Frisks back pocket
The Midnight Greenhouse
The shadows of the living room deepened into a bruised purple as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, leaving Frisk in a state of deep, unconscious slumber. The only light in the room came from the flickering blue glow of the television, which had long since transitioned into a static-filled screen of "no signal." The teenager was a heavy sleeper, the kind who could sleep through a Greater Dog bark or a Mettaton musical number, and his current state was no exception. He lay sprawled across the sofa like a fallen titan, his mouth slightly agape, emitting a rhythmic, wet snore that vibrated through the quiet house.
Deep within the confines of his denim shorts and sweat-soaked boxers, Venus was living a nightmare. The tiny monster was exhausted, its leafy limbs trembling from the hours of being crushed beneath Frisk’s weight. The air inside the "greenhouse" had become thick and suffocating, a humid soup of salt, denim dye, and the lingering, pungent remnants of Frisk’s digestive relief. Venus knew that if it didn't move soon, it would be permanently flattened or smothered by the sheer lethargy of the boy who was supposed to be its savior.
Summoning every ounce of its diminutive strength, Venus began to wiggle. It was a slow, agonizing process. The fabric of the boxers was damp with Frisk’s perspiration, acting like a sticky web that clung to the monster’s delicate green skin. Venus pushed against the massive, warm expanse of Frisk’s skin, trying to find a gap, a way upward toward the waistband where the air might be fresher.
Frisk groaned in his sleep. His eyebrows knit together as a sudden itch manifested in the middle of his dream about infinite cinnamon-butterscotch pies. The movement of the tiny creature felt like a persistent, tickling annoyance. Still half-submerged in the fog of sleep, Frisk’s hand moved instinctively. He didn't wake up; he simply reacted with the clumsy, forceful movements of a tired teenager.
His hand reached behind him, diving under the waistband of his shorts with a rough tug. Venus felt a sudden, terrifying shift in the environment. For a split second, the pressure vanished as Frisk pulled the fabric away to get at the itch, but before the monster could scramble for freedom, Frisk’s thick, blunt fingers descended like falling logs.
"Mmph... itchy..." Frisk mumbled into the sofa cushion.
He didn't just scratch; he dug in. His fingers raked across his own skin, catching Venus in the crossfire. The tiny monster was swept along by the force of the scratch, dragged deeper into the very center of the heat. As Frisk finished his aggressive scratching, he didn't pull his hand out immediately. Instead, he shifted his entire lower body, rolling onto his back and then settling firmly into the crevice of the cushions.
The result was catastrophic for Venus. The "safe" spot near the waistband was gone. The monster had been pushed directly into the deepest part of the fold, trapped between the bare, sweaty cheeks of the sleeping teenager. The fabric of the boxers had been shoved aside by Frisk’s hand, leaving Venus pressed directly against the hot, humid skin of the boy’s backside. It was a sensory overload of the worst kind—the texture was slick, the heat was stifling, and the scent was an inescapable wall of concentrated musk.
Frisk sighed in his sleep, his body relaxing further now that the itch had been addressed. But as his muscles loosened, his stomach—still processing the volatile mix of monster food and grease—decided to protest once more. A deep, low gurgle echoed from his gut, a sound like distant thunder rolling through an Underground cavern.
Venus felt the vibration through Frisk’s skin. It was a warning.
The boy’s glutes tightened for a brief second before a massive, hot wave of pressure built up. With a long, sputtering sound that seemed to vibrate the very frame of the couch, Frisk released a sustained cloud of gas. Because Venus was now wedged directly in the "crack," there was no escape. The gas didn't just pass over the monster; it engulfed it. The air was replaced by a thick, invisible fog of sulfur and digested Glamburgers, trapped in the tight space by the weight of Frisk’s body and the seal of the leather cushions.
Venus’s tiny leaves wilted. The monster tried to turn its head, but there was nowhere to turn. It was pinned in a fleshy vice, forced to inhale the staggering essence of Frisk’s laziness. The heat in the small pocket rose several degrees, fueled by the warmth of the gas and the boy’s rising body temperature as he drifted into a deeper stage of REM sleep.
"Zzz... Papyrus... no more spaghetti..." Frisk drifted, his voice a soft slur.
He began to fidget, his legs kicking out slightly. Each movement caused his hips to grind downward, further sealing the pocket where Venus was trapped. The friction of the movement generated even more heat, creating a swampy, friction-filled environment that made the tiny monster feel as though it were being cooked in a slow-cooker filled with locker-room air.
Frisk’s digestive system was on a roll. Perhaps it was the way he was lying, or perhaps it was the sheer amount of soda he’d consumed, but the gas was relentless. Another "pfft" escaped, shorter this time but sharper, followed by a long, low hiss of air that seemed to go on forever. The stagnant atmosphere inside the pants was becoming a biohazard. Venus, usually a hardy little plant-monster, was starting to see stars—or at least the tiny, sparkling equivalent of them.
The monster tried one last desperate maneuver. It used its tiny, vine-like arms to try and pry the skin apart, hoping to crawl downward toward the leg hole of the boxers. But Frisk chose that exact moment to cross his legs tightly, a habit he had when he was cold in his sleep. The movement locked the "trap" shut with even more force. Venus was now completely immobilized, buried under layers of denim, cotton, and the heavy, sweaty weight of the Savior of the Underground.
Frisk’s breathing became heavy and slow. He was perfectly comfortable, wrapped in the warmth of his own body and the cozy confines of the living room. He had no idea that his "guest" was currently being subjected to a marathon of his worst habits. To Frisk, the feeling of something wedged in his backside had simply become part of the background noise of his sleep, a slight pressure that his brain interpreted as a comfortable fit against the sofa.
As the clock on the wall ticked toward midnight, the living room remained silent, save for the occasional, muffled "thump" of gas escaping Frisk’s relaxed form. The air around the couch began to take on a faint, musky haze, a testament to the teenager’s refusal to shower after his long journey.
Venus lay still, its little mouth pressed against the damp skin, forced to endure the "greenhouse effect" in its most literal and disgusting form. The little monster had wanted to be saved from the cold of the mountain, but as another gurgle rippled through Frisk’s body, it began to wonder if the freezing snow of Snowdin would have been a more merciful fate.
Frisk let out a particularly loud, wet-sounding snore and shifted his weight one more time, grinding his backside deep into the cushions and sighing with a profound, gassy contentment. He was home, he was fed, and he was blissfully unaware of the tiny, suffering lifeform currently being marinated in the essence of his teenage funk.
"So... warm..." Frisk whispered, a tiny smile playing on his lips as he sank deeper into his dreams, oblivious to the fact that his "warmth" was a suffocating prison for the little plant he had promised to protect.