump her now, what the fuck am I gonna do, be miserable?’”

“Why are you telling me this?” Frankie snipped.

“If you’re wanna be with this girl, whatever, it’s not my business—”

“Really? ‘Cause it seems like you’re making it your business—”

“But don’t stay in a relationship you don’t want, thinking you’re doing Angie some kind of favor, ok? Shit or get off the pot.”

Frankie nodded in acknowledgment, but indignation seeped into his blood, cycling hot and defensive through his body. He gave a two finger wave to Pope, who was lowering the cooler to the ground next to the table.

“Benny and your girl seem to be hitting it off over there,” Pope grinned as he popped the cooler’s lid open.

“Jesus Christ, I’m going to take a piss,” Frankie grumbled and stood to his feet. He kept his eyes on the ground when he passed the pool, trying not to draw your attention.

When he exited the bathroom, you were down the hall closing the door to the guest bedroom he and Angie were using. Of course you followed him inside. The worst possible time for you to do it.

You whispered, “I just laid Sarah down for a nap, she was getting crabby.”

He sighed and passed you with a wide berth, muttering, “Ok.”

“Hey, are you ok?” you tiptoed along behind him and grabbed his hand.

He jerked away from your touch and hissed, “You can’t be acting like this when everyone is around. Do you know what would happen if we got caught?”

You recoiled and stepped back, “Sorry.”

A weighted silence fell over the two of you.

“Are… you gonna go, then, or…?” you searched his face and blinked with annoyance.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he started off towards the back door, but jealousy tugged at his marionette strings and spun him around, “Well, no. Benny? Really?”

“Wow,” you scoffed and shook your head, “Are you fucking serious right now?”

He took a few steps closer, crowding you against the living room wall, lowering his voice to a whisper, “If he so much as touches you—”

“Well that’s not going to happen, so,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest and stared at him.

“Oh, really? You seemed to be getting along—”

“I don’t want him, Frankie,” you whispered, your eyes melting into these big, pleading pools, “I want you.”

He searched your face, and he saw that you meant it. His body acted on impulse then, propelled forward by the relentless electricity that pulsed beneath his skin each time he saw you, by the desire to claim you as his own, even if it wasn’t supposed to be right or fair. Even if it was his fucking ruining.

His fingers grazed the baby blue triangle of your bikini bottom. Goosebumps pricked your bare skin and you unfurled your arms to press your palm against his bare chest. You shuddered his name, and he stole it from your lips with a kiss. Right there in the living room.

The front door opened and the excited chatter of Angie, Yvonne, and Dani filled the open space. Frankie jumped back and strode towards the noise to greet them, to distract them from your presence, while you slipped out the sliding glass door to the backyard.

After Michael drops him off at his Monday night AA meeting, held in the conference room at a local church, Frankie helps himself to stale cookies and watered down coffee. David talks about “The Big Book” and goes over the 12 steps. This time Frankie actually listens.

One of the attendees, Carol, details her struggle with the second step: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

“Until recently, I’ve really struggled with this step. I was under the assumption I had to know exactly what it meant, or, um, who that Power was before believing. I’ve always seen higher power in practice as the neat little boxes that people stuff their spirituality into—like my parents, who were devout Catholics. And that kind of thinking, it just never sat right with me. I don’t like being put in a box. Organized religion is not for me,” she explains, waving her long, skinny hands emphatically around her head as she speaks, “But I had a revelation a few weeks ago. Long story short, I don’t have to know what it is. I don’t have to label that Power, or understand it, or join a church. I just have to believe that there’s something and work towards it.”

A few people nod in understanding. She continues.

“Long story long, I started praying twice a day. It felt… silly, I guess, at first. Like I was just talking to myself. I thought that what I said didn’t matter because I didn’t know who was listening or if it would pay off. I kept getting frustrated, and I was talking to my sponsor, who said I had to let go of that reservation and just have faith. And I says to her, ‘how can I have faith in something without proof, or without knowing what it is? How can I believe in something if I don’t know for certain that it’s anything at all?’”

Carol pauses here, furrowing her brow at her white styrofoam cup of coffee, “And my sponsor, she says to me, ‘Isn’t that what faith is, though? To trust what you feel, but can’t touch? To go through motions and rituals in the hope that it will make things better, or give life meaning?’ I’ve been thinking lately that maybe sometimes a particular Power, and those rituals, they work for us and sometimes they don’t.

“After thinking on this more, mostly what I’ve found, and mostly what I want to share with y’all, is that faith is a lot like love. Some people believe in love at first sight, and that’s fine for them,” Carol chuckles a little, raising a skeptical brow, then looks around, “But mostly, you meet someone and they strike a chord with you. There’s a flicker of something in there. You establish your rituals, like dates, or phone calls, or sex, or what have you.

“Then with certain people, with the people who are right for us, love flourishes. Now, most of the time, you don’t know if your efforts will bear love as its fruit. Sometimes there’s a flicker, and you really think it’s right, so you tend to it, but it wilts and dies. Either way it goes, you have faith first. You think maybe this will be something, then go through the motions. And if it is? If it is love? God, isn’t that something beautiful? Doesn’t that make it all worth it?”

Carol sighs and looks down at her cup again, “And I think maybe, up until now, I was trying to cultivate faith in places it just couldn’t grow. Like a church. Before, I thought that maybe there just isn’t a higher power, because I had already gone on a few dates with the Catholic Church, and honey, that was not meant to be,” she stops and chuckles again, then her face sobers, “But with this prayer, there’s a flicker. I’m not sure what, or who, it is exactly, and sometimes that drives me crazy. But I keep going through the motions. Establishing rituals that strike a chord with me, that make me feel like I’m connecting to something bigger.

“And, isn’t that the point? To let go of the control you think you have over yourself? To believe that this thing, this Power, could save us? Then to follow it with the faith that it will?”

The room is quiet as everyone reflects on this. Carol adds on lamely, “That’s all, thanks for listening.”

“That was beautiful, Carol, thank you,” David tells her, then looks around the table, “Who would like to go next?”

“I do,” Frankie says, then shifts in his seat when everyone brings their attention to him. He thrums his fingers against his jeans and looks down at the table, “For those of you who don’t know, I’m here as a condition of my parole. My sobriety is a condition of my parole. I didn’t think it was a problem, honest to god. But now that I’m sober… All I wanna do is drink. I don’t know what to do with myself, or how to sleep, or how to talk to people, or deal with anything. I didn’t realize how much of my life I spent drinking until I had to cut it out and found all this empty space,” he frowns and looks around, “Did you all find that, too?”

Every single person nods and/or hums in agreement.

Frankie nods and swallows hard, then says, “I drank because I thought it made me feel happy, or more… at ease, at least. But now I’m looking back and it’s like all those times I thought I was doing something that made me happy, what I was actually doing is suppressing the negative emotions. I’ve never dealt with, you know, the grief, or anger, or sadness, or guilt,” he pauses here and takes a breath, then admits, “That’s probably the hardest one for me right now. The things I’ve done—“ he swallows a lump in his throat as a thousands of horrifying images flash across his mind’s eye, then clears his throat and shakes his head, “I’m taking it one day at a time. And I think that… admitting that I’m an alcoholic, and truly believing it, is a step that I’m ready to take. So, um, I don’t know. There it is.”

Frankie glances up at David and sits back in his seat. When he glances around at the other attendees, a few nod and smile in support.

“Thank you for sharing, Frankie,” David says, then asks everyone, “Who’s next?”

The house is quiet when Frankie gets home. He changes out of jeans, into a pair of basketball shorts, all the while listening for the sounds of your presence. But he doesn’t hear anything.

He wanders through the kitchen, to the back hallway and hovers at your open bedroom door. A frown crosses his face when he spots your purse on the ground next to your bed.

Just when he’s about to give up on looking and call to see where you are, he hears music from outside. He follows it like a beacon, through the laundry room, out the back door, and into the side yard.

It’s a fenced off space between the garage and the house. Like the rest of your property, it’s small and efficient, but cozy. You’ve made it your own with by planting shiny-leaved bushes, flowers, and a lanky palm tree that stands at the back of the fence. Cement pavers mark a path between the two doors and a square patio. On the patio, there’s a neglected charcoal grill, a folding lawn chair, and a rainbow striped hammock.

There you are, stretched out in your hammock, reading a book. Your foot wiggles along to music playing out of a Bluetooth speaker resting against the black aluminum hammock stand.

“Hey,” he calls as he approaches.

You peek over the top of Doctor Sleep by Stephen King and chime, “Hey, how was your meeting?”

When he sits down in the lawn chair next to your hammock, you mark your place in the novel and lower it onto the cement pavers of your patio.

“It was… really good, actually,” Frankie admits. His leg starts bouncing and he leans forward, “Someone shared something that really resonated with me. And, uhh, I participated willingly for the first time.”

He glances up at you and sees an elated smile crossing your face. Warmth spreads across his chest. His eyes stay trained on yours when he tells you, “I told them about how hard sobriety has been, and, um… told them that I have accepted the fact that I am… an alcoholic.”

You don’t even flinch.

Your smile just brightens and you clap your hands, “That’s fucking awesome!”

