#not realizing it was full of flammable things

[beck-a-leck]

Saw one too many posts along the lines of 'I put something not oven-safe in the turned off oven for Reasons and then my spouse/roommate/sibling turned on the oven and ruined it!' recently and that combined with my automatic pre-turning on the oven habit of opening the door to make sure there's nothing in there has got me thinking.

I Always check the oven before I turn it on. Doesn't matter if I know for a fact nothing is in there or the racks haven't moved out of the position i want, I always check. And I always check because that's the way I was taught. When I started learning how to cook from my mom, the first thing she taught me to do was check the oven. I always figured that was just a common sense safety thing she passed on, but it also occurred to me that my mom worked as a firefighter/paramedic for a good portion of my childhood. So maybe that was something she passed on from her experiences as a firefighter.

So now I'm curious, and in true tumblr fashion I'm gonna sate my curiosity with a poll.

Note: 'Raised' can mean you had a parent/parental figure who was a firefighter. Or an extended family member who was. Or a family friend. If they served a role in your life that taught you things, they had a hand in raising you.

Obligatory please reblog for sample size. I doubt this will break containment and get more than a dozen or so votes but it would be super cool if it did.

[revelboo]

I smile like a madman everytime I see you post. Your writing is phenomenal and tysm for feeding starscream enthusiasts with a full course meal

Thank you for the kind words!

Everything is Alright Pt 29

Starscream x Reader-weird human things

• Throughout the day, he replays that sleepy little mumble over and over, obsessing over that tired whine of protest at being separated from him. That unsettled feeling in his spark is growing, that consuming need to have you with him. To be able to touch you and reassure himself you’re there. And maybe you feel that way, too. Why else had you sounded like that? It’s not only your voice that lingers, he keeps thinking of how soft you’d been against him when he’d been mass displaced. How you’d fit against him, that rogue thought circling again and again. Taboo and dangerous.

• Your excitement somewhat falters as you finally look up from your treasure. “You guys destroyed a Bath and Body Works, didn’t you?” You ask, popping the top on one to smell it and wondering if you should at least feel guilty about being so happy for the soap if there’s a building on fire in town. Possibly mass casualties.

• “We destroyed a truck delivering Bath and Body Works,” Rumble says with a shrug. “Those trucks burn really good,” Frenzy pipes up, grinning like a little psycho as your face pales and you make a mental note to keep anything flammable away from him. “The driver escaped into the woods after soiling himself,” Ravage adds, rolling onto his back to stretch his paws over his head and you inhale. Because the Cybertronian, death cat has little toe beans on the pads of his metal paws. You have to bite into the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something, because it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. And you’re sure it’d just make Ravage furious if you start baby talking him like you would a kitten, but toe beans.

• It doesn’t take much to convince them to escort you to the wash racks or for them to agree to stand guard at the door so you’re not discovered. Frenzy all too happily pointing out just how bad you stink as if you’re not very aware of it. Your annoyance falls away when you realize that tucked in a corner is a cassette sized space that you can reach the controls for by standing up on tiptoe. You use almost an entire bottle of soap scrubbing your skin and hair clean and just enjoying the heat of the water. It’s only the sound of Rumble banging a fist on the door that makes you reluctantly leave that warmth. Only to realize you didn’t think about a way to dry off after, you’d been too excited to be clean. Groaning, you pull on your ugly, floral dress, hating the way it clings to your wet skin.

• Rumble makes a sound remarkably like a snort when he sees you. Muttering to Frenzy that wet humans just look sad. And you probably do look like a drowned rat, so you can’t even muster the energy to be offended. Exhaling, you wrap your arms around yourself and follow them back to Starscream’s quarters. Freezing and dripping the whole way. The cassettes don’t linger, as soon as you’re back inside, they’re gone and you’re oddly disappointed at being left alone on the floor.

• Wings sagging tiredly, Starscream lets himself into his quarters and his optics slide to where the human should be. And isn’t. Soundwave again? Anger and fear beginning to thrum through him, the sound of your voice calling out to him gives him pause. There you are. “Why are you down there?” He growls, bending to curl his servos around you and shifting you to cradle in his palm. “You’re wet.” He touches a servo to your damp hair, venting as you shiver. Wet and cold, and annoyance lifts his wings. “For Primus’s sake.”

• Swallowing, you stare at your hands in your lap as you sit in his hand, because you can’t look at him. Your mind keeps circling back to that dream and wondering about alien anatomy. Surely he doesn’t have those parts. Why would he? But then why does he have what he calls a glossa, a tongue, that’s currently sliding over his denta to linger on the sharp points where his canines would be if he’d been human as he frowns down at you? And that too human face of his is all sharp, strong lines. Your own face heats as you drop your stare to his canopy since that’s safer than gawking at him. Rumbling softly, he uses the tip of a servo to force your chin up to meet his optics. Oh, you’re definitely in trouble. Your stupid, treacherous brain pointing out that, alien or not, he’s handsome. “I got soap,” you manage weakly, because you have to say something.

• “I see that,” he grumbles, keeping your chin up with that servo. Why won’t you look him in the optics? He runs a second servo over your cheek, watching you become even more flustered at the touch. Another weird human thing? Giving up for the time being, he carries you to the berth and reclines, gently depositing you on his chassis since he knows you like to soak in his heat. When he slides a servo down your spine, you just press your face against him with a frustrated noise that sounds suspiciously like a groan. Definitely a weird human thing, he vents softly.

Previous Next

[soppingwethog]

Odeur 53 by Comme des Garcons

Before I begin, I would just like to take a moment and apologize. I understand that this review is long. I understand that there are multiple paragraphs following this paragraph. I understand that reading is difficult. I understand that paying attention to anything for more than eleven seconds is nearly impossible. The earth is an increasingly demanding place and I am truly sorry for contributing to your grueling existence by writing a review about this perfume that is more than a few short lines. However, I believe that the information I provide below about this daring, unique fragrance is illuminating and valuable. I believe that writing anything less would not be true or fair to myself or the perfume. So please, forgive me if you can. I’m very sorry. If you simply cannot find it in your heart to forgive me, I understand.

When I was fifteen years old, I was suspended from school for a period of ten days. While I still maintain my innocence, there was little that could be done to convince the principal, vice principal, and school resource officer that I was blameless. I was just a child and they were three cold, rigid adults who made their living by not believing children. It did not take long for me to realize that any defense I attempted to mount for myself would be inefficacious, so I sat silently as they berated, ridiculed, blamed, harangued, judged, and pronounced me guilty for a crime I did not commit.

I will admit that the circumstances surrounding the event were strange and made it appear as though I had broken school rules as well as a bevy of local and federal statutes. To make a long story still sort of long, I was found by a member of the school staff in the lavatory. When I was discovered, I was soaked, filthy, unconscious, and my mouth was stuffed full of cigarettes. I would like to take a moment now and promise you, dear reader, that I have never smoked a cigarette or cigar in my life. Personally, I have absolutely no interest in the smoking of tobacco or any other flammable drug as I prefer to achieve my highs through other means like experiencing true love or drinking rare, exotic mammalian milks.

This event, like so many in my life, happened several years ago. As such, my memory is no longer crystal clear, but there are a few things which I can recall with certainty. I do remember leaving a very difficult mathematics class in order to use the restroom as I had eaten two cold cans of cream of mushroom soup for breakfast that morning and they ran through my guts like a slippery horse. I made my way to the dingy, graffiti-covered restroom where I immediately dropped trou and claimed my rightful place upon the porcelain throne and did what needed to be done which mainly consisted of focusing as hard as I could on not losing consciousness due to the incredible amount of wet matter that was rapidly escaping my body. Such a violent rush of solids and fluids leaving one’s entrails can sometimes cause a severe drop in blood pressure. There have been many, many times in my life when diarrhea has made me faint, and as far as I can tell, that is precisely what happened then.

Straddling the thunder bucket and gripping the sides of the bowl is the last thing I recall with any sort of coherence. The next thing I remember is the physical education instructor, Mr. Hamper, prodding me with some sort of wooden rod. I was utterly confused and began choking and coughing due to the incredible amount of wet cigarettes that had been shoved into my mouth and throat. I managed to hack most of them up, but I’m sure I inadvertently swallowed one or two in the process. It was terribly embarrassing. Like I said, I was completely soaked, I was in no small amount of pain, my trousers were soiled, and on top of that, it was picture day. It was not an ideal situation, to be sure.

I have spent years trying to piece together what might have happened while I was unconscious. I suppose I will never know for sure, but I assume that after I passed out while defecating, I slumped to the floor and made a complete mess of myself. Then, eventually, one or more of my schoolmates must have entered the water closet where they spotted me lying in my own filth on the lavatory floor. They then must have attempted to wake me by urinating on my face and into my ears and nose. When this failed to rouse me from my slumber, they decided to have a little fun by stuffing my mouth with at least a full pack of mentholated Camel Wides. Once they laughed themselves into submission, they left the washroom and notified the avaricious Mr. Hamper who then managed to agitate me into consciousness by poking me with a stick.

