#like INTENSE LIKE FIRE

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Please, someone stop me from listening to Josh Groban, because otherwise I will end up DRAWING ANOTHER "MOTTIE AT BED" ARTWORK.

Like seriously, I cannot.

When I hear him sing "You have no idea" all I can hear is Mathias singing to Dorothea AND MY HEART CANNOT TAKE IT.

IT'S EXPLODING WITH SOFT TENDERNESS.

(and I have become the joke of my own household, because my husband, loving Josh as much as I do, now DOES IT ON PURPOSE OF PUTTING HIM ON OUR SPEAKERS, especially when he sees that I am busy working on something not Mottie-related. He knows how my brain works. HE KNOWS IT. So if sometimes you see me derailing, IT'S MR. NEMO'S FAULT AS WELL).

[bitchthefuck1]

I actually really love that we see Helena's palpable hesitation about going back to the severed floor. We know that this has all been a publicity thing for her and it's about helping Lumon, so she's really invested in the outcome, but like. from her POV, she's literally letting someone who actively hates her and everything she stands for, and also has a proven willingness to hurt herself if it means hurting Helena, who now knows who she is and her significance to Lumon, pilot her body for 8 hours every day in an environment where they've repeatedly failed to control her. If I were her, I'd be genuinely surprised to wake up with my limbs intact.

You already questioned why on earth she'd come back after Helly's suicide attempt, and the identity reveal explains the reasoning, but on a human level that's still a wild thing to have to think about. This person (who is you but also isn't) almost succeeded in killing you, and like a week later you let them pilot your body again like nothing happened. How could you not be terrified?

[thesulkycroissant]

Something in World's Finest that I think needs to be taken into account in understanding Dick's relationship with Bruce, and Clark, and arguably the whole caped community, is that they don't perceive him as a child. I don't know exactly how old he's meant to be in World's Finest, but there is a clear delineation even between the way they treat the other Titans and the way they treat Dick. It means Dick gets treated as an equal (important and valuable to their dynamic working), but also that, inevitably, he gets less grace (even though he is a child).

[fyllophobia]

[t-u-i-t-c]

Fire Candle in No. 1 Sentai Gozyuger 01x08 Between Right and Wrong, the Ring Hunter

+ bonus

[muffinlance]

Can Sokka’s science tell him which of Katara’s 7 spools of blue thread 🧵 is the right one to darn that hole in his shirt with?

It could if she didn't keep changing her answer

Katara: I AM NOT CHANGING MY ANSWER

Sokka: YES YOU ARE THESE ARE IDENTICAL

Katara: NO THEY'RE NOT

Sokka: I DEMAND A DOUBLE-BLIND STUDY

Katara: I DEMAND YOU GET YOUR OWN SEWING KIT

[fisherrprince]

here is another silly thing about alphinaud. is that he loves to Get information he’s like a little information magpie but as soon as he gets it he latches onto it for the next several days to weeks. he finds out that spending money is something you need to be careful about he’s going to bring it up and be extra frugal every time he buys something for a week. he learns how to collect firewood he’s going to volunteer for it as if he is already very good at it and knows a lot about it. alphinaud is the kind of person to learn a fun relevant fact about birds and tell you, as soon as it comes up, this fun fact about birds that he’s been dying to tell someone for hours. someone let him infodump about social policy

[mylittleredgirl]

genuinely though i love that the critique that gets lobbed at tng sometimes is that it's boring because the characters sit and think and talk and many of the episodes resolve with very few explosions, and yes! that's the point!!!

like the whole ethos of tng was "space (and everyone in it) is not a threat once you understand it" and sometimes you have to get quiet about it for a minute or have a productive group discussion or do some pontificating to reach that moment of understanding and communication, but at the end we warp away having made a friend or gained a greater understanding of the complexity of the universe and maybe it was a little bit silly or a character learned how to be a better version of themself along the way and that's why i love it!!

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[voilaammayi]

okay okay wait a second

victor trevor interrupting stranger’s conversation just because he heard the name sherlock holmes in it? asking if he has been mentioning him? being the only friend sherlock had in college? remembering that the one kind of pasta he eats is penne and having his own predictions about who sherlock’d be in the future? asking right away if he’d been right? thinking that sherlock of all people was a great laugh? and have I heard being in between boyfriends???

finally, speaking about sherlock with this warm nostalgic tone and always with a bashful laugh hidden behind it? oh my, mister victor trevor, you were in love!

and don’t mind me at all, but I’m having a certain vision - of sherlock and victor in college, victor coming late to their dorm after long evening studying in the library or a night out with friends in a pub, and finding sherlock transfixed on some experiment, of course having gone a whole day without a proper meal. victor complaining loudly about you and your fucked up diet, honestly, sherlock, but at the same time getting ready to go make sherlock some pasta for a late night diner. because did you know this penne with mascarpone and tomato sauce that is the only pasta sherlock eats, is originally a victor’s recipe? and after it’s done, them both sitting on a couch, sherlock eating from a pot - they’re students after all, the dishes are in a big dirty pile in the sink - while victor watches him out of the corner of his eye. then the rest of the evening spend on Sherlock talking about his experiment, some interesting plant or a new deduction, while victor just listens to him with a dreamy expression on his face, because that’s what he has been waiting the whole day for.

