#oh thermometer

[aychama]

Was Theo inspired by a follow you had in game?

Yup! He is inspired by my very first husband I had in the hard mode, Thermometer xjfjkflfpprğdk

Because I kept dying over and over to Leshy's first miniboss he dessented and left the cult. Years later (after I got Narinder back) he attacked me in one of my crusades and I was shook xD

While fucking around I realised I could revive him so I did! But he is not happy with my new husband Narinder and Narinder does not like him either jflff

[atalana]

but seriously i do find it so funny that ford was like OH GOD MY PRECIOUS REPUTATION after bill possessed him around other people for all of one night

and then he gets back to this dimension after thirty years and this is now the photo the press associates with his name

[clonerightsagenda]

I know the answer is "magic" but I still wonder how Old Kingdom necromancers and abhorsens don't get tissue damage from all that ice buildup. <- posts I acknowledge Nicholas Sayre would also make

[pixelatedraindrops]

Reeaaaal mature Makoto.

Had to doodle this. I had it in my head since yesterday.

This is in a way kind of a prequel to this picture.

Makoto being super fussy over catching the flu because he cannot do any of his work for his city. Not as long as Yuma's watching over him anyway. He needs to be babysat x'D (literally) He’s very angy about it.

They are so silly… xD

(yuma will eventually get sick too from doing this, but for now he's healthy and helping his stupid and stubborn little workaholic double out.)

Based on this skit from @foxes-in-love

[tadalyme]

whumptober, day 2

There are many things Finnick Odair is good at. He's good at swimming, good at fighting, good at making knots. Good at baking decently tasty bread. He's also very good at pretending.

It's a skill he's honed throughout his whole life, ever since he was a little child. Pretending that he likes his mother's vegetable casserole. Pretending that he's completely fine when his father leads him to Mags’s house, his hand held in a forceful, painful grip, and proclaims in his booming voice that it would be the greatest honour for his son to train for the Games, right, boy? Pretending that he isn't scared to die and to kill.

Pretending that all the things that are done to his body on a regular basis aren't happening to him.

It’s somewhere past three at night and Finnick is sore and extremely dizzy and in the backseat of a car, coming back from his client. He’s in a car, because despite being just a District whore, he's an expensive one. President Snow doesn’t want anyone else to harm his investments. At least, not anyone not paying.

He’s just glad that it was the only appointment for today, because the guy, a flamboyant man in his thirties, a grandson or a nephew or a step-son of one of the influential Gamemakers, wanted to spice things up a bit in his sex life and made him swallow some colourful tablets before the act itself.

Well, it certainly spiced things up for Finnick, though probably not in a way the man intended to. He spent the whole time hearing the colours, and tasting the sounds, and seeing the images from his past and present all mixed up together.

The man was pounding into him and moaning and exclaiming something animated and probably over-the-top sexual in his shrill voice, but all Finnick could think about were the glistening in the sun tridents and spears and knives, and faces of the dead children, and his late father and ill mother and disappointed sister, and, for some reason, the Capitol's latest obnoxious vogue of inserting precious gemstones into their skin.

He desperately wanted to cry, so he laughed frantically, and he wanted to push the man away from him, too overstimulated, so he willed his muscles to relax.

The lights of the never-sleeping party area of Capitol fly by dizzyingly behind the window and Finnick has to lean onto it in an attempt not to puke. It's got a bit better in the past half hour, but the thoughts are still floating around his brain like dozens of little brightly-coloured butterflies. It’s hard to properly grasp any of them in a sticky daze of disorientation, though.

The car stops near the entrance to the Tribute Centre and he staggers out, swaying on his feet and almost ending up on the pavement. His limbs finally rearrange themselves in the correct order after a few moments and he musters a lazy salute with only some of his usual flourish to the back of the driving away car.

Still performing, even now. Gods, what a mess.

He doesn't know how exactly he reaches the elevator, but he does and the numbers swirl a bit in his eyes before settling down properly on the buttons.

He remembers well the first time he was here.

The thing is, he wasn’t even supposed to participate in the Hunger Games that year. That questionable honour was supposed to go to Jacob Maren, not yet eighteen, but the oldest among the trainees.

Instead, Dorothea, their escort, gracefully put her powdered hand with baby-blue nails, that matched her enormous wig, and pulled out his, Finnick's, name. There was a bit of a standstill after that - Jacob locking eyes with him across their separate pens. Should he volunteer, should he not. Finnick was too young yet but still a Career. In the end, Jacob stayed silent.