“Thanks,” he grins and drops his gaze to his hands, feeling incentivized by your excitement, “It has been hard, you know, not drinking. I feel… restless, I guess. I don’t know what to do with myself most of the time.”

“Have you tried doing yoga?” you tilt your head and tuck an arm under your head. Your shirt rides up and he can’t help but glance at the soft skin of your belly. Can’t help but feel a tug of want.

“No,” he chuckles and blinks up at you, “I don’t think I’m flexible enough for that.”

You scoff and shake your head, “You don’t have to be flexible, it’s not about that. It’s about being present in your body.”

He raises an eyebrow at you.

“It’s been really helpful for me when I feel restless and disconnected from myself. We can do it together, I’ll walk you through it,” you flash a reassuring smile, “Trust me, it’ll be good.”

Frankie crinkles his nose and leans back in his chair.

“Oh my god, just try it. I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” you tap your fingers against your belly and shrug, “Unless you’re too chickenshit.”

He snorts and shakes his head, “Wow, really?”

A mischievous grin spreads across your face.

“Fine,” he concedes with a sigh, trying to hide the smile turning up the corners of his lips, “I’ll try it.”

As he predicted, Frankie was stiff and awkward in the yoga poses you showed him.

At some points, he was sure you were trying to torture him. His strained muscles burned and trembled as he followed your instruction, while you made it look effortless.

But you were patient and coached him through it, quietly reminding him to breathe deep and wide, to focus his breath, and the stretch, and the connection his body made to the mat.

Despite his resistance, he felt markedly more relaxed afterwards. While he rolled up the yoga mats and returned them to the laundry room, you gathered a bunch of deli meats and cheeses, crackers, olives, and jams, then laid them out across a cutting board. The two of you sat at the dining room table and tried different combinations of ingredients.

“Did you like doing yoga?” you ask, then pop a green olive in your mouth.

“It wasn’t too bad.”

“It gets easier,” you say, then look up and meet his eyes, “You gonna do it with me tomorrow?”

“When?” he drops his gaze to the charcuterie board and folds up a piece of salami on top of a round, golden cracker.

“Oh, do you have to check your social calendar?” you snort.

“Haha,” he rolls his eyes and smirks, then shifts in his seat, “No, Ang asked if I wanna go over there for dinner.”

“Ah,” you nod, and he swears he sees you fold into yourself a little, then you frown, “Whenever, really. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Ok,” he responds, then stacks some cheese on top of the salami cracker and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

“So you’re not gonna be home for dinner?”

He shakes his head. The word home makes his stomach clench. Part of him wants to remind you that he will be home for dinner. In his real home. Another part of him dismisses it as a misnomer.

And a teeny, tiny sliver of him, just a whisper, doesn’t mind it at all.

Likes it, even.

He banishes the thought from his brain, but it lingers in his senses, like the acrid scent of gunpowder after shots are fired.

You dust off your hands and shrug, “Alright.”

The evening sun is relentless as it bears down on the wooden deck off the back of the two-story house Frankie feels conflicted about calling his own.

Sarah is chattering to herself as she plays with penguin figurines in the little inflatable pool Frankie gifted to her after arriving. Her squeaky little voice lilts up to where he’s sitting in an Adirondack chair and, although he can’t understand what she’s saying exactly, he thinks she’s assigning different voices to each penguin. His heart aches with adoration.

“How did your hearing go on Wednesday?” Angie asks from her chair a foot away.

“Fine,” he shrugs, then swings his gaze to meet her sunglasses, “Plead not guilty. Lawyer said he’s looking into an illegal search and seizure angle. If we can get the possession charge dropped, I’ll just be on the hook for the DWI. I wouldn’t be able to drive for a few years and maybe have to do some time, but a hell of a lot less than it would be.”

“Better hope they drop it then,” she sighs, “I don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do if you have to go to prison.”

“Be my prison wife?” Frankie jokes, leaning towards her with a sly smile.

Her lip curls and she shakes her head, “Seriously, Frankie. Without your income we could squeeze by, but we might have to move closer to my parents.”

This statement flares hot under his skin. It’s not the first time she’s made this particular threat. In fact, she reminds him every goddamn time they’re together. Holding Sarah as a bargaining chip between her manicured hands. It drives him fucking crazy.

“You’re not moving my daughter to fucking Texas,” he bites off.

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow.

His leg starts bouncing. He takes a deep breath, then assures her, “The lawyer says we have a good chance of getting it dropped. It’ll be alright. We’ll get through it. You’re not moving.”

He turns back to watch Sarah and leans back in the chair, pressing his fingers to his lips. The silence is weighted.

“Has the trial date been set?” she asks. Her tone is sharp and annoyed.

“No,” he answers.

“My dad says I should divorce you, you know,” she spits.

He releases a heavy sigh and runs his hands over his face.

“Should’ve done it a year ago. Let the little slut have you,” she mutters, “I bet you’re both overjoyed with this arrangement.“

“Jesus Christ, Ang. How many times do we have to have this conversation?“ he groans and leans forward onto his knees.

“As many times as I fucking want to, Francisco,” she booms.

Sarah looks up at the noise.

Frankie warns, “Hey, lower your voice—”

Angie gets to her feet, “You fucking cheated on me, you fucking—”

“Stop—”

“—ASSHOLE!“

With this, she storms inside. Anger, buzzing bright and hot, brings him to his feet and makes him follow her.

Inside, Angie is pulling a beer from the fridge. She twists the top off and tosses it onto the counter.

“If you want to yell at me, fine, fucking yell at me,” he hisses as he walks up to her, then points to the back door, “But do not do that shit in front of her.”

She rolls her eyes and starts guzzling from the glass bottle.

“Seriously, Ang,” he pleads, calming his demeanor as he draws closer to her, “She doesn’t need to see us fighting.”

She sets the beer down on the counter and crosses her arms, “I hate this whole thing, Frankie.”

“I know, baby,” he coos and closes the distance between them, then hesitantly places his hands on her waist. She doesn’t swat him away, which is a relief.

“Every night I go to sleep alone, while you’re under that bitch’s roof,” her big golden brown eyes start to swell tears and she shakes her head, “It fucking kills me.”

“Every night I go to sleep alone, too,” he searches her eyes, presses his eyebrows together, “What happened with her a year ago, what you saw, that was the only time. And it was a mistake. It has never, and will never, happen again.”

“Then why did you call her to bail you out, Frankie? That’s what doesn’t make sense to me. If that was the only time, why did you call her out of the blue to bail you out of jail a year later?”

His heart jumps up into his chest. This is a new point of contention he hadn’t prepared for. He pulls the first excuse he can think of out of his ass.

“It was one of the phone numbers I could remember. I didn’t think she would actually agree. But she met the requirements, and,” he shakes his head and sighs, “It was stupid. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.”

Angie’s shoulders soften and she sniffles, “Why did you have her phone number memorized?”

“She was our nanny for over two years, Ang,” he says, as if that could explain it.

She furrows her brow and looks over his shoulder towards the backdoor, then back to him, “I should go check on her.”

Frankie nods, “Ok.”

While she’s outside, he stares at the open beer bottle. Half full. Golden and bubbling. Asking to be finished.

He shakes his head and takes a few steps away, putting distance between himself and the object of his desire. His conversation with Angie replays. Guilt wrings his stomach.

The retaining wall of lies he’s built around his life with her is buckling. He doesn’t even know if it’s worth repairing. Or why he keeps trying.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, so he pulls it out and walks into the living room.

> MARIPOSA: > FYI Rory is coming over, let me know when you’re on your way home

Frankie’s ears start ringing and his jaw clenches.

His mind is so far away, he doesn’t even hear Angie and Sarah come inside until Angie says, “I’m gonna order pizza in a bit, does that sound good?”

“Hmm?” he shoves the phone back into his pocket and searches her face, then her words catch up to his lagging brain, “Oh, yeah, that’s fine.”

Sarah squeals and claps, “Pizza!”

< ME: < omw

Frankie’s leg won’t stop bouncing. His mind won’t stop racing. He can’t pay attention to anything Angie is jabbering on about, although he’s pretty sure it’s just some bullshit office drama from her job.

All he can think about is the implication of Rory being there when he’s not. The text you sent to make sure Frankie won’t walk into the house and hear you fucking someone else. It’s heavy, the weight of the knowledge that another man is placing his hands on what Frankie—unjustly, he’s painfully aware of it—feels is his.

He seethes to himself from the passenger’s seat of Angie’s SUV. His jaw is clenched and tightens all the way down his neck. He tries to reason with himself, to convince himself, that he just wants what’s best for you. He wants you to be with someone who treats you right. Someone who knows you.

And this fucking guy, Rory, he doesn’t know you. Not like Frankie does.

Rory doesn’t know that your favorite holiday is Valentine’s Day. Or that you have a scar on your navel from getting your bellybutton pierced in a friend’s basement at 14. Or that you secretly love kids cartoons. Or that you refuse to kill spiders, not because you’re scared of them, but because you sympathize with them. Or that you like taking naps while NASCAR plays on the TV. Or that you’ve memorized every line in Moulin Rouge.

