#Will Candle Wax Melt Plastic

[earthgift]

Give In To The Aroma Of Scented Candles

Summary: One of the best ways to ensure that your home smells fresh at all times of the day is by opting for scented candles. These flambeaus can be referred to as designer candles that have an intrinsic smell that spreads across the room the moment they are lighted.

You can take your pick from a diverse collection of scented candles. They come in different shapes, sizes and even smells. Popular ones are lavender, honeysuckle, jasmine flower tea, tangerine and so on. Once you light them on, you will get lost in the sweet aroma of the candles. This feels great when you return from office all stressed and fatigued. The smell helps you to relax and soothes your nerves.

[merrymorningofmay]

just saw your miniature house and it's gorgeous !!! did you use clay to make the interior stuff?

ahhh thank you so much!! :")

nope, no clay except the cat creature in the window! it's mostly coffee mixers+toothpicks, some beads and such

[pinknatural]

After googling “what to take to a stranger’s birthday party” and reading the top five articles thoroughly, the first two more than once, Castiel has determined that he should either bring candles, wine, or baked goods. 

A candle seems like a good, safe option, but the Walmart candle aisle is overwhelming. How is he supposed to know if Anna’s-friend-Dean likes oaky, woodsy smells versus lavender-linen smells? Castiel likes the one that smells like a waxy apple pie, but who’s to say that opinion is shared? What if he prefers pine, or something called Deep Twilight Mist? Castiel removes the lid for Deep Twilight Mist and smells the cream-colored wax curiously. It smells like the perfume Hael used to spray everywhere when she was eleven. He puts it back on the shelf. 

There’s a candle that smells like cupcakes. It is a birthday party, so perhaps he would like that. Castiel puts it in the blue plastic basket dangling from his arm, then puts it back on the shelf, tilting it so the label is facing perfectly outward. Maybe Anna’s-friend-Dean doesn’t like candles at all. 

Wine. Everyone likes wine. Well, unless Anna’s-friend-Dean is one of those guys who thinks wine is too feminine. Or if he doesn’t drink at all. Or if he drinks too much. Or, perhaps even worse, if he’s some kind of wine connoisseur and will mock Castiel for buying reasonably-priced wine from Walmart and then blacklist Castiel so thoroughly that he will never find a friend in this town. 

Wine and candles are too complex. But everyone likes baked goods. 

Castiel is stopped in the middle of the road, turn signal blinking to indicate that he would like to turn left into his apartment complex, when he realizes that Anna’s-friend-Dean could be diabetic. But the party is at a restaurant that specializes in hamburgers, so probably not. Hopefully not. All Castiel has to do is successfully implement chocolate chip cookies and then melt into the walls at the party. Be pleasant enough company that next time someone has a large event they allow Anna to invite him again. Go to enough social functions that he can claim to have friends and get Anna off his back. Live quietly, working at the Gas-N-Sip and writing papers about the science of Theology and perhaps even going to the library and reading secular fiction.

Castiel has no expectations of finding actual friendship at Anna’s-friend-Dean’s birthday party. Or ever, really. If he ever gets lonely, he can get a cat.

Anna thinks that Castiel and Dean will get along very well. Castiel thinks that living outside of their mother’s influence has made Anna believe in fairytales. Anna has known Castiel his entire life. She knows full well that he has never gotten along very well with anyone. 

Castiel cracks an egg over the batter. Maybe this whole baking thing will impress Anna so much that she’ll stop bothering him about making friends. 

Who knows, maybe these cookies will unlock something else to add to Castiel’s quiet life. He quite likes the idea of baking.

--

The firefighter is very beautiful. Maybe even the most beautiful person Castiel has ever seen, besides models on the sides of buildings who look so perfect they’re fake.

“You the guy who started the fire?” the beautiful firefighter asks. He puts his hands in his pockets. Castiel’s cheeks burn. Not from any fire. 

“They were just burnt cookies,” he says. “I didn’t know they would set off the smoke alarm.” In the entire building. The other firefighters are by the doors, writing things down, talking to other residents of Castiel’s building. How come the beautiful firefighter was the one who had to talk to Castiel? He sneaks a peek at the man’s arms, but they’re sadly covered by his coat. 

“You burned the cookies on purpose, then?” the firefighter raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Castiel says. The firefighter has green eyes and freckles splashed across his nose. Castiel wants him to take off his helmet so he can see what his hair looks like. 