I can say for sure that this was not an enjoyable day and I was deeply ashamed to have been suspended, but, luckily, the suspension was not all bad as it was during those ten days of absence that one of my step-cousins visited and gifted me a nearly-empty bottle of Odeur 53 by Comme des Garcons that she said she had stolen from the fragrance counter at a shopping mall. It was an incredible display of kindness right when I needed it most. My spirits were lifted. It was as though she had applied a curative salve to my tatterdemalion soul.

Sadly, that was the last time I ever saw my dear step-cousin as she perished shortly after in a truly horrific accident that the local paper referred to as the “Oat Creek Squishing.” After attending her funeral, I decided that I would keep what remained of the Odeur 53 by Comme des Garcons in her honor. I would guard it. I would treasure it. As such, I have not yet sniffed any of the contents of this beautiful glass vessel and I do not ever plan to, but I have a strong feeling that if I did, it would smell of my sweet, dead step-cousin.

[kiskivmiske]

•••••|Pyrrhia exploration logs|••••••

Entry 007

Day 6

Hoooo boy! Not even a week in and things are weird.

The morning started before dawn with Ivy waking me up, chanting: "LEAVE ME BE OR PERISH, LEAVE ME BE OR PERISH!" After a while, she calmed down and claimed she doesn't remember anything. Then Pamela started shaking and repeating "I'll smite you, I'll smite you!" Animals all together started howling. Pixies in the bushes shrieked. In a minute, everything stopped. WHAT THE ACTUAL [AUTOMATICALLY_TAGGED_AS_INAPPROPRIATE]?

Kazakhs and Russians continued to scare me further in the morning. I woke up few hours later (i definitely had not enough sleep upon Ivy's demonic possession) and saw them deepfrying what my sleepy self assumed to be silica gel packets. No, apparently they learned to make a substitute for yeast-free dough out of wooloon fruits and were making bugfish ravioli. The thing is, both wooloon flesh and bugfish meat have a blue tint, so they don't look appetizing. Even after being fried in bread crumbs, blue is still see through. So it looks moldy. These psychopaths proudly called it "smurfioli"

Rustam found a big pile of organic garbage: leaves, rotten fruits, pieces of wood laying on the edge of the clearing. At first, he wanted to shovel it, but I managed to convince him not to. Compost piles are a home to many creatures: snakes, lizards and some insects put their eggs in there. Larvae feed off it. When it rots, it emits warmth, so naturally many creatures are attracted to it.

I put gloves on and dug through the pile. I found some tiny bugfish relatives and slugs, a small (2cm long) cocoon, and a few eggs resembling miniscule sushi rolls. A white pod we thought to be a tree seed turned out to be an invertebrate in a spiky shell. In water it unwrapped its tendrils. When presented food (a slug), it relaxed sphincter around mouth cavity, creating suction effect with its inner muscles and pulling the slug in.

And we were also lucky to find two larger animals that we suspect are babies of a bigger species. These are clearly not vampire or pixie related, as they have developed jaws. Both creatures seem to be female, but one is bigger than the other and has a much thicker skin and more pronounced pastel peach pigmentation, while the little one only has color on her helmet. Both have teeny tiny antennae on their heads and two growths that seem to be underdeveloped wings on their backs.

I emptied a big plastic container and made an enclosure for them to study.

The older one, codename Fierce, is 65 millimeters (2,5in) long

The younger one, codename Chillpill is only 38 millimeters.

Even at this age their personalities vary drastically. Fierce is constantly mad at something. Her stinger lacks venom, but she's still bluffing by waving it at us and making noises of a small remote control car. She has four small blunt teeth and uses them to full potential. While Chillpill is very calm about being picked up and just doesn't seem to be bothered. Nothing ruins good vibes for her. Here she is napping with her warm emotional support smurfioli.

Chillpill's cyanosis bothered me.

We thought she is hypoxic, but she didn't seem to struggle. She moves around with ease and has a great appetite. She even chases food. We looked at the mouth of Fierce (not without being bitten) and it is also blue inside. So, we confirmed that their blood contains hemocyanin. It's based on copper, while hemoglobin is based on iron.

(We also think that the creature that first vampire bit could be the same species.)

An unpleasant find we had in the woods. It's a round lake with a tall cliff in the middle. Looks like a place to live, BUT. The lake was full of floatpods. And they were moving freely. When floatpod is mature, its stems shrivel and pods float in the air like heavily flammable balloons. In the air the pressure or heat pops them and that's how seeds are dispersed. Those pods were mature, but didn't fly.

Then I realized: they were weighed down, attached to something with a thin, almost transparent string. The lake was a literal minefield. On the shore, there were cacti. Lots of them. Ground around them was disturbed. They weren't growing there, but planted. I cut one open and it was hollow inside. Bet my butt, also filled with methane. Methane used in gas stoves has smelly additives for easier leak detection, but by itself is odorless and I'm not willing to test it. We turned away and booked it back to the camp. I think we need to assign night guard.

End entry

[emioliravioli]

Tell me ur Blaze headcanons plsplsplsplslps /nf

oh this is a can of worms you do NOT want to open

that being said...

OKAY so... how do i even say this all?? lemme organize these...

timeline headcanons:

she's 14 in rush, 17 in 06 and 18 in sxs gens, and in tmosth she's at least 21. which definitely screws up the timeline but idrc.

the 06 timeline happens before the rush timeline!! some sort of event* happens where she's sent to the chaos dimension's ruined future when she's around 6 or so, which is where she meets silver and they become attached to each other. their friendship/siblingship (??) is so strong it lasts throughout timelines.....

once the flame of hope is put out by elise, the 06 timeline is erased and the event* does not send blaze to the other dimension. instead, it puts the sol emeralds at risk by having one of them stolen and taken to another dimension. that's why blaze knows the emeralds being in the chaos dimension in rush will end both of their worlds!

family headcanons:

her parents are both incredibly sick and bedridden. they are still the rulers of the empire, but they're more of figureheads at this point. the main power rests in the royal council and blaze's hands.

her parents being basically absent forced her to take up so much responsibility at a very young age, and made her become cold and closed off (children who are forced to act like adults...)

have. have you seen meet the robinsons. she's kinda like how goob was, just wayy less comedic. aka, self isolation because of self-hatred! the kids around her wanted to be friends (she's the princess, after all), but she forced herself to not talk to them.

big is her long-lost uncle!! through several misunderstandings and unfortunate situations, he was found guilty of conspiracy against the royal family, and sent to execution. they also think he's the reason the empress and emperor are in such poor condition (THEY'VE BEEN GETTING POISIONED FOR THE LAST DECADE- not by him but anyways), so he's absolutely hated by the entire empire. he managed to escape by convincing blaze to let him get to the sol emeralds*, and he was teleported to the chaos dimension. its, uh, very unclear whether or not he remembers everything- he seems like a very happy, chill guy, but occasionally he will act very strange...

* the event is big escaping!! in the 06 timeline, the sol emeralds will not respond to him and instead teleport blaze. he's also executed in that timeline so that's great. in the rush timeline, he is sent to the chaos dimension in the present, but accidentally takes one of the sol emeralds. this makes the sol dimension go crazy and weird, because it cannot survive without the full seven emeralds keeping the balance. a council member (THE PERSON WHO HAS BEEN POISONING THE EMPRESS AND EMPEROR-) is sent to retrieve the emerald and finally execute big. they manage to get the emerald back, but decide not to kill him. they instead give him major brain damage! yay! so now he's kinda got amnesia <3

miscellaneous blaze hcs:

her pyrokinesis is like flames that are constantly burning inside her, and to use it, she concentrates the fire to her hands, her legs, etc.

she dislikes being referred to formally by people she's close to.

drinks chai all the time... it's the one thing she can make herself

has not been exposed to boba, but if she was, she would love it. (she'd also drink it with grass jelly)

she likes spicy food, but doesn't even realize it's spicy because her tolerance is incredibly high.

she likes both masculine and feminine clothing. (obvious ik)

excels in every adcademic subject.

trained in all forms of dancing-- from ballet to hip-hop.

tried to play instruments, but always got frustrated and accidentally lit them on fire... she's good at the non-flammable ones though!

the represser ever. any unpleasant emotion or experience she has is immediately shoved to the back of her mind... she's got work to do, after all.

often has to attend diplomatic meetings with other leaders. she hates them, but manages to smile politely the whole time.

has cat instincts that she suppresses... but she still hates cucumbers.

prefers using chopsticks to eat everything. it's the most convenient utensil!

[wishfulsinkings]

𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐎𝐃

a oneshot novella for noah sebastian written in first person. inspired by in the name of the father by president.

Los Angeles has a way of lying to you.

Even the sunset here feels fake sometimes — soft pastels smeared across a bleeding sky, like the world’s trying to apologize for how ugly it is underneath. I sit by the window of my apartment in Highland Park, coffee gone cold beside me, eyes tracing the skyline through the haze of wildfire smoke. The sirens are quieter now, or maybe I've just learned how to hear around them. Either way, this quiet doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels surgical — like someone cut the noise out and left only the hum of things I can’t escape.

I haven't eaten today. Maybe not yesterday either. The days are starting to smear together.