Rory doesn’t know about the nightmares. How you wake up shaking and crying more nights than not. He doesn’t know what to do when you’re having a panic attack. He doesn’t know what happened to you that caused these symptoms.

Frankie doesn’t even know that.

“Are you ignoring me?” Angie asks.

“What?” he whips his head towards her.

“That’s what I thought,” she scoffs, “I asked if you want to come over on Tuesday for dinner.”

“Sorry,” he clears his throat, then says, “Yeah, of course.”

Angie doesn’t say anything. The SUV pulls up to your little orange house and she puts it in park. Down the street somewhere, a firecracker goes off with a loud POP!

His ears start buzzing and he shakes his head, then glances over at his wife.

“Hey, Ang,” he reaches out and grabs her hand. She turns and meets his eyes, then he tells her, “I appreciate you trying. I really do. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she murmurs and allows a smirk to cross her mouth when Frankie pulls her hand to his lips.

He sits up and glances into the back seat and smiles at Sarah’s sleeping face, then at Angie, “Goodnight girls.”

“Frankie,” she tightens her grip on his hand and her eyes drop to his lips in suggestion. He leans over the center console, where she meets him with a gentle kiss.

She pulls back and smiles sweetly, “Goodnight.”

He flashes her his best attempt at a warm smile, then opens the door to get out.

Once inside the house, Frankie takes off his shoes and stands there in the living room, paralyzed by the silence. Then laughter bubbles out from behind your closed bedroom door. It mobilizes him, carrying him to your guest bedroom, where he sits on the edge of a mattress you probably inherited from an ex-boyfriend.

He looks around the room, at all your artifacts lining the walls and covering surfaces. The pile of duffel bags in the corner, all half-gutted and rifled through because he hasn’t really unpacked yet. Like he knows this space isn’t his.

The rotten cavity he calls a chest aches.

It’s like he could disappear and nothing would change. More aptly, things would be better. You would still have this spare bedroom, as is, minus the mess. Angie and Sarah would still have their lives, as is, minus the mess.

A firework crackles somewhere down the block. Hooting and hollering follows from the people who set it off. Probably drunk.

He envies them.

“Fuck this,” Frankie mutters to himself, then gets up to go take a shower, figuring the stinging burn of hot water might be a suitable substitute for the whiskey his body craves.

When he’s walking through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom, your bedroom door swings open. Because of course it does. A tall, muscular man follows you out into the kitchen. He’s explaining something to you about gym memberships and you do not appear interested.

Both of you notice Frankie’s presence at the same time. Everyone freezes.

Your eyes widen slightly, but you smile, “Oh hey, you’re back!” Then you turn back to Rory and say, “This is my roommate, Frankie.”

“Hey,” Frankie nods at the man, then steps forward and holds his hand out, “What’s your name?”

You glare at him because you know Frankie knows your boy toy’s name.

“Rory,” he takes Frankie’s hand and gives it a firm shake, then turns to you with a slight frown, “I thought your roommate was a girl.”

Frankie holds back a burst of laughter tingling in his throat, then looks between the two of you as you furrow your brow at Rory and shake your head, “I never said my roommate was a girl.”

“Nice to meet you, man,” Frankie says to Rory, then starts towards the bathroom again and murmurs, “Excuse me.”

It’s so quiet, he doesn’t even notice you when he shuffles into the living room. You’re all cuddled up on the couch in a blanket, reading Doctor Sleep. He stops in his tracks and his heart works quickly to saturate his blood with adrenaline.

“Oh—um, sorry, I didn’t realize—I can, uhh,” Frankie stammers, then turns around to go back to his room.

You scoff and glance up at him, “You can be out here, I don’t care.”

“Ok,” he says, and makes his way over to the opposite end of the couch. He plops down and sighs, once again unsure what to do with himself.

His skin is tight and itchy. He runs his thick, tingling tongue along the backs of his teeth. Your quiet presence is not helping. He wishes you would say anything. Anything to get his mind to stop racing.

All he can think about is you and Rory and the your concession to not have sex while he’s in the house and “let me know when you’re on your way home” and the bubbled up laughter under your closed door and his pile of duffel bags in the corner of your guest bedroom and “I thought your roommate was a girl” and the little patch of red bruised skin he sees now at the crook of your neck and he needs to leave you alone and in a different way he needs to have been the one to leave that mark on you and he needs to fucking leave you alone and he needs to fucking leave—

Panic hums steady and hot through his veins. He can’t fucking stand it anymore. It’s too fucking much. All of it.

He just needs to escape it.

His body moves on instinct alone. Bringing him to his feet. Rushing him out the front door and into the street.

He walks. Without knowing where he’s going or what’s around him. Without feeling the asphalt denting his bare feet.

He just keeps pressing forward, away, away, away from everything.

He passes a house party that spilled out onto the front lawn. A few of the drunks try to get his attention, but their calls are background noise as he walks.

A loud THUMP sounds from a mortar as it launches a firework shell into the air. It explodes with a deafening BANG. Bright flashes of white streaks sizzle across the night sky.

Frankie ducks for cover.

When the explosion fades, he checks his person for his rifle but it’s not there. Bile rises in his throat. He stays low to the ground and in the shadows as he moves away from the enemy fire. Spots a break in the row of houses and slips away into the black void. Engulfs himself in darkness and lets his eyes adjust.

Shelter. He needs to find shelter.

He scans the area and spots a playground. A park shelter. Picnic tables. Wood chips rustle beneath his feet as he heads for the playground, eyeing a plastic tunnel that bridges the gap between two sections of metallic mountains.

“Frankie?!” someone calls, “Francisco?”

He crouches down behind the playground’s platform steps and observes the source of the noise.

It’s you.

Standing under the golden glow of a streetlight, turning yourself in a circle as you run a hand through your hair and squint at the night surrounding you.

What the fuck are you doing here?

thump

BANG!

You yelp and jump away from the noise. Red streaks of light flash across the sky.

“GET DOWN!” he hollers, and his body launches into action, sprinting towards you, completely aware of the danger he’s putting himself in by giving away his position. All he can think is that he needs to save you, get you somewhere safe, because he cannot fucking lose you.

You spin towards his voice. The firework sizzles to a stop.

Frankie reaches the edge of the streetlight’s glow and out stretches his hand to you, “We need to go, come on, let’s go—”

“Frankie—what?” you take a few steps towards him and furrow your brow, “What happened, why did you—”

“Don’t have fucking time for this, come on,” he grabs you by the wrist and starts dragging you behind him.

You dig in your heels and protest, “Hey, stop it—what the fuck—”

He whips himself around and grabs you by the shoulders, speaking frantically, eyes darting behind you into the street, “Listen, right now, we gotta fucking go, they’re right behind us, please—”

His throat tightens into a a tourniquet that cuts off his begging. Your shoulders slump and you nod, “Ok.”

Frankie grabs your hand and crouches low as he takes quiet steps through the park, past the playground, around a cluster of picnic tables, deeper and deeper into the darkness, until the only light is from the half moon above.

“Frankie,” you croak out from behind him. Your grip tightens on his hand, “Hey, look at me.”

He turns and surveys the area before trying to meet your gaze. His eyes don’t cooperate. They remain vigilant against the impending threat and flit all around. His heart hammers at the walls of his chest. Skin raw, nerve endings exposed, like the top layer sloughed off his body.

“Ok, ok let’s see,” you mumble to yourself, take a deep breath and look around, then turn to him and ask, “What, um, what are some of the things you can see? List them for me.”

He starts naming things off as he spots them, “Picnic table. Tree. Rock. Swingset. Slide. House—”

“Ok, good, now um… what do you smell?”

When he inhales deep through his nose, he identifies the woody, cool aroma of tea tree oil and mint, then frowns, “Shampoo and conditioner.”

“Good, what else?”

His lungs expand, and he concentrates on a bright, crisp scent like fresh laundry and sunshine, “Your perfume.”

“What do you hear?”

He tunes in to the sounds surrounding him, twisting the dial to here and now, surprised to discover a chorus of croaking, and murmurs, “Frogs. A lot of fucking frogs.”

You chuckle at this and nod, “Perfect, ok, what do you feel?”

“Scared,” he answers with a thick swallow.

“Oh—um, I mean,” you squeeze his hand, “Do you feel that?”

The place where your palms meet is sweaty and hot. He squeezes back, “Yeah.”

“Hey,” you murmur. He meets your eyes. They’re all shiny from the moon above, and you bringing your free hand to his cheek, “We’re safe, ok? I got you.”

Something about the way you say this. So sincere and compassionate. It’s a pebble hitting a windshield at just the right angle and velocity.

It fucking shatters him.

Tingles spread cross his chest and up his throat, settling behind his eyes. His vision goes blurry. His ribcage gives under the pressure of his sorrow and discontent. The air squeezes from his lungs in a wheeze.

Frankie’s head hangs loose and he shakes it back and forth, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

You rub your thumb against his cheek and breathe, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“That is bullshit and you know it,” he chokes out, “You—you know better than anyone. I’m fucking broken.”

“Hey hey hey eyes on me,” you coo. He blinks hot tears away, then levels his gaze with yours, and you tell him, “You are not broken, Frankie. Fucked up things happened to you. That’s not your fault.”