Just as well, thought Finnick, pushing through the crowds to the stage and already putting on a brilliant wide smile, I've trained for this, I can win, it'll be easy.

He knows now what his dumb, arrogant younger self didn’t understand back then - that even if you manage to become a victor, the only one who ever wins the Games is the Capitol.

Jacob did go the following year and died to a back-stabbing One girl. And Finnick has spent three years cursing that day and all that led to it.

Gods above, it has only been three years, hasn’t it? It feels much longer than that, so far away, so long ago. Almost like ancient history.

He did kind of make history with that one, didn’t he? The youngest Victor ever. A fat lot of good that did for him.

Fourth floor. He practically falls out of the elevator, only managing to catch onto the wall at the last moment.

Mags, curled up on the couch, perks up at the sound of sliding doors. In the dim lighting of the lounge her silver hair looks like a halo above her head. Ironic.

It makes him burst out in a fit of hysterical high-pitched laughter. One would have to completely lose their marbles to call the woman an angel. An angel of death, at best. Some forget it, but she also killed in her Games, the same as all of them. And she's led enough kids to their deaths in the following years. He loves Mags with his whole heart, but she's no saint.

Mags always waits for him on appointment nights. He wishes she didn't see him like this, wishes no-one saw him like this and often snaps at her, but she only tuts in disapproval and keeps doing it. Despite his temper tantrums, he's glad she does.

Mags looks him over and frowns and he's sent down the rabbit hole of memories again.

They approach him the next day after he turns sixteen. The two of them look grim and apologetic and he doesn't know what to make of it.

‘I’m sorry, Finnick, I’m so sorry about what's probably going to happen,’ Mags says and lets out a sigh, sorrowful and tired and world-weary, and he, in a rare moment, is reminded of how old Mags really is, ‘Just… Remember that you can always talk to me, no matter what.' She inclines her head a bit, gesturing at her companion, ‘Or to Delia, if you need someone who truly gets it.'

Delia, who is wringing her hands half a step behind Mags, and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, glances at him and gives him a bleak, perfunctory nod. He doesn’t know why he would need to or want to talk to her, but anyway it’s quite unlikely that he will take her up on this offer.

Finnick knows Delia, of course he does. Delia, a constantly nervous, twitchy Victor in her forties, teaches knife-throwing, and knife-stabbing, and other knife-related skills to the trainees and has never seemed to be a particular fan of long conversations. She's communicated with them mostly with sharp nods and half-aborted, jittery gestures, always looking on edge and shaky.

Her hands have never ever shaken with a blade in them, though.

Then, he gets the summons to the annual post-Victory tour party and President Snow asks to speak with him in his office after. He's told in detail what he's expected to do, now that he's finally sixteen, and what will happen if he doesn't.

Oh.

Oh.

That's what that meant.

His first appointment with a client is the next day and it's the beginning of the end.

His sister screams at him a few months later, when he returns from one of his trips to the Capitol, ‘They don’t care about you, you stupid boy! Why won’t you understand that! Why the Hell do you keep going there?’

But it’s her who doesn’t understand, who could never understand. He can’t tell Carolyn, he can’t, not just because he doesn’t want her to know what he does, but because he’s not allowed to.

President Snow was quite straightforward about what would happen to his ill mother and his sister with her husband and their baby twins, if he were to tell anyone, even them, anything. So he keeps quiet and let them think the worst of him. The same thing that everyone else does.

(Other than his fellow victors, who are all aware of the work he and the ones like him are made to do, the only person who doesn’t look at him with badly concealed disgust, or jealousy, or fake friendliness, or lust in Four is Annie Cresta. Her eyes (also sea-green, though a few tones lighter than his own) only ever look at him with sympathy and pity these days. He would have absolutely hated being looked at like that not long ago, but now it’s just so goddamn refreshing. He used to find her annoying with her righteousness and softness when they trained to be careers together, thought her weak and kind of cowardly, but maybe there is actually nothing wrong with gentleness and timidity, he ponders.

Of course, it’s hopeless, getting used to even such a small thing. Annie Cresta is a Career. She will go into the Games soon. In a couple of years she will likely be dead.)