Somewhere between 3AM and now, I wrote half a verse I’ll probably delete. It was a whisper of something honest before the walls came down again. The kind of lyric that drips like blood down your teeth before you realize you were chewing your own mouth just to feel something.

My phone lights up with a message from Jolly — “You coming in today?” I stare at it. I don't answer.

The truth is: I don’t know.

There are too many ghosts here. In this room. In my ribcage. In the holy fucking silence where a God was supposed to be.

People love to ask why I write about death, about emptiness. They dress it up in industry speak — “What’s your artistic motivation?” “Where do these themes come from?” They sip their cold brew and lean forward like they’re about to hear some dark revelation that’ll make them feel cultured. But they don’t want the truth. No one does.

The truth is: my parents are dead and they will never be coming back.

The truth is: they died before I could ask why they left me in this body, in this world, with a book full of rules and a pulpit full of liars.

The truth is: if God is real, He’s the kind of father who forgets your birthday and blames you for being born.

I grew up with sermons that promised Heaven if you just shut up and suffered correctly.

They said suffering was holy. That it brought you closer to God. That Jesus bled so I didn’t have to.

But I do. I bleed every fucking day.

In my dreams, the stained-glass windows scream. Their halos crack and their eyes follow me down pews of rotting wood, where mothers clutch crying babies and whisper prayers that won’t be answered. The saints have mouths full of ash. The altar is slick with oil, not anointing but crude — black, thick, flammable.

And the cross?

The cross is empty.

No martyr. No miracle. Just wood nailed into wood like a scaffold for guilt.

I finally text back: “Yeah. Be there in an hour.”

I don’t know why I lie.

Maybe because I still want to show up — for them, if not for me. Maybe because I believe something good can happen in the studio, even when nothing good happens anywhere else. Music is the last place I still feel real. Even when I’m hollow, even when I’m just a vessel, the sound pulls something out of me I thought was dead.

Driving through Echo Park feels like déjà vu — too many nights retracing roads trying to outrun whatever version of myself I hated most that week. The heat’s unrelenting, and the AC in my beat-up Toyota hisses like it’s ready to die. Same.

When I get to the studio, Jolly’s already inside, fiddling with some pedalboard like it’s the only thing keeping the universe together. I see Nick and Bryan too. Laughter echoes off the walls — something warm, distant, not meant for me, but not meant to exclude me either.

I slip in like a shadow. No one asks questions. That’s why I keep them close.

We don’t need to speak about what’s wrong to understand it’s there.

“Got anything new?” Jolly asks, eyes flicking up.

I nod slowly. Pull out my notebook, the same battered one I’ve been bleeding into for months. I flip to the page where I scrawled last night’s lyric.

He reads it. Doesn’t speak. Just nods once and starts building something dark on the guitar — something that breathes like smoke and snarls like it’s waking up angry.

And me?

I close my eyes and let the sound carry me somewhere I’ve never been but somehow remember.

That’s what people don’t get.

The studio isn’t just a place. It’s a séance. It’s a battlefield. It’s a confessional where I get to play both sinner and savior.

When I scream into that mic, it’s not art. It’s an exorcism.

I’ve begged for God to show up — not out of faith, but out of fury. Out of desperation. Out of the need to scream “Why?” into something bigger than a fucking ceiling.

But the only voice I’ve ever heard in return is my own. And even that one lies.

We break for air somewhere between takes, but none of us say that’s what we’re doing. No one talks about the weight in the room. It just collects like black mold, creeping through the drywall of the studio, fed by sweat, caffeine, and whatever the hell I’ve been becoming.

I step outside.

The alley behind the building reeks of piss and rotting takeout. It’s familiar. Comfortable, even. Like the back pews of some decaying church — the kind where the choir still sings about mercy while rats chew through the floorboards.

I light a cigarette I don’t even want. Let it hang off my lip like the ash is daring me to flinch.

And I think about how they buried my parents.

Closed caskets. Latin prayers. A priest who mispronounced my last name and looked like he was bored before I even started crying.

They called it a “celebration of life.” I remember thinking: This is the ugliest party I’ve ever been to.

There were flowers. Hymns. Crosses everywhere, like crucified promises.

And me — a fifteen-year-old with blood in his mouth from biting down on silence too hard.

They told me to be strong. That they were in a “better place.” That everything happens “for a reason.” I wanted to scream. If there’s a God, then fuck Him for needing them more than I did.

People say grief is love with nowhere to go. But mine had a direction.

Straight up. Middle finger raised. Heart hollowed out.

Back in the booth, I punch in the chorus again. My voice cracks at the line.

It’s not just a lyric. It’s a memory. Of Sunday school threats. Of eternal fire dressed up as divine justice. Of teachers who smiled while telling children they’d burn forever if they didn’t say the magic words.

I remember the terror of Hell being fed to me like communion.

I was six.

Six years old, and already preparing for damnation.

How the fuck is that holy?

We take five again. I end up in the vocal room alone, door closed. It’s just me and the mic. It smells like sweat and static. And maybe that’s what God is: A broken intercom no one’s on the other side of. I speak without recording. “Hey… Father.” The word tastes like ash.

“If You’re listening — and I doubt it — I want to know something. Why me?”

My fists clench around nothing.

“You left me here. You took them. You let this world rot and then wrote us a book about how we’re the problem.”

I pace like a caged animal.

“Is that the trick? Is that the sermon? Scare them into worship? Terrify the flock until they sing your name with trembling lips and empty stomachs?”

I slam my hand against the wall. Hard. It feels good. My knuckles are bleeding.

“You don’t show up. You don’t speak. You don’t save. But You demand loyalty like some jealous tyrant with a martyr complex.”

My voice drops.

“And the fucked up part? I still want to believe in You sometimes. That’s the part that kills me.”

Silence.

Always silence.

Not peace. Not clarity. Just the screaming absence of a God who supposedly loves me.

I remember — with the pain of my bleeding knuckles caking — asking my mom once if angels were real.

She smiled, held me tight, said they were watching over me.

Where the fuck were they the night she died?

In the midst of it all, Nick opens the door quietly. “Hey… You good?”

I wipe my eyes, turn fast, swallow whatever was rising in my throat.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just working through some phrasing.”

He doesn’t push. Just nods.

I’m grateful. But I hate it.

Because a part of me wants someone to grab me and say, “It’s okay. You’re allowed to be broken.”

Another part of me would punch them in the face for it.

That’s the thing about grief: it makes you crave comfort while resenting every hand that offers it.

I step into the apartment after the studio. The stale incense lingers like a bad excuse. She’s on the couch, eyes half-closed, scrolling through her phone like it’s the only anchor keeping her from drifting off.

You're probably wondering what her name is.

It doesn't matter.

She looks up, blinks slow, smiles the way someone does when they hear a joke but don’t quite get it.

She's too stupid to get it.

“Hey,” I say, dropping my keys with a thud.

“Hey,” she replies, voice soft and empty, like a radio stuck on static.

She doesn’t ask how I am. Wouldn’t know how to handle the answer anyway. She’s the kind of girl who thinks “emotional baggage” means a suitcase she lost at the airport.

I want to shake her, tell her this isn’t a sad movie with a neat ending — this is fire, slow and merciless.

But she’s too far gone, and I’m too tired.

I retreat to my room, stare at the cracked ceiling that looks like a fractured prayer.

The questions pour out in the silence:

“If You’re real, why do You whisper in riddles while we drown in silence?”

“Why am I the one left with nothing but ash in my lungs?”

“Is this what You call justice? Watching me bleed in the dark?”

They echo louder than any sermon ever did.

She knocks, stumbling like a drunk in a hallway and interupts me from my thoughts.

“You okay?” she asks, voice slow and clueless like she just learned the phrase yesterday.

I want to scream at her — I’m not okay. I’m a goddamn funeral pyre of hate and grief.

But she wouldn’t get it.

She barely gets her own shoes on in the morning.

So I nod.

She moves toward me, slow and fumbling, like a drunk trying to remember where she left her keys. Her hands are soft and uncertain, her lips barely there, like she’s kissing air and not me. I don't think we love each other.

Maybe we're two broken people looking for a hand to hold.

She’s so damn aloof it almost makes me laugh. Once, when I ask what she thinks of my songs, she shrugs and says, “They sound, like... deep. Like water.”

Water. Of all things.

I grab her roughly, desperate for release.

The hate’s a wildfire in my chest, and I want to burn it out — want to beat it down, drown it in something raw and brutal.

She doesn’t fight back. Can’t and won't. She once told me she liked it darker. Her blank eyes meet mine for a moment, and I see confusion, maybe a flicker of fear.

I don’t care and neither does she.

I shove her onto the bed, hands ripping at her clothes with a fury I can barely control.

The sex isn’t gentle. It’s angry. Bitter. Like a scream made flesh.

I’m punishing myself through her, punishing her for the world that stole everything from me.

She moans, soft and breathless, but it’s not love. Not even close.

It’s hate, wrapped up in skin and sweat, a desperate attempt to drown the rage clawing at my throat.