“But what I did to you—and, and what I did to Angie—fuck, I fucked everything up. I fucked up so bad. And I don’t know what to do, it’s all so fucking,” he inhales a sharp, shattered breath and drops his eyes, “I don’t know. I don’t think I can fix it. Sometimes I think it would be better… if—if nobody had to deal with me.”

“That is not fucking true,” you snap, then wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He returns the embrace, releasing an onslaught of sobs as you start petting his hair and whisper, “It’s going to be ok. I—I know it’s hard doing all this stuff, and not being with your family, but I promise you’re not a burden. To me or—or to Angie, or anyone.”

“I am, though,” he sniffles, “If I go to prison, she’s going to move Sarah away—I’ll never see her. I can’t live with that.”

You squeeze him tighter and continue to stroke his hair, “We don’t know that any of those things will happen.”

“And you—fuck,” he shakes his head as his chest heaves, “I’m so sorry. I was a fucking monster to you. Should’ve left you alone.”

“I forgive you, Frankie,” you breathe.

“Why?” he chokes out past the lump in his throat, “Why are you so good to me?”

You sigh and sit with this question for a moment, then answer, “Because your soul is made of the same stuff as mine. I see you. And I know that you’re good.”

His gut reaction is to deny it. To shove you away at an arm’s length like he’s tried to do time and time again.

Instead, he chooses to allow the warmth of your words settle on his shoulders like a blanket. He nuzzles against you and rasps, “Thank you.”

You hum in acknowledgment, then take a deep, shaky breath and ask, “Are you ready to go home?”

Frankie sniffles and nods. You pull back and study his face. Moonlight shines off your wet cheeks. He reels in the urge to kiss you. The restraint clutches his heart in a vice grip.

He takes a step back and looks around, trying to gain his bearings. Your hand finds his, interlacing your fingers as you start towards the street.

Frankie is still holding your hand when he follows you through the front door. You let go of him and turn around to ask, “Are you going to bed, or will you be up for a while?”

He looks from his empty palm to your face, “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for a while. Why?”

“Wanna watch a movie?” you kick off your sandals towards the door.

“Yeah,” he glances down at his damp, dirty feet, “I just, um… give me a minute.”

When he joins you on the couch, you’re curled up in a little ball at one end, a blanket wrapped around your body like a cocoon. You’re frowning at the TV, flipping through options, then you toss the remote to him, “You pick one.”

Frankie groans and grabs the remote, picking up where you left off, in the Comedy section of Netflix.

“Oh my fucking god,” you mutter at your phone screen and shake your head.

“What?” he glances sideways at you.

You roll your eyes, “Rory is being dumb. He’s mad that I didn’t tell him you’re a guy.”

“Ah,” Frankie nods and looks back at the TV, “I’m guessing he doesn’t know about the other stuff, then, either.”

“Nope,” you say as you click-clack a response and press send, “It’s not his fucking business.”

He raises an eyebrow and chuckles.

You glare at him, “What?”

“Nothing,” he smirks, then presses his fingertips to his lips.

“Tell me.”

Frankie swings his gaze to yours and shrugs, “If he had a roommate with our history, wouldn’t you be concerned?”

Your lip curls into a scowl and you blink rapidly, probably in annoyance, but you don’t come up with a counter argument.

He hums and turns back to the TV.

“Shut up,” you snort, then mumble to yourself, “Whatever, he can deal with it or not, I don’t really care.”

“What, you don’t like him?” Frankie asks, but is careful not to look at you. He doesn’t want to seem too interested in your answer.

“He’s ok,” you respond blandly, then wait a few hesitant beats before telling him, “There’s nothing wrong, but it doesn’t feel right, either, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” he nods, his heart skipping a beat at the admission.

A silence settles over the couch for a few long seconds, then you inquire, “Is that how you felt with me? Like it wasn’t right?”

The arm holding the remote control drops to his leg and he turns to study your face, furrowing his brow in confusion, “No.”

You don’t look at him, just chew away at your bottom lip, deep in thought.

“That was the problem,” Frankie explains, shaking his head, “It felt so right. But—but it was wrong.”

“Yeah,” you whisper and fold your arms across your chest, then release a heavy sigh, “Sorry. Anyway.”

He brings his attention back to the TV, murmuring, “I know what we should watch.”

When he finds it and presses play, you start giggling immediately, “Oh my god, seriously?”

“There’s no way we can be sad saps while watching Austin Powers,” Frankie reasons with a grin, then puts on his best impression of the international man of mystery, “Yeah, baby!”

You laugh and shake your head, “So dumb,” then unravel the blanket around you, tossing part of it across the couch to him.

He scoots closer and you stretch your legs out over his lap. His hands rest on your knees atop the blanket.

And, as much as he wants to lose himself in the ridiculous movie, the contact between your bodies holds all his attention. His confession, that it always felt right with you, eats away at his brain. That’s what the problem is.

Fuck, when he finally had an opportunity to kiss you, it consumed him. While Angie was nursing her hangover the next day, he was thinking about when he could kiss you again. Whether or not he should was barely a factor. He had to have you.

When he came home from work the Monday after the kiss, you were a nervous wreck. He drank two tumblers of whiskey and tended to Sarah as you tiptoed around the kitchen making dinner. Sarah fell asleep while drinking a bottle, so he laid her down in her crib, then made his way into the kitchen. He leaned his back against the counter next to you.

You didn’t acknowledge his presence, just kept your eyes on the vegetables you were dicing. But he could see your hands trembling.

“Hey,” he called for your attention, feeling emboldened by the whiskey buzzing in his veins.

You stopped chopping, but didn’t look at him.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“No,” you responded immediately, but sat in the quiet for a moment before correcting yourself, “I mean, I don’t know.” You set the knife down and turned towards him, averting your eyes the floor. Your teeth caught your bottom lip, then you pressed your eyebrows together, “I guess… I don’t know. I’m sorry for, um… Kissing you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmured, “I don’t regret it.”

“You don’t?” your eyes flicked to his.

Frankie shook his head, dropping his gaze to your lips, “Do you?”

“No,” you whispered and searched his face, leaning in towards him like you felt the pull, too.

He inched closer, bringing his hand to your waist, and your eyelids fluttered closed as he captured your lips in his. His pulse jumped at the contact, filling him with a hot, overwhelming need.

He backed you against the kitchen counter and cupped your cheeks with his palms, kissing you with fire. You responded with equal fervor, gripping his shirt as you pulled him closer. Your tongue writhed against his, the muscle so soft and luscious, a groan sounded from the back of his throat.

Your hands tangled in his hair, knocking the hat off his head and onto the floor. When you parted your lips from his to breathe, “Are you sure?” He responded by dropping open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sliding eager fingertips up your shirt, against the tender skin of your abdomen.

You let out a sharp giggle and he stopped to meet your eyes with a grin, “Ticklish?”

A wide smile spread across your face and you covered it with your hand as you nodded.

Frankie grazed your belly again, savoring the laughter that bubbled from your throat. His heart swelled. He kissed you, bringing his touch further up your shirt, confirming his suspicion that you weren’t wearing a bra.

You gasped as he cupped your breasts and brushed his thumbs against your nipples. The noise fueled him. He lifted your shirt and you pulled it off as he brought his mouth to one side, groaning at the feel of your hardened bud against his tongue. Your fingers carded through his hair and you let out quiet little whimpers as he moved to the other side.

His lips pressed against your sternum and worked down the prime meridian of your body, leaving gleaming pools in their wake. Your giggles turned to airy moans. Grip tightened into fists in his hair.

When he reached the waistband of your yoga pants, you tugged it down without hesitation. He helped you peel them off, then ushered you onto the countertop and parted your legs, smoothing his palms against your thighs, moving his eyes over every inch of your bare skin in broad daylight, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“What?” you panted, tugging at his shirt.

“I mean,” he chuckled and shook his head, lightly dragging his fingers along your crease, then dropped his voice to a purr, “You’re so fucking hot.”

You pulled him in for a kiss, slow and deep, while he spread your legs wider, drawing tight circles on your swollen clit. He swallowed your whimpers whole, each one fueling the burning desire raging inside him. Your head fell back with a moan, breaking the kiss, and he dropped to his knees, burying his face between your legs.

“Holy fuck—” you choked out and leaned back onto your elbows. He looked up at you as he started rolling his tongue against your clit, groaning at the way your face twisted up with pleasure, eyelids fluttering shut, lips pouting out into an O, brows pressing together.

You started working your hips against him, so he flattened his tongue, letting you rub your pussy on his mouth. His pulse roared in his ears and his fingers dug into the tender skin of your thighs. You grabbed his hair and pulled him even closer, moaning and gasping, skin growing hot to the touch.

“Frankie, put your fingers inside me, please please please,” you begged. He moaned at the request, then granted it, sliding two thick fingers inside you.

“Fuck me with them,” you rasped, and when he started driving into you, hard and fast, you squeaked out, “Yes yes yes yes—Fuck, oh fuck—”

He had to hold himself back from the edge of oblivion, but moaned against your slick, glistening pussy as your moans grew airy and frantic, then disappeared from your throat completely. Your whole body started shaking and your thighs clamped down around his head.