Mags approaches him slowly, telegraphing all her movements clearly, trying not to spook him. He must look bad, because she checks his temperature with a hand on his forehead. From her pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows he gathers that it’s not very good.

'What, doctor, am i dying yet?' he ironizes.

'Well, you certainly don't look too lively, boy,' she snaps back,'Sit down, I'll be right back.'

She lets him settle on the couch and leaves to fetch her first-aid kit. They’re not allowed to bring any pills to the Tribute centre, so as to not let tributes get anywhere near them, but she has some other basic supplies. Luckily, today they are no flesh wounds to patch up.

She comes back with a thermometer in her hand. And that’s what sends him over the edge and into hysterical tears, the goddamn thermometer. It’s an old-fashioned but trusty mercury thermometer, very common back in Four, but considered obsolete by Capitol standards.

Finnick, having been many times in the local medical over the past year and a half to get patched up after rough encounters with clients, is intimately familiar by now with Capitol’s high-tech, reliably produced in Three.

She waits a bit before his sobs and shaking subside, finally takes his temperature and asks,'You're burning up. What on earth happened to you?'

'He gave me something, I don't know what,' Finnick replies reluctantly and watches her face twist and her arms cross on her chest. She's staring at him pointedly.

'Do we really have to?' he groans,'I'm almost fine by now. You're only wobbling a bit in my eyes.'

'Come on, up you go,' she pulls him up, surprisingly strong for a seventy-year-old, and leads him to his room, to the bathroom. She walks out again and returns with a glass and a closed water bottle.

She fills the glass with tap water and makes him drink it again and again and then throw up, repeating and repeating it until there's nothing left in his stomach at all.

Then she hands him the water bottle, lightly shoves him in the direction of the needlessly overcomplicated shower and exits.

When he finally emerges into his room he's almost feeling like himself again. Mags is still there, leaning on the frame of his bed. He finds some clothes to sleep in and drops next to her. She hums softly and smooths his hair out, running her fingers through his wet curly locks.

She's been much gentler with him since his Games, but she's taken a fancy to him a long time ago.

He was a bit of a troublemaker as a child, like little boys so often are, always sneaking away to the creek to play on the wet rocky shores, or trying to catch fry with his bare hands, or diving from the pier to see how long he could hold his breath, generally making his mother exasperated. He showed up at home in the late afternoon tired but joyful after a day of exploring with a wide toothless grin, seaweed in his hair and damp dirty patches on his knees.

His father didn’t like that much. So at a ripe old age of seven he’s dumped on Mags’s doorstep, who looks at his father weirdly over Finnick’s head and then takes a look at him, slowly lowers down to his eye-level and grasps his tiny hand with her veiny, old-woman one.

‘Well, well, well, what are we going to do with you, little one?’

She's never been cruel to any of the trainees, definitely not, but she wasn't particularly warm-hearted either. She was kind, but also stern and strict, like a proper trainer. He knows that it's because, despite all the preparations, most of them would die in their Games. She didn't really believe that he would win his Games either.

But he survived and she became more willing to show her affection for him after that. And to him, she, the person who practically raised him, instead of his distant mother and constantly angry father, has always felt the most like a real family, even when she acted all grumpy.

He drifts to sleep, relaxing under the silent watch of the only person in the world he fully trusts.

[lowpawly]

hey this is kind of silly but im sick with something and I gotta buy a few things like medicine and a different thermometer because mine is BUSTED but im unfortunately a bit low on cash so i wanted to say if you send me a few bucks or whatever on my ko-fi I'll doodle you whatever steven universe character you want in my sketchbook. I don't have a minimum amount or anything im just appreciative of anything that people are willing to throw at me. no pressure ill be alright either way it would just help me get some basic provisions 👍

[natjennie]

someone get me out of hereeeee

[nocturne-of-illusions]

reading m.isericorde vol2 while fighting off a fever is. an Interesting endeavor. 🥴

[tj-crochets]

No crafting updates today because it was over 70 degrees out and I temporarily forgot air conditioning A. exists and B. needs to be turned on because C. my brain stops working well when it gets too hot* *I have some dysautonomia issues that make me like one of those plants they recommend to people who have never had houseplants that wilts dramatically when it needs water

[runawaycarouselhorse]

[honorary-fool]