When it’s over, she praises me and asks where my drive came from; that I hadn't had one in months. Then, she drifts off like nothing happened, leaving me alone with the heavy silence and the black oil dripping from some broken cross in my mind.

For a moment, the world is quiet. Just me.

No one to talk to.

No one to reach out to.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, my chest tightening like a vice. The silence presses in, unbearable.

And then — the floodgates break.

I clutch my pillow, my voice cracking.

“God,” I sobbed to myself, voice raw and ragged, “if You’re out there, then why the fuck do You let me burn like this? Why do You watch me bleed and stay silent? I’m drowning, and You’re just... gone. Or worse — You don’t care.”

Tears fall, hot and bitter, the only prayer I can manage.

No answers come.

Only the cold, empty dark.

[sightofsea]

the thing about aimee bender's stories is that she is a body horror writer who has, to my knowledge, never been labeled as a body horror writer. maybe it's because of marketing or because the kind of horror she gives could be defined as more of a body dread, but it's true. in every single story she writes one character is intimately and suffocatingly aware of their body and how it exists in the context of the world. every word in the girl in the flammable skirt, her short story collection, is buzzing with this self awareness to a horrifying degree.

it's first story, probably her most well known, "the rememberer" is an exploration of the fight between body and mind. the boyfriend, right before he de-evolves, ponders how our minds have gotten too big for our bodies. a mermaid has hair that is itself a sexual nervous system. everything that goes on in "marzipan".

which you would think would be where the body horror reaches its crux, but it's really in the stories "call my name" and "fell this girl" where it reaches its peak--ESPECIALLY "fell this girl". it takes that margaret atwood male fantasies quote to its internal extreme. these women are bound by how they present themselves to men, feel trapped by it, and are afraid of existing anywhere outside of it for fear of the empty desperation that lies beyond. they talk about how to position themselves to seem most attractive, the traits they put on and take off, only for it to all fall apart in the end because they know male fantasies will never truly get them where they want.

and where they want is also interesting, because bender's stories are laced with their huge, hungry desire and desperation. the only novel i've read of hers, the particular sadness of lemon cake, revolves around a girl who finds out she can taste the emotions of whoever made the food she is eating. for most of the book she never eats a meal she prepares herself because she is terrified of what she'll taste.

in bender's writing, our minds and our wants and our big swellings of emotion HAVE gotten too big for our bodies, and our bodies are scrambling messes trying to play catch up through odd, frantic acts. and there is beauty when the body allows for the full extent of the mind, in all its glory, to act out its desires. it allows perhaps some of the most tender and romantic moments she's written. it is also, usually, incredibly destructive.

but there is, still, the dread of the body. because most desires are not realized, the body is left to deal with the consequences.

[iztarshi]

oh boy, i believe i recognize what au "raphael vs aoi" is from! i didn't realize you were writing it, tell me more :D

I think I did share this snippet on the server! But I am very happy to talk about this AU.

First, context for anyone who does not know about a Very Specific turtle AU XD

This is a server AU where the various iterations of turtles are werewolf packs living in the same area. This kind of started with the meta thought of werewolves as "monster, curse or animal", due to the different ways horror movies can treat them and the different ways they might view themselves, and how this overlaps with how mutant turtles see themselves.

87 are wolves that were turned into werewolves accidentally by werewolf Splinter (they attacked him, he's very sorry he bit them, they are not that sorry they have thumbs now).

03 are experiments that were rescued by their (different) Splinter (they were human to begin with but don't remember it, Splinter was a wolf).

12 Splinter was a werewolf hunter who rescued some baby werewolves rather than kill them. They bit him in the process so he's been hiding out with them since. He's raised them to view it as a curse, they're the only ones that lock themselves up at full moon.

Rise are a different kind of experiment, with the blood of Old Ones (Krang) injected into them, making huge semi-humanoid demonic wolves at full moon. They're nice kids! But scary as hell. Lou Jitsu!Splinter is a vampire because Big Mama would be, wouldn't she? He can turn into a wolf as a result! Also a bat, but that's less good for family bonding.

We gave everyone different names, as well, which I'm not going to relate here. But it's important that Aoi is Rise!Leo while the 87 turtles are the ones who kept the original names.

So! 87 Raphael is usually the least angry Raphael - if any of his fans are reading this I need to note that as a pre-emptive apology - but he has a really bad time in Red Sky. So one of the things we were playing with in the werewolf AU was shifting things more towards Red Sky at some point both because it gives 87 werewolf issues (being hunted, feeling resentful) and because it makes 87 the oldest for a fun switch from them being the young, silly ones.

This snippet was me running with that idea, and with the fact that 87!Raphael gets less funny and more bitter under pressure but Rise!Leo just doubles down on the jokes. I'm not really sure I got Raphael's voice here, even at his most aggressive. But the idea of Aoi having his coping mechanism treated as annoying and broken by someone who usually shares it still feels like something.

*

The thing is. The thing is, it’s not really your fault. You’re not used to this, not used to feeling like this, and you’re not even sure if this is the way things have been going lately or the wolf hormones finally hitting. You’ve always been the quickest to yip and nip and tease but roll over as soon as anyone sends a glare your way. Suddenly you’re standing next to Donatello and Leonardo staring down Michelangelo when he starts bouncing along and poking at things.

That’s not the thing though. Making Michelangelo sad isn’t your fault either, but it’s not the thing.

The town’s feeling more hostile lately. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know what a mob looks like even before they grab the torches and pitchforks. It’s pretty certain you’re immune to pitchforks, but you’re not immune to torches, even if you’re not as flammable as Yoshi’s pack. That’s not counting the hunter someone hired who used silver bullets. Silver. Normal bullets bounce off you. These go through you and they burn all the way.

So you’ve always been the one to make a joke but not much seems funny right now. You’re territorial, uncertain, powerful, you’re picking fights with Leonardo, you’re terrified, you want it all to stop.

And Aoi made a dumb joke like everything was normal.

He’s a monster in wolf form. Huge, long limbs to reach for you tipped by tearing claws, with an uncanny ability to fade into the shadows. That didn’t stop you going for his throat like a bullet.

The look on his face, ears folded down, eyes wide and averted, the way he’d thrown himself back from you as if you were the size of Shuiro. Like you’d attacked a puppy.

Then he’d perked his ears up, lolling his tongue out in that weird doggy laugh he affects.

You switched to human form, soft hands and blunt nails. A signal that you weren’t going to fight that didn’t require backing down. “Get out of here, Aoi,” you said. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

You think maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You haven’t seen him since. He’s fine, though. If he was actually missing you’d have heard from all three of his brothers. He’s just avoiding you.

Aoi’s not the stupid puppy he acts like. He can handle some hurt feelings.

And anyway, it’s not your fault.

[chicknparm]

Hello Jenny. I'd love to hear your thoughts on bg3 so far! What's your relationship to the series/the CRPG genre? What sort of character are you playing? What's a cool or interesting thing that's happened to you so far? What characters do you like the most so far?

omg okay so the tl;dr is I really like it! it feels cliche to say this but it def feels like a true follow-up to DA: Origins with much better gameplay, but not quite as good writing (tho it's a pretty high bar to clear for fantasy RPGs imo!)

I'm playing as a half-elf bard and making mostly good, altruistic decisions, but not above being an asshole or selfish to people who are rude to me or my party. I'm besties with Shadowheart and Karlach, and Lae'zel likes me but uhhhh the feeling is not mutual! So I mostly run with the Girl Gang but occasionally tag Gale or Astarion in when necessary.

And without giving too much away there's a section where there's a lot of fungi that release toxic spores if you get too close to them, so I thought I was being clever and was going to just slowly pop them all from a distance and slowly make my way as the spores dissipate. I failed to realize that there was a torch in the back of the room. and that the spores are highly flammable. The chain of explosions lasted like a full minute and let's just say the rescue mission I was on turned out unsuccessful.

[victusinveritas]

@chungledown-bimothy says:

Oh yes, the Glass Delusion. Which is exactly what it sounds like. Chucky VI, King of France, believed he was made of glass and could shatter if jostled or touched. To protect himself, he had iron bars sewn into his clothing, which apparently wouldn't shatter him if they touched him, again, we're talking full-on medieval royalty level of crazy-logic, and medieval royals had both the time and the budget to be absolutely bughouse and have a whole court go "vhy oui mon roi, but of cuurse, bonne idea, iron bars for ze royal clothing." Charles VI was just a nutter all around, and sometimes ran wildly through the corridors of the royal residence (the entrances were walled up to prevent him from getting out).

Pictured here is Charles VI going out for a ride, realizing he is surrounded by enemies (in fact his own retinue) and attacking them (because someone gave him a pointy sword that day). The king killed four men before he could be subdued.