You resumed your breathing with a choked sob, and your cunt fluttered around his fingers as you came.

“Oh my god,” you panted, then started grabbing at his shirt, pulling him to his feet, bringing your lips to his, and asked between messy kisses, “Will you fuck me? Please?”

“You want me to fuck you?“ he purred, just to hear your little whimper as you nodded in response. You grabbed his belt and unfastened it, then he tugged at his pants until they dropped to the floor. With no thought about birth control, or his wife, or your job, or anything, really, he positioned himself at the entrance of your swollen, needy cunt and drove his hips forward.

“Holy shit, Frankie,” you moaned and brought your hands at the nape of his neck, grabbing at his hair, sending a ripple of pleasure down his spine.

“That’s it, baby,” he cooed, pumping into your heat at a slow tempo, trying to calm the fire building at his center, “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking tight.”

“That’s—fuck that’s so good,” you breathed, eyelids fluttering closed as you pressed your sweaty forehead against his, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

This confession—that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you—pulled a groan from his throat. He brought his hand between your legs to work your clit. You whimpered and started rolling your hips against his. The hot, wet squeeze of you, taking more and more of him with each thrust, sent his heart sprinting.

“Holy fuck,” he panted, digging his fingers into your waist, “Your pussy—it’s fucking perfect, Jesus Christ—”

“Yeah, you like this pussy?” you whined.

“Fuck yes,” he rasped, snapping his hips up into you, working your clit faster, “Take me so fucking good, baby, holy shit.”

This caused you to moan, and he wondered out loud, “Do you like that? You like when I tell you how good you’re doing?”

“Uh huh,” you gasped and nodded in response.

“Such a sweet, pretty girl,” he husked, “Fucking me so good, oh my god, baby.”

You whimpered and picked up your tempo, so he did too, driving into you with frenzied thrusts, pulse pounding hot, ecstasy searing beneath his skin. Your lips captured his in a messy kiss that pulled a moan from his chest. He pressed his forehead against yours and whispered, “You gonna be a good girl and cum for me, baby?”

“Yes yes yes yes,” you gasped out, voice climbing higher and higher.

He began pounding into you then, rubbing you harder, faster, pressing his lips against yours, wanting to fucking consume you, wanting to never stop feeling that all-consuming bliss that was bubbling at the base of his spine. You cried out and convulsed around him just as he fell over the edge, plummeting into a pit of pleasure so deep and hard, it made him gasp against your mouth, “Holy fuck—” as he spilled inside your pulsing walls.

You slackened and nuzzled into his neck while he pulled you into an embrace, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

Going into this, he thought maybe his yearning for you would cease once he fucked you. Which might have made the situation awkward, but at least you’d stop plaguing his mind. He also thought he’d probably feel guilty for cheating on Angie. And he did… kind of. Although it paled in comparison to the guilt he felt about other atrocities he’s committed.

But what happened was so much worse.

As you melted together there on the kitchen counter, heads filled with helium and limbs made of lead, Frankie felt something shimmer in his chest, this palpable connection between your bodies. His stomach flipped upside down.

When he pulled back and searched your face, he recognized the sentiment mirrored in your eyes. Your hands linked at the back of his neck, and he kissed you. It was like maple syrup, slow moving and saccharine. It sparked something inside him.

“Frankie,” you murmur and poke his side.

He blinks and raises his eyebrows at you in question, “Hmm?”

“Are you ok?” you glance at the TV, then back at him, “You didn’t even laugh at the stupid part where he pees for like a minute straight.”

This makes him smile, then as it fades he shakes his head, “Sorry, I um… I don’t know, I feel far away.”

“Do you wanna lay down with me?”

He taps his fingers to his lips and shrugs, “Do you wanna lay down with me?”

You roll your eyes and lace your voice with sarcasm, “No, that’s why I asked you.”

“Ok, smartass, scoot over,” he teases. You grin at this, rolling on your side as he slots in behind you. He slides one arm under your head and the other settles at your side. You settle in against him and he pulls you closer, murmuring, “Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you respond, then release a deep breath that grazes his skin.

He watches the screen for a while, but he’s distracted by your body buzzing in time with his. His throat tightens when he replays the night’s events in his head.

“Hey,” he rumbles, and you tilt your head up towards him, “Thank you for helping me out tonight. I appreciate it.”

You smile and turn back towards the TV, then intertwine your fingers with his, “No problem.”

You’re still picking at a pile of french fries when you ask Frankie, “Do you want me to talk about the uncomfortable thing or the exciting thing first?”

He looks up and studies your face. Your cheek is all pulled in on one side like you’re gnawing away at it, eyebrows knit together with worry.

“Let’s end on a high note,” he answers, then wipes his mouth with a napkin and throws it on his empty plate.

You release a deep sigh and nod, then flick your eyes to his, “Do you remember last night, when you told me that you don’t think you can fix it? And that, um… you think it would be better if you weren’t around?”

He nods and shifts in his seat, leaning his elbows against the table. The reminder of his breakdown churns his stomach.

“I just want you to know that it’ll get better. I promise it will. And—and you don’t have to do it alone,” you pause here, creasing your brow deeper as you frown down at the table, then look back up at him. “I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

You shouldn’t have to be.

That’s the only message his brain broadcasts. But he nods again.

“I know sometimes… life seems impossible to navigate, but, it’ll all work out. Maybe it won’t all get ‘fixed,’ but it’ll work out. Que sera, sera,” you fix your gaze on his, boring your eyes straight into his soul, “I’m happy you’re here.”

An ache radiates across his chest and squeezes the air from his lungs. He croaks out, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You give him a wistful smile, then look around and sigh, “Any grievances or whatever that you’d like to air?”

None that I can rightfully say out loud.

“Yeah, can you remember to clean out the lint trap before you start the dryer? You’re gonna set the goddamn house on fire,” Frankie leans back in his chair and grins.

“Ok, Dad,” you snort, “Anything else?”

Frankie frowns and glances up at the dusty ceiling fan in thought, “When’s the last time you changed the air filters in here?”

“Oh my god, ok,” you stand up and pad over to the refrigerator, “By all means, feel free to maintenance the house while you’re living here.”

You pull an ice cream cake out of the freezer and bring it over to the table.

“What’s this for?” he furrows his brow at you.

You shrug as you lift the cake’s plastic dome off, “You’re 30 days sober.”

It takes a moment for everything to hit him. The fact that he’s 30 days sober. That you care enough to keep track. That you care enough to get him a fucking ice cream cake to celebrate his sobriety.

Warmth washes over him in a shimmering flash of light. It tingles in his limbs and sends his heart racing. His mouth gapes open and he shakes his head, then manages to say, “Thank you.”

[ Next Chapter ]

MORE NOTES: I found a lot of inspiration for this chapter from the book "THE RECOVERING" by Leslie Jamison, the poem “I DON’T NEED TO HAVE A BETTER DAY, I NEED TO FEEL BETTER ABOUT THIS ONE” by Neil Hilborn, and so many of the songs on my Spotify playlist for this series, but specifically the song "JESUS CHRIST" by Brand New. If you have any songs you think I should add to my Spotify playlist for this series, send it to me pleaaaase. Thank you!!

[fox-bright]

Watching the H5N1 stuff get worse and worse--I'm hoping we have until late next year before it goes reliably human-human, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was this winter--and not being able to do much makes me anxious, so I've been composing lists of stuff to do. I keep thinking, if this were August, 2019, and I knew covid was coming, what would I prepare? If this one goes off like the scientists think it might, it'll be much worse than covid.

Right now, I'm concentrating on food. My plan is to have enough hunker down supplies by mid-September that if things go bad in the normally-scheduled October-February flu season, we'll be okay simply not leaving the house at all. There are only two of us here now, and if things go bad there may be as many as four (as I have two separate friends I'd push hard to come stay here with us), so I need to make sure we have 4 meals x howevermany days I choose. I'm building up to six months, but I'm beginning the plan at three. While a lot of Serious Prepper lists have pretty generous caloric allowances, the MFH and I eat pretty light, and we're both smaller than the average adult human, which does give us even more squeak room here.

We started out with dry staples--bread flour, AP flour, semolina, rice, beans, pasta, lentils, powdered milk--though I have still to get powdered eggs (I'll dehydrate those myself), more dry beans (I'm going to use up a lot of what we have when I do my canning run for the winter, and so far I haven't been able to get my hands on kidney beans in any decent amounts), quinoa, and one more kind of pasta. Right now we have about 2/3 of what I'd want; we'll be holding things at this level, replacing staples as we use them, and if things look more serious we'll do another big shop and give ourselves additional stock of the AP flour, the bread flour, the rice (which we already buy in 40-50 lb bags anyway, we're Asian), the dry milk.

Then there's the perishable stuff; yesterday, the MFH and I took advantage of some very nice sales and got seventy pounds of meat for two hundred and twelve dollars. Beef brisket for stew, pork butt for sweet molasses chili, ground beef for hotter chili, pork loin for white bean soup. Still have to get chicken (which was pretty much sold out at our bulk place) for chicken soup (to be pressure canned), chicken and mushroom cream soup (to be vacuum-packed and frozen).