Mortal Treatment || Whumptober 2023 Day 2

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

-----

cw/tw: swearing, mention of emeto/vomit (nothing happens though), mentions of a previous character's death, blood mentions (not real),

misc notes: oc x canon, oc uses they/them & vae/vaer neopronouns, first attempt at trying to write actual delirium but I think it turned out okay ^^ ; also used a prompt by @whumpster-dumpster ; not beta read ; cross-posted on ao3 under mimikyu_nerd_69

word count: 2.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          Archons don’t get sick. They can't catch the flu, and are immune to stomach bugs. Common colds may as well tremble in their presence. Mortal medicine has little to no effect on their divine selves, as do the illnesses they contract and spread every once in a blue moon. Allergies are a different case, as they are not sickness, rather just reactions to things of the mortal world- Barbatos would know first hand. But a genuine illness afflicted upon one of The Seven? That would simply be unheard of!

          But most of the archons still have their gnosis in their possession, and without the chess-like pieces they are much weaker, both in terms of their power and general vulnerability. No one had thought to inform the anemo archon of this information, especially after his gnosis was taken rather painfully by The Fair Lady.

          At first Venti thought of the symptoms as merely his feline allergy rearing its head again. After all, he had been in the city earlier in the day- stray cats roaming the streets were a common sight in Mondstadt (and they seemed to really like him, furry bastards). 

          Surely that would explain the fatigue and the headache and blurry vision and puffy eyes and a particularly persistent case of the sniffles.. right?

          Venti made it to the Whispering Woods without blacking out or injury. With a less-than-graceful 'oomph', he dropped to the grass, and his lyre tumbled to the grass beside him with a low thump. He attempted to sit up and lean against the tree close by, but a lack of energy and faint body aches made it rather difficult. Okay, that's fine, it could be worse- he could've been in the middle of nowhere in Liyue with Geovishaps after him in such a state. 

          The bard closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself before he attempted again to sit up. This time it was a lot more successful, but still left him achy and fatigued. He leaned back against the rough bark, closing his eyes again to try and drown out the pounding headache at the back of his skull. It felt like someone was whacking him over the head with a flat end of a claymore. At least it was dark outside, so the sun wouldn't bother him like it did earlier in the day.

          There were no monsters in sight, so maybe it wouldn't hurt to doze off for a bit...

~=+=~

          Venti wasn't sure when he came to consciousness again, but he definitely knew the surroundings looked vastly different from before.

          He attempted to bolt, fearing he'd been kidnapped, only to fall off of something..fuzzy? and tumble face-first onto the floor. Everything felt like it was spinning, so it was hard to tell where exactly he was, which only added to how horrible he physically felt.

          Chills seeped into his bones, sending shivers down his spine and a cold sweat down his neck. Lights burned overhead, leaving him slightly overwhelmed by the heat and brightness. The headache remained, and as far as he could tell, it either stayed the same or worsened since he blacked out. Everything hurt all over, both from the fall and pre-existing body aches, and his limbs felt like jelly beneath him. He groaned, trying to hide from the light and in his arm instead.

"Taking that as the cue you've finally woken up.." Venti heard a familiar voice call, followed by footsteps.

          A head of teal hair poked their head into the room, immediately finding him on the floor with a sad smile. Of course his partner found him. At least it was someone he trusted to not have ill intent.

"Oh, you poor dear... you're in a worse state than I found you last night," Carmen cooed, approaching before kneeling on the floor next to Venti. "I'm glad I found you when I did... are you okay?"

"Mmh..."

          Seems he had little energy to speak as well. Lovely.

"Shit..," Carmen murmured as they reached forward, cupping his cheek in their hand as they slightly lifted his head up. "That's strange, your braids seem a little duller than usual... Hold still for me for a moment, I need to test somethin'.."

          Vae leaned to press a gentle kiss to the other's forehead, pulling away after a few seconds. Their expression, initially one of mild worry, shifted to one of concern, almost fear.

"You're burning up, lovebug... I thought it was a hangover, but you didn’t smell like wine, an’ I fear this might be worse," they attempted to joke, despite the worry lacing vaer tone. "Hopefully it’s nothing more than just a bad cold. I'm gonna try to get you back on my bed, okay?"

          Now that they said it, that does sound right..part of him wondered why vae didn’t bring him to his own room, but maybe they panicked..rightfully so, but still.