And then there's the Bal des Ardents:

If it looks like those guys in the middle are on fire and trying really hard to put themselves out, that's because they are. Long story short, the guys on fire aren't supposed to be that way. They're supposed to be wild men of the forests (think Bigfoot but less ao3 fiction about people screwing them, though not a non-zero number of chansons about that sort of thing) dressed in leaves, resin, linen, and flax to make them appear all shaggy and woodsy. So the party was rockin' and then the Duke of Orleans (the king's brother) shows up drunk with a torch... And he wanted to get a closer look at one of the wild men. It turns out that leaves, resin, linen, and flax are super flammable. "Four men were burned alive, their flaming genitals dropping to the floor … releasing a stream of blood" reported a chronicler. The king, meanwhile, was covered under the dress of the Duchess of Berry, which probably saved his life.

Turns out none of this helped Charles VI's sanity.

Dogs have had many jobs throughout history, in this case: Revenge.

[pentwaterconnect]

Why Switching to a Wood Heater Was the Best Decision I Made

Let me tell you something, choosing a wood heater can be one of the best things that you can do for your home. Heating your home can feel like throwing money away. Those gas and electric bills keep climbing and climbing every year. But a good wood heater gives you that warmth without ever losing everything you have in the bank. Not to mention, there’s something about working with wood that just feels natural. So let me walk you through what you can learn about outdoor wood burning boilers, and why this choice may be the best decision you’ll ever make.

What is an Outdoor Wood Burner?

You might never have heard the term "outdoor wood burner" before, but it’s actually quite simple. You load it full of wood, and the fire heats the water in the tank. That hot water then circulates throughout your home, warming it up. It's really rather nice! This is not only a great way to heat your home, but this can also be used for heating up water, or even heating up a garage or workshop. You’ll be shocked how cheap it is

Is an Outdoor Wood Stove Safe?

Let’s be honest: safety is a major concern. You definitely don’t want to face any fire hazards or deal with a bad setup. After a little research and advice from the experts, you’ll realize that an outdoor wood stove can be blown into you without problem, provided you take proper care of it. Please note: cleaning regularly and in accordance with the manufacturer instructions is key. You have to get your chimney cleaned — it’s a lesson you’ll learn fast if you don’t keep up with it. Trust me; staying on top of maintenance makes all the difference.

How to Use Your Outdoor Wood Furnace

Initially, the idea of an outdoor wood furnace might sound intimidating, but it’s pretty easy once you learn the ropes. The secret ingredient? Properly Seasoned  wood. And don’t use green wood — it’s too moist and all sorts of problems can accrue, from the dreaded creosote buildup to the chimney. You don’t want to go there. Instead, prepare your wood until it’s thoroughly dried and seasoned before putting it into the furnace. Learn more about preparing your wood for the winter. Once you light it, the furnace heats water that circulates through pipes, keeping your home warm and cozy without requiring constant attention.

Is Wood Truly a Good Heat Source?

Absolutely! Once those heating expenses start to decline, you’ll know you made the right choice. Wood is an inexpensive and easily renewable resource — at least if you can find some free or cheap firewood. There’s just something special about the heat from a wood fire; it’s just cozier and makes you feel independent because you aren’t beholden to costly utilities.

Key Considerations for Outdoor Wood Burner Installation

If you’re thinking about getting an outdoor wood burner, remember: placement is everything! When you install yours, make sure it's far enough away from anything flammable but still easily accessible for loading wood (because who wants to trek through snow just to keep the fire going?). Ventilation is another critical factor—don’t skimp on this! A proper setup will save you many headaches down the road. To learn more about the do’s and don'ts of wood burner installation, click HERE.

Getting Used to Your Outdoor Wood Stove

At first, using an outdoor wood stove might feel like more work than just turning up the thermostat. But soon, it will become second nature. Loading the wood will become part of your daily winter routine, and there’s something satisfying about keeping the fire going. You’ll feel more connected to how your home runs, and when those freezing nights hit, there’s no better feeling than knowing your house is warm because of something you did yourself.

Why You'll Love Having a Wood Heater

For many, switching to a wood heater isn’t just about saving money (though that’s certainly a benefit). It’s about regaining control over how you heat your home and choosing something sustainable and reliable. Outdoor wood furnaces and outdoor wood stoves are designed around a long life, so you can stay warm for many years. So what are you waiting for? Shop at OutdoorBoiler to get your wood heater now.

FAQs 

What is a Wood Heater Called?

A wood heater is also called an outdoor wood burner, wood-burning stove, or just wood stove. This covers appliances that burn wood for heating, be it for the space in a whole house or for hot water.

Are Wood Heaters Safe?

Wood heaters are safe if installed correctly and maintained regularly. It is essential to adhere to manufacturer's recommendations, along with proper cleaning and inspection. Another big factor in fire hazards and making sure they can safely operate is keeping the chimney clean and having proper ventilation.

How Do You Use a Wood Heater?

Using a wood heater is relatively straightforward. First, make sure you have seasoned wood—this is essential for efficient burning. Load the wood into the heater, light it, and let it burn. The heat generated will warm the water or air circulating through your home, keeping it cozy without constant monitoring.

Is Wood a Good Heat Source?

Absolutely! Wood is a sustainable and economical resource, especially if you have access to free or low-cost firewood. It provides a unique warmth that many find comforting and satisfying. Plus, using wood means you’re less reliant on expensive utility services for heating your home. If you want to learn more about how wood heating emits significantly less CO2 compared to oil and gas heating make sure to READ this article.

[thekingdomofran]

Winter and Emergency Prep

I realize this is a little late for a lot of people, but I hope it helps for furure storms.

As someone who has lived my life so far in a climate that is frozen for half the year, there are some things I do and have on hand to help me and my family stay safe in the event of a power outage or if we get stranded somewhere while travelling.

At home:

Flashlights and batteries. If I think the power is in danger of going out, I charge flashlights and make sure the spare batteries are easily accessible.

Devices charged. I plug in my phone and carry a flashlight in my pocket instead. If the power goes out, you may need your phone to call for help, report the outage, or update concerned family and friends on your status and you don't know how long the power will be out so you want you phone battery to be as full as possible. Same with battery packs.

Water. Water jugs for drinking, and buckets, totebins, or some other large container for flushing toilets and washing hands for those with well water.

Candles. We use candles for heat and light. We put curtains in the doorways to keep the heat in one room. Please be careful when using candles as they are dangerous. Only use them on a stable surface away from anything flammable. A metal tray on the table can help contain any spills.

Non-fridge foods. If the power goes out you won't want to open the fridge so having some snacks or non-fridge meals to eat will be helpful.

Extra blankets. Keeping warm will be important if you don't have a way to heat your house in the event of a power outage. Dressing warmly and doing some simple exercises can help keep you warm without exhausting you, and blanket can help keep you warm while you sleep or lounge around waiting for the power to come back.

Extra human food and pet food. Please don't forget our furry (or feathered, hairless, etc, I don't judge) friends when stocking up on extra supplies. Most human foods can be fed to dogs in appropriate quantities, but other animals like cats, fish, birds, etc are very sensitive to differing diets. Stocking up on extra pet food in case it's too dangerous to go grocery shopping is a good idea.

Some other things that might be helpful for entertainment purposes are board and card games, puzzles, coloring books, and books to read. Snuggling under a blanket and reading out loud by flashlight can help the kiddos relax in this scary and unfamiliar situation. Coloring books and board games can help them stay entertained while you are doing any necessary maintenance or house work.

In the car:

Snowbrush. A brush specifically designed for cleaning snow off of your car. These can be purchased at many hardware, home improvement and autoparts stores.

Small snow shovel. A small shovel with a wide head can help you get unstuck from many snowy situations. These can also be purchased at almost any store you would get yard tools or car parts.

Reflective or high visibility clothing. If you get stuck somewhere, you will need to be easily spotted in the snow as you work to get yourself out, flag someone down, or direct traffic around your vehicle. Hunter's orange vests and hats are high visibility and easy to store in your vehicle.

Flashlights. If you get stranded at night, you will need flashlights to see with. Small flashlights fit in glove compartments and are easy to access in an emergency.

Warm spare clothes and blankets. If you get cold and/or wet while working in the snow trying to get yourself or someone else unstuck, you might want to change into dryer clothes. Plastic bags or a small storage container can help protect these clothes from getting wet while moving snowy things in and out of your car.

Spare tire (of tyre if you're from one of the places that spells it that way). You don't want to be stranded with a flat tire especially in the winter time.

Even simple first-aid kits are a good idea in both homes and cars. A small container with various bandage sizes, some gauze, medical tape, small scissors, tweezers, nail clippers, and maybe some ointment and/or disinfectant can help if you get any cuts or scrapes while working in these dangerous conditions. I am not a medical professional. Just a person who was taught basic first-aid and splinter removal by my fairly medically self-sufficient mother. (I clarified splinter removal because a lot of people tell you to leave that to the professionals. I do not feel I need to go to a hospital and wait for hours around all the hospital germs to get a small splinter removed when I can remove it and then disinfect and bandage the area myself in a matter of minutes)

Extra information and concerns:

Short haired animals get cold easily so having a jacket or sweater for them can be very helpful. Reflective or high visibility collars and harnesses are a good idea regardless of hair length.

I've heard having flares in your car can help in an emergency. I personally don't have any, but that may be something to look into.