Very very soon it'll be time to harvest my leeks and my butternut squashes, for leek and potato soup (either finished with cream, blended to a smooth-ish consistency and frozen, or *not* blended down, and just socked away in pressure-canned Ball jars without the cream added; will it take me longer to thaw it, or to take my immersion blender to the hot individual meals later on?) and canned butternut for baking with or making soup or chili or making pasta sauce.

I might can a bunch of just potatoes, too, to keep 'em shelf stable (plus that front-loads a lot of the work of producing a meal later).

So I need to buy onions and carrots and potatoes and celery and garlic and mushrooms and corn, cream, red wine, tomato paste (because my vines got blight this year, sigh--I've managed to can one single run of tomato sauce and that's IT), ten dozen fresh eggs to dehydrate and powder and store in the fridge in case of egg shortages, several pounds of beans to be thrown into the chilis and...hm...fifteen pounds more, twenty pounds more, to have on hand? And then for non-canning purposes we'll need butter, oil, white vinegar (I've used a lot of it for pickles this year), various Asian food staples like black and rice vinegars, oyster sauce, black mushrooms and so on. As for pre-made, mass-produced foods, I'll probably make another post about them later.

While this is more than I'd generally stock in a single season, I do generally put about 100 quarts of home-canned food by a year, and I never keep less than 75-100lb of flour on hand anyway because of how frequently I make bread. So though it sounds like a lot up front, it's not hoarder level; everything I stock will be eaten, some of it pretty much immediately (the beef stew is so good). And putting it all by now means that we'll be less of a burden on our community safety net, if push comes to shove. When the covid pandemic hit I had dozens of jars of food on the shelf already, which gave me a little peace when things were looking scary. We were able to share some of our stores with people who hadn't had the great privilege of long afternoons spent seeing to the personal stores. That's a better option, to my mind, than needing to panic-shop right as things start getting a little wild.

Basically, if things go bad, we'll have food for a while. And if things don't go bad, we'll have food for a while. It's win-win. And it keeps the floor under my feet when I'm feeling unsteady, to be able to sneak down into the cool, still basement and look at row on row of gently gleaming jars of food security.

[kata-sans]

Raising Stripe

Chapter 17

Tweek and Craig were waiting anxiously in a pediatric waiting room. Butters had called them and given them the address to a reliable doctor that has been briefed on the situation. They jumped up as soon as the nurse called their name.

The nurse took the baby from Tweek's arms and began to measure and weigh him. She assured the couple that Stripe’s weight was healthy. She checked his heartbeat and fever. She wrote down all the baby's vitals and escorted the family into a room to wait for the doctor.

After five minutes the door opens to reveal Butters’ trusted doctor. They were equally shocked and relieved to see Nichole Daniels. “Hey guys, it's been awhile. I heard your baby is sick. Let me have a look.” Nichole said as she checked the chart the nurse had filled in. “Let's see, vitals are all good. Baby does still have a slight fever. Tweek can you set Stevie on the table and undress him.”

“His name is Stripe actually.” Tweek responded as he guided Stripe's arm out of his onesie.

Nichole giggled, “I should have known. He was Craig's guinea pig. Now let's see what's going on with Stripe.” She grabbed her stethoscope and placed it against the baby's chest. Stripe whined and pushed against Nicole's hand. “Aww I know baby, you don't feel good, but this is for your own good.”

She pulled out a special tool to check Stripe's nose and ears. Stripe was not having it, he was squirming and crying out. He was familiar with check ups, they usually ended with a sharp needle poking him. Finally she squeezed Stripe's belly and he curled up in pain.

“Well it looks like he caught a stomach bug. Luckily it's not serious. I'll write a prescription to help with the symptoms. Make sure to buy him pedialyte to keep him hydrated.” She handed Craig the note. “Now, I need to ask a couple questions. I understand that you guys are still new to parenting, have you guys considered vaccinations for Stripe.”

“We honestly didn't think about it but we always want what's best for Stripe. So yeah that's fine.” Craig answered honestly.

Nichole nodded, “I will have my receptionist schedule you an appointment next week when he's fully recovered. I read over the questions you answered about Stripe's milestones, he seems to be healthy in terms of development. I also noticed that Stripe's diet is strictly formula, is there a reason?”

“I th-thought he was still too young to eat solid food. Is there a list of foods I can feed him?” Tweek asked.

“Absolutely! Stripe is developing like a healthy baby so you need to reintroduce foods to him like a baby. Start with one solid meal each day. You can introduce baby cereal or a puree. Here is a pamphlet on how to introduce solids. If you have any questions just call me and I'll do my best to walk you through it.”

Stripe was growing tired of waiting as the adults talked. He sat up feeling dizzy. He wanted to be held and cuddled. “MA-MA!...DA-DA!” Stripe cried out before sobbing. Tweek quickly picked him up and began to console him. Craig rubbed Stripe's back trying to soothe him.

Nichole who was watching the scene awkwardly spoke, “I uh think you guys are good to go. Stripe is definitely ready to go home. Maggie in the front will set up your next appointment.”

The couple nodded as they continued to soothe the baby. Stripe clung tightly to his mama. He enjoyed the back rubs, it reminds him of when he was a guinea pig. His sobbing diminished into little hiccups and soon Stripe fell asleep.

Ch16

Ch18

[thomine]

in the nick of time : wanderer

pair: wanderer x reader info: general audience, death & grief, no mention of scaramouche's name, food mention, not proofread

summary: there is a time for everything: leaving the office, eating meals, being vulnerable, death, and friendships.

word counts: 1.1k words series: day 2 of au august 2023 / prompt: office links: work tag

When the bell rings, indicating that a workday has come to its end, only one person obeys it while the rest slave away on their keyboards, desperate to fulfil the day’s quota. With a heavy mission to prove you’re worthier than whoever the higher-ups rejected during recruitment and three tasks still on your list of responsibilities, you remain in your seat. However, your sight follows the colleague with pretty purple eyes and strangely fitting bowl cut as he leaves the office.

“Someone’s caught your attention?” your desk mate of 6 months asks, nudging your arm. You barely know him. “Is it his devilishly charming looks that stole your heart?”

“He would be all you described if he smiled once in a while,” you comment to be polite. Please, please pick up the hint you’re not in the mood to talk, especially when you have time against you. Unfortunately, he persists even if you’re furiously typing on your keyboard.

“What’s there to smile during work?”

He has a point… your back aches and your eyes hurt from staring at the screen all day, but that still doesn’t entice you to talk to him.

“Anyways,” he continues, “If I were you, I would be curious too. Ever since he joined, he’s never worked overtime. I wonder what’s his secret to finishing his tasks. I’ve not heard any seniors complain about him either, which says something since all the seniors know how to do is complain.”

A cough is heard from behind. You straighten your back and tab through your opened windows, hoping it seems like you’ve not been listening to your desk mate’s rant. The gaze of the senior pierces through your innocent cover, but thankfully, she’s more concerned of the one who made baseless remarks.

Your desk mate gets up to follow the senior. You praise whatever force of nature brought about this luck and return to work.

If you’re quick, perhaps you can chance upon that mystery guy you saw at the neighbourhood playground. You’re certain it’s the colleague who leaves on the dot. You’ve seen his retreating figure far too many times to be mistaken, yet you can’t be certain you saw him. As the man played with a child you recognized from the hospice care where you volunteer on weekends, he emits a laugh too gentle for whatever variant of grumpy your colleague wears on his face all day.

Fueled by curiosity, you find yourself blazing through your tasks.

As you’re finishing the last task for the day, the senior gives your table a visit. She plops down a list of items with a red star at the end.

“Your reliable friend’s work,” she explains before strutting away, obviously to take revenge. You swallow a groan.

Defeated, you give up on chasing your answer today. When you’re done, the security guard is your only companion in the office. He advises you to head home since it’s late, and you plan to listen to him, yet at crossroads—your house a turn away and the playground straight ahead—you surprise yourself by staking a step forward.

The tallest tower of the playground presents itself. Not a single laughter is heard.

You should return now that you’ve confirmed you’ve missed the chance—again—but you press on.

Hidden in the shadows of the night, a person sits on the swings. His head hangs low.

When he notices your presence, he lifts his head up and you’re graced with purple eyes.

He’s crying.

In his hands is a piece of paper with the hospice care’s logo at the top. You’ve filed such documents several times, and they only spell pain. The inevitable has begun.

“Hey, um,” you start, trying to recall the words you were told when your grandmother passed away too, but they don’t feel authentic for this situation. There’s something else you needed to address first. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He gets up, crushes the paper in his hands before sliding it into his pockets.

“Good,” he breathes out, words bordering on a threat and a plea. “What are you doing here anyways? Were you stalking me?”

You feel heat rise to your face.

“I wouldn’t call it that…” you reply. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“You’re not very convincing when you speak as if you’ve been caught,” he points out, walking past you. He could have bumped into your shoulder, but his choice not to feels like he has the bullet to take your life and misses his shot on purpose.