          Venti gave a weak nod, before returning his head to the cold floor beneath him. He lazily watched them as they stared with narrowed eyes for a few moments in silent contemplation. Carmen had carried him around multiple times, too many to count, but he's always been upright or standing prior to.. not exactly ill and flat on his stomach on the floor.

          After minutes of struggling through various attempts, Carmen finally had him sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against their body for support. Once up there, they started to remove most of his layers in an attempt to cool him down a little bit. One hand gingerly undid the bow securing his cape while the other reached to grab the fallen beret off the floor. He managed to kick off his loafers himself, and vae moved behind him to loosen the laces on his corset. They even undid his braids, setting the hair elastics on the bedside table and carding their fingers through the sections to loosen the braids. Every garment removed was carefully set aside to fold up later, and by the time they finished, all he was left in was his shirt, shorts, and tights. 

          Afterwards, they gently pushed him to lay down, almost pulling the blanket over him before deciding against it.

“Is this helping? Do you feel a bit cooler yet?”

          Venti whined in response, curling up on his side.

          They sighed, gently placing their hand on his head and scratching at his scalp. A sad smile formed on their lips as they watched him lean into their touch almost instantly, like magnetic attraction.

"If you're gonna be okay being alone for a few minutes, I'm gonna grab a few things from the kitchen, okay?"

          Carmen tried to hide their laugh at the pout their partner had, glazed-over puppy eyes staring at them under dark hair. It’d be cute if he wasn’t sick..

"I'll be quick, I promise.. you don't feel like you're gonna throw up, right?"

          They felt him shake his head from under their palm, vaer hand moving with him.

"Then you'll be okay for five minutes, sweet pea.."

          They leaned over to gently place a kiss on the flushed tip of his nose, removing their hand from his head before leaving for the door.

          Venti watched them leave, staring off into space. Maybe the heat was getting to be too much, but he didn’t have the energy to use his anemo abilities to cool himself off.

          So, he just stared at the dark brown door, which then became staring at the darker brown floor, and then nothing at all as his vision blurred. Why was it so hard to focus, was this normal? It couldn’t be, but why was it so difficult to keep his eyes focused- did it really take that much energy?

          He sniffled quietly, rubbing at his eyes- maybe that would help?

          When he pulled his hand away, he saw a brown and white blur against the wall. 

“Mhh…” he groaned, trying to move himself closer to the edge of the bed to see it. Of course, he could only get so far in his weakened state.

          The blur looked..scarily reminiscent of someone. The colors were in all the right places, it had to be…

          They were dead though. He saw it with his own eyes. Why were they here if they’re dead?? 

          Too absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice them come closer until pale blue eyes were staring right into his. He tensed, startled, before trying to reach out for them. His hand went right through them, and for a moment he felt the color drain from his face.

“Wh..”

          They’re..they’re gone, but they’re here! But they’re gone… But they’re here…

          Venti kept trying to touch them, to grab their hand, feel some sort of warmth and solidity in their form. Pale hand kept swiping at air, cutting through the image of his late best friend.

“No.. no no no no-”

          His hand shook as he kept trying, until it fell limply back to the mattress, until his vision became too blurry to see them completely.

“Don’t go..come back..” he pleaded, sniffling.

          The white and brown figure backed away slowly, out through the open doorway.

“Come back..”

          The god’s eyes burned, and this time he rubbed at them with his sleeve. When he pulled his arm away, he saw red.

“Carmen..? Carmen..!” he choked out, clawing at the sheets, oblivious to how they left no streaks of blood. “Carmen.. ‘m bleeding..”

          Venti saw the figure slowly return, kneeling at his side again.

“Why’s..why’s it back? Carmen..!” 

          He kept crying out for his partner, increasingly overwhelmed from the light, and the blood, and the image of his dead best friend taunting him with its presence, and-

“I’m here, sweetheart..”

          In the white and brown figure’s place was his partner, looking down at him in concern. Carmen gently cupped his cheek with warm, pale hands, wiping away the tears with vaer thumb. If his eyes didn’t deceive him, he could’ve sworn they flinched.

“Shhh, it’s okay..” they cooed, “I’m here, you’re safe…”

“But..but ‘m bleeding-”

“Bleeding?”

          They watched him raise his hand to show him. He didn’t understand why they took his hand in theirs almost instantly and gently squeezed it- why would they immediately touch something bloody?