If you have any trouble getting necessary supplies, you might try reaching out to a local church or someone in your community. I know it's not the case all the time, but many churches will be happy to help you get any supplies you need even if you are not religious. (If they aren't, they should be, and I'm mad about it)

Check on your neighbors. Make sure they don't need anything.

If stuck on the side of the road, turn on your hazards (typically the red triangle-like button somewhere on your dash) and call a friend, a tow truck, or the authorities so you can get help as soon as possible. If you're from a place similar to where I'm from, and if you are stuck on the side of the road, someone driving by will likely stop to see if they can assist you. (We checked on one person who said they have help coming, and then helped a group of like 4-6 people help another person who got stuck on a hill just on our way home from Thanksgiving dinner at our church today).

I encourage you to teach your kids how to call 911 and what to tell the operators in an emergency. I also encourage you to have the numbers to your power company and your local sherrif's office or police station in your phone and written on the fridge and/or near your home phone if you still have a landline.

I think that's all I have on this subject next for now. Stay safe, stay warm, stay neighborly. And stay home of possible.

Please reblog so others can have this important information.

[logarhythm-bees]

The Carousel Kingdom 🏰 CH8 Old Foods, New Friends

Masterlist

Prev - Next

They settle away from rebellion plans for a little while in exchange for mealtime. The refrigerator (which, thankfully, does exist in this world, though it operates on magic instead of coolant) isn’t lavish, but it has the necessities, and Patton offers to make them all Earth egg salad sandwiches.

“This is *delicious.*” Roman says after their first bite, patting their lips with a napkin, “Earth has the best food. Virgil, when we have the supplies, you should show me how to make pancakes.”

“I can do that,” Virgil says around a mouthful of food, then realizes his manners and swallows quickly. “Uhm. Sorry.”

“You brought our prince home, you can eat however you want.” Thomas says, winking at him. Virgil covers his face with his hands. 

“Nope! From now on, manners in front of the royalty.” Virgil laughs in embarrassment. “But yeah, we can make pancakes when we’ve got the ingredients, Roman. Do you guys have baking powder here?”

“We have baking powder in Innova, yes.” Logan laughs. “We are running low within our cabinet, but we can go out and get some once the disguise is perfected.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Virgil tsks. “You…still want me to be a spy?”

‘Yes.” Logan says. 

Virgil thinks. “How did you get…groceries and stuff, before?”

“I cast a disguise on myself. A simple one, just to change my hair and eye color. I wore a hat over my horn, and it worked well while the guards left the outskirts of town alone.” Logan explains, xer eyes looking into Virgil’s. “But I don’t know that it will continue to work, if the guards are going to be on the lookout here. I expect they’ll recognize the former royal advisor, even if xer hair has changed.”

Virgil nods. “And what would change for me?”

“I could make you appear as an entirely new person.” Logan explains. “It’s a difficult spell to cast on oneself. But if you are amicable, I could put a sort of costume over you. Other people would see you differently, but your true shape would remain the same.” Logan touches xer horn. “Part of the reason it would be difficult for me particularly is because my horn would still be there, it would just be invisible to the eye. I’d have to be extremely careful not to hit anything with it, lest someone realize it was there. That’s why I haven’t tried it on Thomas, either. That, and we agreed it would be better for the king to stay where we knew he would be safe.”

Virgil swallows. “So you wouldn’t be changing my shape, so much as making it just *appear* different?”

“Precisely.” Logan says. “Shapeshifting is complicated, and very difficult to perform. Glamours, as they are, are much easier, and small things, like a change to your nose or eyes, are much simpler to manage the difference of than these.” Xe points at xer horn.

“I…I’d be up for giving it a go.” Virgil says after a while. “Only if we start small, though. I’m a lot more prepared to go buy baking powder than to infiltrate the castle.”

“You’re going to be really good at it, though, I just know it!” Roman pipes up, their mouth full of sandwich. Thomas gives them a lighthearted glare to not do that. Roman winks at Virgil, amused.

“I think starting small is an excellent plan.” Logan says, ignoring Roman’s intentional disregard for table manners. “I would, also, like to try these pancakes that Roman speaks of.”

“They’re *so* good.” Roman adds, having finished their sandwich.

“Yeah! Virgil’s an awesome chef.” Patton adds. “I’m, uh, not so good at the things that involve actual cooking, and not just hot water. I am banned from quite a few hotpot restaurants back home.”

“What’s a hotpot?” Roman asks.

“It involves a pot, and it’s hot.” Virgil says,picking up his sandwich again. “And Patton does not learn that he can’t put the flammable paper napkin near it.”

“I did too learn!” Patton retorts. “After the third try!”

“Mhm,” Virgil says, ignoring him in favor of finishing his sandwich. “I’m eating now.”

Roman fiddles with the fuzz on their tail, twisting it between their fingers. “It might be nice to visit Earth again sometime,” they whisper. “But, you know, under better circumstances. I’d…like to see Earth things, like hotpot and cars.”

“We’d be happy to have you again!” Patton hums. “You’re welcome to stay with me.”

“Or me again,” Virgil adds quickly. “I know my apartment’s not huge, but you’re always welcome to stay over.” 

“Speaking of,” Thomas starts, “the library’s living space isn’t...extraordinary, admittedly, but we would be happy to house you here.” Thomas explains. “It was built to house the librarian in the days when they were more integral to the function of the library, to put it one way. Writing and reading more of the books, as opposed to shelving them. With that practice going, well, out of practice, these quarters were mostly used as a storage closet. We’ve renovated it over, as you can see, but there’s still only one bedroom. We put a curtain up for privacy’s sake, but it may be a bit tricky with all five of us.”

“I wouldn’t mind sleeping out here,” Patton says, gesturing to the room around them. “I used to sleep on Virgil’s couch all the time when we had sleepovers.”

“A sleepover?” Thomas asks.

“On Earth, kids often spend the night at a friend’s house, playing games while staying up late.” Patton replies. “You don’t have that here in Innova?”

“Not really.” Roman replies. “But it sounds fun.”

“It is nice,” Virgil replies, having spent more than a few nights on Patton’s couch when they were younger, having liked the extended company of staying up late with a friend. “I can sleep out here too, if it’s easier. I have a sleeping bag.”

“I will too?” Roman offers, though hesitantly. “I slept on Virgil’s couch when they rescued me, it was pretty comfortable.”

“Nonsense.” Logan replies, Thomas bobbing his head in agreement. “You are our heir to the throne, and there is plenty of space in either of our beds. If you would like to sleep on your own, too, I would be happy to take the floor.”

“That’s really not necessary!” Roman exclaims, bashfully waving their hands at the idea. “I’ll share your bed, Logan. It’ll be like old times.”

“Ah, sneaking into xer quarters to ask for help with your math homework when you thought I wasn’t looking,” Thomas says, winking. Roman sputters. “Math homework that I did great on!”

“I wasn’t aware you knew about that,” Logan laughs, covering xer face. 

“Figured Roman was going to engage in acts of rebellion at some point,” Thomas says. “Better that than Remus putting worms in the guard’s boots.”

Patton makes a face at that, and Virgil laughs. “Did he really?”

“Yes.” Thomas says. “I’m sure the cobbler was overjoyed to receive an order for a guards’ worth of new boots.”

“Shame he couldn’t stick to putting worms in my shoes, rather than overtaking my kingdom.” Roman sighs, fiddling their thumbs. “I think I should head to bed.”

“Oh, Roman, I just meant-” Thomas starts, but Roman waves it off. “It’s ok. I’m just tired.”

“You must be,” Logan remarks, xer eyes following them. “You’re welcome to borrow a set of my pajamas. They’re in the top drawer, in the center.”

“Thank you,” Roman nods, earnest but melancholy. “Goodnight, Virgil, Patton.”

“‘Night,” Virgil says, as Patton waves and Roman turns out of the room.

“I didn’t mean to upset them,” Thomas says.

“It’s okay.” Patton tells him. “I think it’s just a sore spot for them, having just come back.”

“...I didn’t mean to compare Roman to their brother, in any case.” Thomas said. “They’ve always wanted to be thought of as the upstanding one, the *good* kid. Not that Remus was *bad* growing up, but they were…different.” Thomas sighs. “And certainly even more so now.”

Patton nods. “I don’t have siblings, but I was always the ‘good’ kid in class, so I got paired up with the rowdy ones. Like the dog put in a pen of wild horses to help them calm down, except I didn’t like it very much.” 

“Yeah, I offered to punch the teacher after they put you next to that kid who kept upsetting you on purpose.” Virgil remarks. “They gotta respect your boundaries, man.”

Patton smiles. “I appreciate it.”

Thomas contemplates, fiddling with his hands. “I want Roman to know I’m there for them, no matter what.”

“I think they know already.” Patton says. “But telling them can’t hurt.”

Thomas smiles. “I think I will, Patton. Thank you. Both of you. I’m glad Roman is back here in Innova.”

“As am I,” Logan adds, bowing xer head. “We owe both of you a great debt, Virgil and Patton.”

“Aw, shucks,” Patton says, and Virgil smiles appreciatively. “But, uhm-” A yawn breaks out on Patton’s face, leading Virgil to yawn as well. “Maybe we should get to bed too, huh?”