“You don’t own this playground,” you bite back, tiredness from the day creeping on your tongue. Yes, you’re glad you found the answer to your mystery guy, although you wished it reveled itself without opening a can of worms. You really should have listened to the security guard. “You’re crying right in the open. Of course, someone would see you.”

He turns and narrows his eyes. That’s the grumpy face you’ve seen for months. You’re starting to wonder if you’re drunken on moonlight to have hallucinated whatever crack of vulnerability he showed.

“Whatever,” you add after you remember what he’s going through. Grief is not something to treat like a petty argument. “I’m sorry, okay? We can pretend as if this never happened.”

And true to your words, he leaves you in dust.

The next day, when the bell rings, he disappears as he normally does, except you catch the way his movements are sluggish. He barely has the energy to frown too.

The next week, his routine does not change, drastically at least. He stopped buying packets of drinks to bring home after a long day of work, but he still leaves on the dot. In fact, there are days when he leaves a few minutes earlier yet returns the next with darkened eyebags.

“You’re still always staring at him,” your desk mate of 6 months and a week notes. You ignore him lest he piles up your tasks again. This time, you’re determined to finish work before the convenient store closes, unable to see someone grapple with such devastating truth alone.

“If this is about the last time, I’m sorry okay.” Your desk mate's apology falls on death ears.

You don’t even say goodbye when you clock out before him, mind focused on doing one thing.

You leave the convenient store with a heavy load of instant noodles and snacks. If your calculations are right, it should last your greiving colleague a month.

The next day, you arrive early and place the food items on his desk.

There’s buzz around the office now. Mr Never-Smile has a secret admirer? People whisper. You’re bracing yourself for an unpleasant confrontation, but it never happens.

Instead, you receive a note on your desk a few weeks later.

I ran out of food. - You know who

author's note: this fic took a turn i did not expect, but the ending is rather cute if you think about it. i would love to expand on this one day. it talks about themes i find delicious such as grief.

[do-you-have-a-flag]

i'm not looking for advice from anyone who isn't a professional i seek out myself (in the process) but i wanted to just find a straight forward list/reference guides for foods that fit certain nutritional criteria and it is SO HARD to find something that isn't combined with a bunch of lifestyle stuff

like, i have no interest in diet culture, i'm looking to alter my PERSONAL diet and to do that i need just basic info

what i am NOT looking for is: combining nutritional info with calorie counting, specific exercise regiments, diet recipes, irrelevant dietary info

while these are varyingly useful to many people they are not what i specifically need, because i am not interested in fast weight loss i am interested in something i can maintain long term

and i KNOW the best way to do that is to start from what i am already doing and build positive momentum

i don't want to start by cutting out foods and substituting in things i don't normally eat, that's just combining a loss of something familiar with the risk of not liking or being bad at cooking something new.

so i am starting by reducing some foods or preparing them differently, the only substitutions i am making is based on time not food type as a lot of the less healthy things i eat i eat out of time/MONEY convenience.

I am starting by changing preparation style, i am prioritising pre-planning over last minute convenience, i am picking more of what i make myself, i am reducing the frequency of certain ingredients, I am cooking for myself rather than whatever my parents have made, i am switching some ingredients i like for other ingredients i like.

I don't actually eat all that poorly but the biggest pitfall i have to watch for is convenience (some call it laziness but that's a needlessly negative spin on a grander issue of limited energy and resources) . speedy preparation and eating based on what is already cooked or ready to snack is where the actual foods i need to cut out are. I don't actually have to cut anything dramatic as of yet and I already like experimenting with recipes.

there is no need to switch to boring or bland food, I wanna focus on more conscious cooking rather than limiting options.

and while the exercise i do participate in is good i'm far too infrequent with it so motivation/consistency is the name of the game there

and it's hard because there's so much to filter out when I just want like... here's a filter you can search by food item to check against various nutritional qualities. when i want a guide on how to safely do certain low impact variations on exercise for days when i can't go take a 5 hour hike.

I don't want specific recipes, i don't wan't lifestyle motivation, i don't want diet culture or fitness culture. i want common sense guidelines so i can work with what i have and be safe about it until i am able to get personalised advice from a reliable professional source.

i don't even have specific goals because i don't wanna get fixated on numbers, my goals are like "get the one number from your blood test you were warned about to within healthy range" and "find a cardio/strength based exercise routine that you can maintain without getting bored"

like, major respect to people whose hobby is fitness or nutrition, i'm not looking for a hobby i am looking for the health equivalent of background music, something i can integrate into my daily life and enjoy while still going about my regular activities.

[charlesandmartine]

Friday 19th April 2024

Jeffreys Bay, named after the whaler Captain Jeffreys and now referred to as J-Bay is now the centre of the surfer scene and apparently often ranked in the top 10 world surfing arenas. Jeffrey and Glendinnings opened a store here in 1849 and a town sprang up around them. Because no doubt of the surf, It became a hippie hangout in the sixties and seventies. Now with a total population of more than 27,000, it is first white, followed closely by black; the first language being Afrikaan. It seems to be a town divided with clearly an impoverished black community living in poor circumstances. Then there's obviously a rich set both residents and white holiday makers. But the town is being developed with new housing hopefully to replace the shantie townships, very impressive new shopping mall with upmarket shops, schools and a new hospital under development. There is hope for this place.

This morning we looked at the must-see tourist attractions and came up with a short list, a very short list. We selected the Kabeljous Nature Reserve; 2.5k of coastline enclosing wetland and bushveld with many available routes to hike. We were most pleased, we found this a highly agreeable place. As we arrived, so a local school party was just leaving, so clearly it is used as a teaching aid. We followed paths to a view point and then on via a salt lagoon subsequently onto the dunes and the sea for lunch. Back through a type of heather and circumnavigating the area. Very enjoyable. The only experience denoting not being in our own back yard might have been the snake tracks in the sand. Oh, and the lovely weather perhaps.

Calling in at the shopping mall we collected a couple of Danish pastries for a princely sum of 40p each!

Tomorrow we are moving on again and will be entrusting the remainder of this holiday into the care of Trailfinders, starting with the Shamwari Game Reserve. So we didn't wish to buy anymore food which meant we needed to eat out and the place we ate on Wednesday sprang immediately to mind. The food is superb at this place on the beach with the beach on the floor. They say that dressing for dinner is not necessary, in fact if you have shoes on, you are overdressed. The staff do not wear shoes; and the waitresses resemble the women in hi-de-hi with their little shorts. Martine partook of the hake and chips, I had oxtail. Excellent.

We shall miss this place, it's been great, but we are very much looking forward to the next phase and the game reserves.

ps We have a gas geyser to supply hot water. It runs cold. The only reliable way we have found to make the water hot is to turn the gas hob on!

[fandomfrenzysworld]

ohoho this’ll be fun- first, chameleos! i dare you to matchmake for… deviljho!

Chamaeleos sat shaking across from Deviljho, nervously glancing at her camera. "For future reference...I didn’t mean dare me! Especially with something that could get me get me killed!" she shouted.

Deviljho huffed, only being calmed by Khezu sitting right next to him.

Chameleos cleared her throat. "So, uh, as you know, I'm here to try and play matchmaker for you!" she explained.

"You're lucky I need to find a partner to avoid being kicked out. Otherwise, you'd be head first through a wall right now," the Brute Wyvern warned.

"Noted!" Chameleos chirped. "So, I figured I'd start by running through a quick list of monsters to see if any of them were to your liking."

Waiting for a few minutes with no response, Chameleos decided to start the list. "So, I noticed you a Khezu hang out a-"

"Sorry, but that's not possible," Khezu interrupted.

"Oh...why not?" Chameleos asked.

"Oh, because Deviljho and I both want kids in the future, but our biology complicates that. See, my body has an additional layer of fat for warmth and saliva so corrosive that it can eat through cave floors. These are, unfortunately, what cause Deviljho's kind to be constantly hungry. So it'd be like doubling down on an issue," Khezu explained.

"Ah. I see. Well, thankfully, I have several monsters that could use that heat to their advantage! Like Lunastra!" Chameleos said excitedly.

"You mean the lion who butts heads with almost everyone?" Deviljho asked.

"Oh, right... you two would probably... nevermind!" Chameleos said, seemingly getting more and more panicked. "In that case, why don’t we go with someone on the opposite end of the spectrum! Legiana usually resides in colder climates and even has vents for releasing air!"

"They use the cold as a weapon. Plus, their smaller body is what allows them to fly," Deviljho pointed out.

This back and forth went on for quite a while until Chameleos eventually snapped. "Well, what kind of partner do you want?!" she screamed.

"What I want is someone who can stay quiet so they don't piss me off! I also want someone who I could reliably have a healthy child with! One that wouldn't be burdened by my kind's fucking appetite!" Deviljho roared back.

"Oh, why you picky mother fu-!" Chameleos began.

"Wait," Khezu interrupted. "Why don't you two try dating?"

Both Deviljho and Chameleos shot Khezu a look of utter confusion.

"What? Chameleos is usually pretty quiet. She can stick to walls to stay out of your way if you're in a bad mood. Plus, she's an ambush predator, so her kind can go quite awhile without food," Khezu explained.