“There’s no blood, sweet pea, I promise…it’s a bit wet with tears, but that’s about it..” they reassured him, letting go of his hand after a few moments.

“Oh..”

“Is that why you’re crying?”

          He nodded, rubbing at his eyes again. “Mhmm… an… an’ I saw someone..”

“Oh?” Carmen tilted their head slightly. “That’s..a bit worrying. Who exactly did you see..?”

“Mhh…my, my friend..”

          Thankfully, knowing of the archon’s background, it didn’t take long to figure out who he most likely meant, despite a few people fitting the description of just ‘his friend’. If it were one of the others, they’d be mentioned by name, but because this one wasn’t, then that meant…

“I see…”

          It broke their heart to see him so upset, between the illness and likely resurfaced grief. Poor bastard’s had to put up with so much shit- not that they haven’t either, but there’s a difference between being an immortal god that’s been around for centuries and an immortal elf that’s been around for even less time.

          They pulled away for a moment, crawling up onto their bed to sit next to the god. Vae gently turned vaer partner over onto his other side, frowning at how he winced from the movement. Seems those body aches haven’t left…

“I’m sorry it took so long to come back, by the way..I got sidetracked trying to make soup..” They eyed the tray they put on the bedside table, watching the steam rise from the radish and veggie soup bowl. “I did get the thermometer though…let’s see, just ooone second-”

          Carmen reached over the god and plucked the thermometer off the tray. They pressed a button, waited for the beep, then carefully stuck it under his tongue.

“Good..it’s only for a minute, I know it’s uncomfortable..” 

          They held the thermometer with one hand and used the other to play with Venti’s hair in an attempt to distract him from the uncomfortable sensation. Thank goodness Fontaine made these a while ago- they couldn't imagine how people used to figure out temperatures without them.

          Finally, the thermometer beeped, and they removed it to look at the number.

“Shit… 39.4. No wonder you were hallucinating your friend…”

          Carmen sighed, setting the thermometer down before trying to move the god to sit up against the pillows. He let vaer do so, not having the energy to do it himself or protest other than a wince of pain, to which they mumbled an apology. 

          As soon as he was sorted out, they reached for the tray on the bedside table, deciding it best to maybe get some form of sustenance in his system to help combat the illness. There’s not much that can be done, given mortal medicine’s a hit or miss, but that has to work, right?

          Vae was about to lift a spoonful to his mouth, when they realized he was nodding off against their shoulder. Into the bowl goes the spoon, their hand reaching up to play with his hair instead. Later then, they decided, ‘cus for now he needs all the rest he can get.

[lipstickontheglass1985]

quiz for this morning: am i running a fever or did i just run the heat too high over the night? lets discuss!

[darksouls2yuri]

for like 80% of this july+august the temps outside were 100-110F but the news kept reporting we were in the 80s so i think we need to kill weathermen

[noxexistant]

AHHHHHH same. As a Europe person you're probably gonna think this is crazy but I've drove almost 4 hours each way to a concert before.

Ahhhh and you shall be super useful Also taking care of pooch and giving us your presence and joy! :D

Sure!!! WASHINGTON STATE HERE WE COME LONG LIVE TWILIGHT VAMPIRES!

every time i go to newsies it’s about 2+ hours each way :’) four hours is still a little beyond my comprehension (because that would take me into the ocean in almost any direction except upwards) but frankly i would do it too to see something i love

i am VERY good at presence-giving. in fact so good that people frequently forget i am in a room. you will all be vibing and i’ll pipe up like “ooh can we stop at that tourist trap??” immediately after waking up from my fourth nap and you’ll all scream because you forgot i was here

[hoodiedeer]

its such a bizarre quirk of the human body ive discovered that when my room goes from 72-73 degrees down to 69-70 im like shivering and lethargic and freezing to death but at 67 degrees its normal again

[themoonking]

there is no such thing as a “low maintenance pet”, only different maintenance.

dogs, cats, fish, reptiles, birds, small mammals, et cetera all have different needs, and your individual lifestyle may be better suited to meeting the needs of one more than another. you may be able to properly care for a cat but not a fish, or a fish but not a rabbit, or a rabbit but not a bird, and so on, but that doesn’t make any pet “easier” to care for than another. it doesn’t make any pet need less care and attention than another.

promoting any pet as “low maintenance” leads to neglect at best and abuse at worst.