“Let me grab you some blankets,” Thomas says, rushing down the small hallway. Logan follows. Patton, after a few moments of muffled rusting, sits down on the couch.

“So, Innova, huh?” Patton laughs.

Virgil sits down besides him. “Yeah,” he adds. “It’s…odd, being here, but…everyone’s been really kind. Well, except the guards.”

“Yeah,” Patton says, squeezing Virgil’s hand. “But we’ve beaten them once, we can do it again. And we’re gonna get Roman back on that throne, I just know it!”

The shower starts, muffled by the walls. 

“...I’m trying not to think too much about being in a new universe.” Virgil says. “I’m…nervous. But Roman needs us.”

Patton looks at him scrutinizingly. 

“It’s okay to be afraid.” Patton says after a while. “I’m scared too. And I think Roman would understand. How does that one quote go? Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, it’s doing the thing anyways. Or something like that.”

Virgil laughs a little, anxiously fiddling with a loose thread on his hoodie. “Yeah. I guess.”

Patton pats his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Virgil.” Virgil bites his tongue, nodding, hand still trembling around a piece of string.

Luckily, Thomas enters the room just then, letting Virgil and Patton focus on getting a sleeping area set up, with Patton on the couch and Virgil on a pile of blankets on the floor. What Logan carries in with xer magic is more than enough bedding to make the floor soft, even if Virgil would have slept there anyways.

“Goodnight, you two.” Thomas says after they’re all set up and changed, wearing the pajamas they packed. Roman had slipped between them in the hall, heading to the room, where Virgil hears them snoring quietly. Thomas gazes over his shoulder into the room, a wistful look on his face. 

“Thank you, again,” he says softly, looking into Virgil’s eyes, then Patton’s. “I’m so glad Roman is back home.”

“We are too,” Virgil says, quiet and on impulse. His brain splutters, though, catching up with him. “Not that we didn’t like having them, it’s just, they belong here, I- I’m glad they’re safe, here, yeah. That’s- what I meant, yeah.”

Thomas laughs softly, unperturbed by Virgil’s stuttering around the subject. “I understand,” Thomas says. “I am too.”

Virgil gives him a soft smile, and Patton does too, and Thomas turns and walks out of sight. Logan offers them all a grateful smile, xer tail swishing behind them. 

“We really are grateful.” Xe says, not whispering, but not breaking the quiet of the room. “You brought my friend home. Thank you.”

“No prob,” Virgil says, cringing. Patton nods in agreement. “We’re happy to help.”

“You have helped indeed,” Logan says, a gentle smile on xer face. “Thank you. Sleep well.”

Virgil salutes xem, and Patton offers a finger gun, and xe smiles and leaves them alone. 

Patton flops back on the couch immediately with a sigh and a yawn, and then offers Virgil a sleepy smile.

“Goodnight, Virgil.” Patton offers, eyes fluttering closed. “Y’r really brave, y’know? I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Me too, Patty-cake.” Virgil says to him as Patton dozes off, snoring like a hummingbird, and Virgil rolls his eyes in amusement, laying back on his own bedding and staring at the ceiling.

And stays there, for three hours.

“I can’t *sleep,* Virgil groans to himself, eventually having picked up a book from the floor and trying to use the words to find himself in dreamland. The book about Shakespearian plays looks back at him as much as a book can, mocking him. Virgil grunts in annoyance and resolves himself to a night of laying on the floor and getting no real shuteye.

From the hallway, a light clicks on, and then Roman appears in the doorway, silk pajamas draping over their form in the silhouette. They come a little bit more out of the light, eyes widening a little as Virgil’s gaze meets theirs.

“You can’t sleep either, huh?” Virgil asks. Roman nods.

“I was going to get a glass of water,” Roman explains. “But I…did hope there might be some company out here.”

“I’ve never been great at having a sleep schedule,” Virgil replies, getting himself out of the sleeping bag.

“You don’t have to-” Roman starts, but Virgil just shrugs, standing up. “Wouldn’t mind a glass of water. We can make it a group effort.”

“Ah, well-that's very kind.” Roman replies. Virgil waves them off, moving towards the little kitchenette. From the cabinet he grabs two glasses, filling each up most of the way and then handing one to Roman.

“Thank you.” Roman says, taking it. They take a sip in the quiet, and Virgil does too, watching them as their hands fiddle around the glass.

“...I just can’t believe it’s been three years.” Roman says after a while, soft in the night. “I remember being in the castle only yesterday.”

Virgil nods, letting Roman speak.

“I feel like I’ve failed my kingdom.” Roman says. “If I had just been better, I could have- perhaps I could have noticed Remus, and avoided the attack.” 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be king,” Roman admits in the darkness.

“And that’s okay,” Virgil says to them, placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “You care about your kingdom, right?”

“Of course,” Roman says in a breath.

“And you want what’s best for them,” Virgil says, and Roman nods. “You’re a good person, Princey.”

Roman laughs, gently taking Virgil’s hand in their own, glow from their antlers casting hints of light on their skin. “Is-” Roman swallows, thinking, “is that enough?”

“Maybe not. But-” Virgil says when Roman falters, “it means you have what it takes to *be* enough. And from what I’ve seen of you, Roman, you’d be a great king.”

Roman ducks, blinking a tear away though a smile appears on their lips. “Thank you, Virgil. You’re right. And, thank you for bringing me home, too.” 

“You’re welcome.” Noticing their drifting lashes, Virgil helps them up, Roman leaning on their shoulder. “You’re tired. Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

“You’re warm,” Roman says sleepily. Virgil flushes, looking at the wall. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

“Ok.” Roman says, Virgil pushing them down the hall and into the bedroom, and Roman stumbles inside. “You’re awesome, Virge. Glad ‘re here.”

Roman turns and stumbles into bed, falling asleep instantly. Going back to his blanket pile, and clambering under the blankets with the lingering feeling of Roman’s warmth against his skin, Virgil does too.

[eradacted]

Okay so like basically I spemt way to much time developing the culture around werewolves and their traditions so here's an overview of some of their most important celebrations and things.

The full Moon

This one seems pretty damn obvious cause they're werewolves but a lot of the older werewolves see the moon as a woman, Full moons are treated as a celebration of the self and of your mistakes. Considered to be the time to embrace your connection with nature and the other half of your soul its normally celebrated with the entire pack, A big feast is held before and after the transformation and normally someone wears very nice clothes. Of course these clothes get destroyed in the process but that's the tradition.

Season Feasts

A lot of werewolf traditions involve large feasts, Food is very important to them and also werewolves just eat a lot in general. Season Feasts are held on the first day of every changing season with corresponding food, It normally involves not just the werewolves family but any neighbors, friends, or anyone who wishes to join. While it was originally a more solemn celebration made to count heads of remaining pack members and celebrate the lives of fallen members through the seasons due to the humans killing many werewolves its since been changed to a time of connection and celebration of remaining together for one more season.

Leather Bracelet

Now this didn't originate from one place alone but rather a thing that happened over time. Leather bracelets are bracelets made from braided leather that has strands of hair woven into it, the hair belonging to a werewolf amd the person they love, its a very time consuming activity and the leather tends to have small intricate carvings or small charms to represent the two.

This practice originated when werewolves began participating in human culture and began working as farmers. Normally a werewolf would leave a dead animal on the doorstep of whomever they wished to court, However as the times changed many werewolves realized that wasn't possible anymore for a number of reasons. However, since many were cattle farmers, they realized that they had many leather scraps leftover from butchering their own cows.

On Top of that there was a common belief that having a baby was the deepest meaning of connection, though that belief has since been lost the core detail of the baby having mixed hair to represent the bond of its parents remained. This then directly bled into the new way to show love.

Originally by braiding strands of hair into a necklace, However it was soon realized that it was far to flimsy and flammable for the work most did. And so the combination of leather work, strands of hair, and carving came into existence and is now a common place tradition in werewolf families.

And due to the werewolf belief system that mistakes are perfection its said once you start making a bracelet you are never allowed to start over, Any mistakes made during the process makes the bracelet unique and beautiful.

[the-shattering]

Chapter 3: Aftermath

Had Marventas been cleaned up and in a less desolate scene he may have looked as grand as all mages seemed to think they were. However, his robes were tattered and burnt and his cloak was more of a scrap of fabric fastened around his shoulders. His normally blond hair was now half scorched and standing on end. His normally pale skin was now darker than Torvola’s thanks to the layer of soot that covered it.

He hurried over to Torvola and offered a hand, “I must apologize, m’lady.”

“Was this your doing?” Torvola asked as he helped her up.

“In my defense,” he said, “My intention was to zap one of these foul beasts – not start a forest fire.”

“Well at least you didn’t do too much damage to the wood,” Torvola said and looked around her. The underbrush had been completely cleared out and a few of the drier branches and leaves were still smoldering. A few yards away laid the charred remains of the creature that had almost killed her.

Elders were incredibly hard to kill but apparently an explosion did the trick quite nicely.