Chameleos was horrified, looking over at Deviljho, expecting his face to be consumed in rage. Instead, she found Deviljho actually seeming to consider it.

"Hmm. I guess it's worth a shot," Deviljho said.

"Huh?! You mean, m-me, y-y-you, on a d-d-date?!" Chameleos stuttered.

"You got a spot in mind?" Deviljho asked.

"...I'll see what I can think of..." Chameleos squeaked out.

[fishklok]

Hey I hope it's okay to ask you this but do you have any advice for writing quickly? You always seem to update your fics fast.

Sorry this has been sitting in my inbox for a while ;0; ironically defeating the purpose of your question lol.

I'll see if I can explain it to the best of my ability.

The most helpful thing to me by far has been incorporating writing into my daily routine. It has gotten to the point where I feel weird if I go to bed without writing. That's just a matter of perseverance. If you use Discord, the bot Sprinto has been incredibly helpful. Even if you're not in a Discord group with a lot of people, it can still help you a lot. I have Sprinto in my personal server and just being able to block out set chunks of time to write can be all I need.

But here's some more advice. Idk how universal this will be, so I'm just going to detail my process.

I used to over-plan as a writer. As in, I would plot out every trivial detail before I ever started writing. This was just a fancy form of procrastination.

This is part of my proto-outlines from 2013 (this would later be expanded into another outline). Not only would i plan out each story beat, but I would color coordinate the scenes based on what the main character was feeling during them. Maybe this method works for someone, but personally I found that it just prevented me from writing. It also tended to push me into a corner. As in "my character has grown and evolved since my outline, but my notes say they feel sad in this scene so...." It can lead to inconsistent characterization.

What has worked for me recently is to keep my plans as rough notes at first, and only write a formal outline once I'm deep in the story and it's too big for me to keep track of without a road map.

Here's my outline for one of my Metalocalypse fanfics.

My columns are "chapter, date chapter takes place during, ages of main characters, key moments". I also use a spreadsheet so I can easily add/delete chapters. I only make spreadsheets like this for fics that are so long that I need to keep track of the story. I also only include the dates if the time frame is relevant. Don't let yourself get bogged down in too much detail. Also you don't need to list everything that happens.

This is literally the only plot point I have in my current fic chapter:

That's it. That's all I have to go off of. But I'm currently 2722 words into this chapter and I'm still not done. Give yourself all the information you need to remember where the story is going, but still give yourself room to play with. Again, I only make these outlines once I feel grounded in the story I'm writing. Basically, treat your outlines like a map -- not a gps. As long as you know where the major roads are and where the destination is, you don't always need to plan out each turn.

That's the biggest piece of advice I have. Plan your stories out, but don't let your plan overpower your writing. Remember why you're actually writing in the first place. Having an end goal is the number one thing that keeps me motivated to keep working on a story.

And here's some general unorganized advice.

Find a reliable place to keep all of the writing ideas that plop into your head. Sometimes I get ideas for dialogue exchanges 20 chapters from now, but I know I won't remember them when I get to that point. Personally, I have a separate channel in my personal discord for out of context writing stuff, but even just a notebook will work.

Go out and experience life, and think about how you'd write it. I'm not just talking about major life events. The mundane details of your life can provide so much ammunition. Even if you're not physically writing, just the act of noticing things can really strengthen that muscle. Practice noticing senses you don't usually incorporate into your writing. What does the food you eat feel like in your mouth? What goes through your mind when you walk down the street? Really dig into everything you feel. Were you bummed that your favorite restaurant closed down? That might feel small, but if you take that feeling and expand on it, you can use it to express your own characters' sadness. Notice the world around you. View every experience as a potential piece of writing. You can easily milk 2 paragraphs out of that.

Your rough draft doesn't have to include every detail. If your first draft simply says "he felt sad", that's fine. "He felt sad" is three more words than you would have had in your wip if you didn't write that day. As time goes on, you can expand that sentence into exploring the nuances of how that character experiences sadness at that specific moment. Boom, 2 more paragraphs.

Think about which projects you want to see to completion. If you're only working on a story because it's popular or because you think you have to, it's going to feel like a slog. Now, I've definitely stuck with some fics even though certain plot points felt slow, but I continued writing because I was excited for what came after.

Reread your stuff. Not only is this useful for continuity, but it can be a great motivator.

If you find yourself struggling with a wip in a way that can't be excused to just writer's block, delete the last few sentences and see how it goes.

If you're feeling especially inspired, stop mid-thought/sentence before you end for the day. That way, if you're not feeling as motivated the next day, you can easily finish the thought and sometimes that's all you need to get the juices flowing again.

I hope I can make my advice more useful and specific than "just practice lol", but that's really the best advice I could give. I have slow writing days too. Lately, I'm lucky if I can get 200 words out of me. I've been really stressed lately so my daily word count has taken a hit. But the amount of words you write doesn't matter as long as you're consistent. It's a muscle. And like working out, doing reps with 5 pound weights is much better than forcing yourself to do 100 pounds and hurting yourself in the process. Just write a sentence. Just write a word. Maybe that's all you need.

I'll probably add more to this, but I hope this is helpful!

[lordgrimwing]

Food #02

Thranduil glanced down at his cellphone, checking the shopping list once more. Hithundil called him that morning and said her work was wrapping up sooner than planned (a good sign) and rather than cooling her heels in Gondor for the rest of the week, she rescheduled her flight to arrive the day after next so she could spend the extra time with her husband and son (always nice to hear). He suggested having a nice dinner in the garden. She said it sounded lovely. That, of course, led him to where he is now, checking the produce section for fresh green beans and bok choy, phone in one hand, almost full shopping bag hanging from the crook of his elbow, and Legolas’s pale fingers wrapped loosely around his own.

“Daddy?” Legolas asked, tugging on his hand.

“Yeah?” Thranduil said, slipping his phone back into his pants pocket.

“If green beans could feel things, would we still cook and eat them?” He asked with big eyes, a finger coming up to poke at one of the vegetables in question.

Thranduil tilted his head down and hummed in thought as he selected a few packages. “I suppose it depends on if they like getting cooked and eaten.”

The child frowned, turning his fingers to the plaque advertising the beans’ apparently excellent price. Thranduil did most of the general grocery shopping at this store, so he couldn’t reliably confirm or deny if that was actually the case. He set the packages in his bag and led the way out of the produce and toward the dairy aisle for cheese.

“But,” Legolas finally said as his father added cheddar and ricotta to the bag. “How would we know?”

“Know what?” He asked, double-checking the list one more time to verify that was all they needed to get (he almost forgot the ricotta and he’d rather not drive all the way home just to realize he missed something else they needed).

“If green beans like being eaten.”

“These are deep thoughts for a Tuesday, kiddo.” He said while contemplating how one could possibly tell if a vegetable theoretically didn’t like being used as food. “I’m not sure how I’d know. Do you have any idea?”

Legolas nodded as they began the trek back across the large store. “I think,” He started and had to interrupt himself with a deep breath. “I think if the beans taste bad, then they don’t want to be eaten, or they don’t like how they were cooked and they’re upset about it, and it’s bad to eat them then because they won’t like it, but if they taste good, then it’s good to eat them because they want to be eaten and it’d be rude to just cook them and then not do what they want. And I think that if they want to get eaten, but nobody does, then they cry about it a little because they are so sad that they have to keep waiting.”

“Crying green beans?” Thranduil repeated as they walked past the racks of seasonal clothes that always filled the space before the checkout aisle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that. Does that mean they don’t actually feel anything or just that we always eat them right when they want it?”

Legolas’s feet stopped moving, bringing Thranduil to a very abrupt stop in the middle of the moderately busy lane. He turned to the side to look at him, wondering what had so completely caught his attention, but quickly dropped to a crouch when he saw the tears starting to gather in his bright eyes.

“What’s up, buddy?”

Legolas could never be described as a child particularly prone to crying. He rarely cries over bruises or bumps or any of his many scraped knees; however, he sometimes cries when he thinks a part of life was too unfair for people to live with (like the way he couldn’t pick up every frog he saw because some wild animals get really stressed when held, and things on his hands could hurt a frog if he didn’t wash up first. He cried for quite a while when his dad explained that to him—frogs were his favorite). 

Without answering, Legolas reached into the canvas bag and pulled out one package of green beans. He pointed to one corner, and there inside the bag, just big enough to see, was a single droplet of water. 

“They just want someone to eat them,” The boy said, a faint tremor in his soft voice as he offered the sad green beans up to his father. 

“Oh, come here,” Thranduil said to the beans, taking them from his son. Ignoring the surprised glances they were garnering from the other shoppers, he spoke directly to the weeping beans. “I promise that when we get home, I’ll sautee you up real nice with some peppers and rice and watercress, and Legs and I will eat you right up for dinner. It’ll be the best thing you ever experience.”

Legolas giggled a little at the impassioned declaration, which Thranduil took as a sign that the green beans were mollified and he slipped them back into the bag. “I think that’s all settled.” He said.

Legolas nodded, his long pale hair dancing with the fervor of his agreement. “Green beans are always happy when you cook them.”

“Aww,” Thranduil said, standing and resuming the walk to the register. “Thanks.”