and I won’t speculate whether sherlock was in love, too, because the man is a mystery to me, but I do imagine victor calling him after the events of gloria scott, asking if he can come by to baker street to thank properly for solving the case. after sherlock agrees - but invites him over when he knows nor john neither mariana would be home - victor arrives with a shoping bag in hand and, in spite of some attempts at protest close to it’s not necessary, he prepares the penne pasta for sherlock one last time. then all is done and there’s no excuse for him to stay longer, really, so he stands up to say goodbye. quick enough for sherlock to not be able to do anything about it, victor kisses him on the cheek. but he had been watching sherlock during the case and heard enough my dear watson to know that he has lost his chance. so he says simply good luck, sherlock and walks out of baker street.

john would come back to the flat few moments later to find sherlock standing in a doorway, hands holding his cheeks. sherlock being even weirder than usual, john would get worried and trying to pry any information from him, even checking his temperature by a quick touch to the forehead. but as sherlock doesn’t comply, in the end john would just shrug his shoulders and leave him alone, only to become perplexed seconds later, when he enters the kitchen.

because there are leftovers of penne with mascarpone and tomato sauce already on the countertop, while john himself was just about to cook them this same thing for dinner.

[isawjamfirst]

sketched my gf

[sharpsuite]

♢  — WHAT TYPE OF BURNING LOVE ARE YOU?

the flame

Like moths drawn to a flame, you are the flame. And as we know from that old saying, it doesn't end well for the moths. You are the flame where all romantics go to die - or get burned at least. You are the holy grail at the end of a dangerous quest, the fountain of youth at the bottom of a steep waterfall, the promised land for those who cross the treacherous path. The cursed reward people get destroyed by and still can't seem to stay away from. The problem here isn't that you aren't someone people fall for, the problem is that you won't as easily fall for them. And that is a problem, just maybe not for you. And really, as long as you don't give them false expectations that's still fine. It isn't your fault that people are drawn to you. You're just too enchanting and not that open and people want to know more about you. It's not your fault they get too mesmerized by the pretty flames and forget to stop at a safe distance. The moths don't go to the flame because they want to get burned, it just ends up happening and it's the same with you. People don't fall for you because they want their hearts broken, it just ends up happening. And really maybe that's what they get in the bargain and maybe it's even worth it, a little bit of pain to try and romance someone like you. You are enchanting, but not that into relationships and romance so make sure to manage people's expectations when you start something with someone. It isn't your fault that their dream scenarios hurt them, so just do your best to make sure it keeps not being your fault. Your love burns beautiful and alluring, but very few can survive it. And you do love, just maybe not that often. But when you do it burns bright and beautiful and so very alluring - and that's the promise us romantics go get burned at. Still, you're someone people are almost mythically drawn to and wow, I think it's worth it. This little moth is heading for the flame, apparently.

tagged by: i found it myself <3 tagging: @goldenfists ; @cartelheir ; @wellfell ; @saburaito ; @psielapki ; @vulpesse ; @samuhelll ;

[sleepinglionhearts]

Libra, Libra, I'm always thinking of you 😊

[gotticalavera]

W|W ZukAang + Uncle Iroh

Iroh realizes about Zuko and Aang's relationship because Aang had a hair clip that was a gift from Zuko.

For the Fire Nation, giving a hair clip is a marriage proposal.

[mymarifae]

like i just posted this on twitter. but i find it so interesting that all the stories about mnestia are that of reckless unbridled passion and a heart too big for their own good - harboring so much love that they quite literally died over it - and then aglaea inherits their coreflame and kills off much of the same passion and vitality she once burned with, too

she speaks as though it's the coreflame's fault that she's unable to feel the bulk of her own emotions and is even losing touch with many physical sensations, but really i think this is entirely self-inflicted. and it speaks to a devotion that only a demi/god of love is capable of

just, rather than devoting herself to her emotions and the individual(s) she loves as mnestia did, she's devoted herself to a cause. one that asks her to gather a group of exceptional individuals that in another life she could love and care for more openly and then she has to watch them die (and in the case of tribbie who she arguably has the closest bond with, she has to watch her die MULTIPLE times). and then she too has to die. for the sake of a future she'll never get to see and will never know for sure if it will even come to fruition but she has to trust that it WILL someday because this all HAS to mean SOMETHING, right? right?????

this is a responsibility that mnestia's heart would have never been able to bear. and neither would a younger aglaea's

she can no longer be a person with sentiments and dreams. she has to completely dissociate herself from life lest she get too attached to the idea of having her own and start to waver in her mission. her ideal self has to be a faceless tool and weapon, built to die again and again for amphoreus

but again this is born entirely out of a fierce love for all of humanity. she LOVES humans. she loves art and culture and she loves the way humans love each other and the way that, when at their best, they have an inclination to care for the lives of other creatures and she loves the world that amphoreus could be, if given the chance. only someone impossibly selfless and devoted could do this to themselves. idk the dichotomy and manifestation of devotion and love between her and mnestia is just really interesting. i adore her

[rubenesque-as-fuck]

Ughhhhh just found an apartment inspection notice on the door 😫 my weekend plans of rest are now dead because I'm gonna have to spend it cleaning the place instead