Unfortunately she wasn’t entirely convinced on the viability of that tactic if she wanted to live to the next battle. If there were more of these monsters out there, Torvola had a feeling she was going to be fighting many more battles. She suppressed a tired sigh.

“What are you doing here?” she asked the mage.

“Looking for survivors of course. We were attacked by those accursed things at daybreak. We put up a fierce resistance but we were thoroughly routed. Those monsters are hard to kill.”

“Yes,” Torvola said, “Yes they are. Is Lord Lanim alright?”

Marventas nodded, “He and I ran off with a few of his guard. We managed to make a stand at Shepherd’s Hill. When we finally fought them off, those of us who survived went off in search of the others. That’s when we were attacked by who I’m assuming is the group that attacked you.”

They began to walk through the wood, Torvola listened to Marventas talk but she only heard snippets of what he was saying. Her eyes darted around constantly, looking for any threats. Had they seen the last of the Elders? Had they been chased off by the light of day? The forest had become bright enough for them to navigate without much trouble. Though the sun had risen, the birds stayed silent and Torvola knew why: Their corpses littered the forest floor like fallen leaves, victims of stinkdamp or the subsequent fireball. Marventas kept talking, either oblivious to the death around them or trying very hard not to pay attention to it. “Lightning spells worked well on those creatures so I figured I would use it again,” he was saying, “I didn’t realize the gas that caused that accursed smell was so flammable.”

“Stinkdamp.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s called stinkdamp, it collects in mine tunnels and is explosive to the smallest spark,” Torvola said, “I’ve smelled similar gases in the swamps but never in the same concentrations as they were in the mines.”

Marventas made a troubled noise in the back of his throat, “What could it mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” Torvola said and the two stopped short as they reached a creek.

A creek full of charred corpses.

Some bore wounds obviously made by a blade but most did not. Torvola knelt down to inspect one such corpse and grimaced at its horrific state. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, only that it died with its mouth open as if mid scream. Did Marventas cause this?

‘He didn’t know the gas was flammable.’

She looked around the draw they found themselves in – the gas would have collected here to a lethal degree. If the fire hadn’t killed them, the poisonous effects of the gas most certainly would have.

Marventas looked distraught and queasy, he had one hand clamped over his mouth and nose and the other clutched at his stomach. Tears streaked down his soot covered cheeks and he choked back a hysterical sob as the horrific realization dawned on him.

“Thoran forgive me,” he finally managed to choke out, “What have I done?”

Torvola stood up slowly, “If they were caught in this fire, they were dead long before it happened,” she said quietly. Though even she wasn’t convinced that his actions didn’t result in their deaths … but she needed to keep Marventas from completely breaking down. She still needed him to help her. Marventas shook his head and finally turned away to vomit.

She scanned over the bodies, trying hard to not look at any one for too long. A larger figure lay atop two smaller figures, as if trying to protect them. Clutched in its blackened hand was a charred log.

Torvola returned to a frame of mind she hoped she never would experience again. The world became a distant blur to her as she went through the motions of maneuvering the corpses in the draw into neat rows. She tried to ignore how the charred clothes crumbled away and the skin sloughed off in her hands. Marventas sat heavily on the ground and stared straight ahead and Torvola realized he’d be of no help in his state.

Lord Lanim and the few surviving villagers had found them a short while later. The lord’s elegant robes were tattered and bloodied. While he sported a few cuts on his face and arms, he had no wounds that would account for the amount of blood that had soaked into the fabric. He approached Torvola, “I’m glad to see you survived m’lady.”

“You as well, m’lord,” Torvola said, “We’ve taken heavy losses.”

“I know,” Lanim said. He looked around at the charred bodies that Torvola had already lined up, “… That damage, was it from the explosion?”

“Yes.”

Torvola saw the lord’s mouth set into a thin line, an unreadable expression crossed his features and he took a deep breath. His gaze flickered to Marventas, “Did he…?”

She knew what he wanted to know even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Was Marventas responsible for the deaths? She couldn’t say. She had no way of knowing if they were alive or dead before the explosion happened. She desperately hoped they had already succumbed to the gas or the blades of the monsters that attacked them. Burning to death was a very unpleasant way to die.

“They may have already been gone,” Torvola finally said, “But I don’t think any one will know for sure.”

Lanim nodded slowly and looked like he was about to say something before he shook his head. Instead he knelt down next to one of the corpses Torvola hadn’t moved yet, hesitating but for a moment before putting his hands under the body’s armpits and heaving it up. Torvola grabbed the body’s legs and together they carried it to the row. Torvola didn’t even dare look at the face of the body she held or even speculate on who it could have been. There would be time for grief later. Right now she was needed to help the living.

Minutes later they had finished their task: The bodies in the draw were lined up neatly in a row on the mossy earth. Torvola knew they needed to leave, to search for other survivors, to start the process of recovering from the disaster that had befallen them. Still, it felt wrong to leave the dead where they were, it felt as if they were abandoning them to the wood.

“Where would we take them?” Torvola asked. Her voice sounded flat, emotionless – even to her.

Lanim ran a hand through his long, dark hair. His eyes looked as vacant as she felt, “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right to leave them here.”

“We may have to,” Torvola said.

They left their dead where they lay, piling rocks over their corpses in an attempt to keep the scavengers from getting to them. They’d have to retrieve them later. Torvola and the others resumed their search for survivors but aside from finding a terrified and barely coherent Petan – they found no one else. Most of the corpses they found were either charred or run through. Some of the dead though were discolored, mouths agape as if they had died mid-gasp, and their bloodshot eyes stared vacantly up at the sky. Marventas grew quieter and quieter as the day progressed and Torvola couldn’t blame him.

She knew there wasn’t much she could say to make him feel any better about the situation they found themselves in.

They ascended the hill to where Torvola had camped with the survivors the night before. At the summit lay the dead body of the guard, a few villagers who didn’t make it out in time, and Saxus. Torvola pointedly looked away from the scene and towards the sea and she finally felt something for the first time in hours. A low, smoldering ember of rage deep in the pit of her stomach. She clenched her fists and set her jaw.

She didn’t know why the Elders had emerged from their dark, dreary holes to attack her and her village but she wasn’t going to let that transgression slide. She recognized the landscape around her, knew where her house sat high above the sea and the waves. She picked up her cloak that still lay on the ground by the fire where she had left it for the baker and his wife. She wrapped Saxus’s body in the cloak, working quickly to avoid looking at him for too long. She knew if she looked at him, looked at the wounds that marred his body, she’d never recover. She picked him up and cradled him in both arms like a mother carrying her baby.

Without a word to anyone she marched along the ridge and towards her home.

No one dared stop her.

There was some obvious damage to the walls of her cabin and the roof had collapsed in some spots. The door had popped out of its warped frame but the walls, by some miracle, were technically still standing. She stepped into the room and set Saxus gently down on the floor by the cold hearth.

Torvola’s world finally grew quiet and calm after the chaos she had been through. The silence weighed heavy on her tired mind and she leaned heavily against the wall – ignoring the pain in her burnt back. She slid down to the floor and drew her knees to her chest, staring off at nothing. She half expected Saxus to come to her side, whining and licking to comfort her. She looked up and scanned the room for him before her eyes settled on the form swaddled in her cloak.

Of course.

Tears ran down her cheek and a sob tore through her chest. The feeling of emptiness, of loss, finally took hold. She buried her face in her knees and cried.

_____

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

[lifewiththelulus]

Seeing how the Ashwoods home started to change to accommodate Mimi from food to more plants and floral decor, made her feel both excited and a bit guilty. She didn't want to make them feel like they had to change everything for her.

I see Mimi and Kindlin getting along over sharing silly stories about how it is to live with each other's elements as parents lol

"Mom totally forgot I couldn't have water for the first couple weeks. Kept offering it then apologizing. I know she feels bad about it, but honestly it was just nice to have someone who cared to ask."

Misty tried to put paint on my flowers because "it's watercolor, that's basically good for plants"

Aww imagine Flint and Birch meeting when Mimi and Flint come in for some treats and Kindlin just goes "Hey mom! Can you come help? The register is doing that thing again!" She comes in and while she's fixing it Kindlin introduces them. "This is my friend Mimi, and her Dad." Birch finally glanced up and when she realizes they're also a flame/plant family she can't help but smile.

Of course she dotes on Mimi and compliments her on how beautiful and healthy her flowers look

PFFFF MISTY NO

"so do you have to fireproof everything too?" "Oh big time"

"Oh goodness I remember that first week, I never realized how many things could be so flammable. Let's just say we don't have nearly as many plants in here as we used to. Especially dry ones." She just chuckles "If I had to move every single plant out of her though, I would in a heartbeat."

Flint being the dad guy with a lot of pictures in his wallet. Doesn't take too long for one with Mimi and Hazel at plumes birthday to turn into her at other events to just her, doing anything lol

Birch wishes she had pictures of little Kindlin like that

Of course her wish is fulfilled when Kindlin gets those boxes full of her abandoned stuff back Anala had left a big album of pictures There weren't many of kin after the age of 6 but just having those fills her with so much happiness

Briar took a lot of pictures of Mimi as a baby for social media attention but when that fell off she didn't bother much