“Right,” the firefighter says. 

“Am I in trouble?” Castiel asks. 

“No,” the firefighter says. He winks. Castiel feels his heart literally skip a beat. “Not a crime to burn cookies. Losing out on the cookies is punishment enough.”

“They weren’t for me,” Castiel says. “They were for a birthday party. Tonight.” For some reason, he wants the firefighter to know that he has a social life. Never mind if the social life was enforced upon him by his older sister.

“A birthday party? Today? Who’s hosting? I gotta fight for my honor.”

Castiel is baffled. What honor? What fight?

“What?”

“Everyone will come,” the firefighter says. He makes a pose, as if he’s flexing. “To see me and this other guy fight to see who’s the Supreme Birthday Boy.” He stretches one arm out, pointing it to the sky, then he opens his fist. “Pow! It’ll be me, of course.” He turns to look back at Castiel. His mouth is very pink. Castiel wishes he understood what words were coming out of it. 

“It’s my birthday, too,” the firefighter says after a moment, when Castiel doesn’t react.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I dunno. Trying to be funny, I guess.”

“Oh,” Castiel says again. Behind the firefighter, he sees that the other residents of his apartment building are filing back inside. For some reason, despite the January chill, Castiel doesn’t want to go back in. Not yet. 

“You know, usually this is the part where people say happy birthday,” the firefighter says. 

“Happy birthday,” Castiel repeats. 

“Thanks!” the firefighter beams. “So do you think I should crash your friend’s party tonight?”

“No,” Castiel says, alarmed at the thought. A firefighter, and probably a bunch of other firefighters, crashing Castiel’s opportunity to stand beside the wall, holding a cup of sprite? When Castiel shows up with store-bought baked goods? And this beautiful firefighter will point right at him and say that Castiel invited them and then Anna’s-friend-Dean will hate him forever, and probably Anna will too? “Also, he’s not my friend.”

“He’s not? Then why are you going to his party?”

“He’s my sister’s friend,” Castiel explains. “I’ve never met him. She thinks I need to leave the house more.” Too late, Castiel remembers that he was supposed to pretend he had a flourishing social life. Oops. 

“Wait,�� the firefighter says. His eyes sparkle. “Are you Anna’s brother? Cas-something?”

“Castiel,” he says, with the patience of someone who has had to explain his name a million times. He narrows his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Dude,” the firefighter says, laughing. “I’m Dean.”

Anna’s-friend-Dean is a beautiful firefighter, with green eyes and freckles? Anna’s-friend-Dean is the Supreme Birthday Boy? Anna’s-friend-Dean probably has very muscular arms, under his uniform?

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” the firefighter says. 

“Winchester! Wrap it up!” one of the firemen calls from the truck. Castiel realizes that all the firefighters are about to leave, and everyone from his building is already back inside. When did that happen?

“Be there in a minute!” Dean hollers over his shoulder. When he looks back at Castiel, he grins almost shyly. “You were gonna make me cookies?”

“Yes, I--I thought it would be an appropriate thing to bring.” Castiel wonders again if Dean could be diabetic. Or perhaps allergic to something in chocolate chip cookies. Are chocolate chips made in a peanut-free facility? Maybe Castiel should’ve bought wine, after all.

“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was dead-fuckin’-on. But, uh.”

“But?” Castiel is sure, suddenly, that Dean is about to reject him and tell him not to come to his birthday party after all. Which would be a shame, because all of a sudden Castiel wanted to go.

“My favorite dessert is pie,” Dean says like a confession. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening. Maybe he can swing by the bakery--maybe he can look up a bakery, and then swing by it--on the way to the party. Assuming he’s still going. 

“And, uh, not to toot my own horn, but I make a pretty mean one. I actually made myself a birthday pie, and I was gonna eat it alone, but maybe…I mean…”

“Yes?” Castiel asks. Dean is slightly taller than him, so he tilts his head back to meet his eyes. Dean swallows. Castiel watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Well, I could swing by after my shift is done,” Dean says. “Bring it with me. We could share. Before we go to the Roadhouse, I mean. If you want.”

“I want,” Castiel says before he can think about it. He snaps his mouth shut. Dean brightens. 

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be back. After my shift.”

“When does it end?” Castiel asks. Dean looks at his watch. He grins at Castiel, tongue poking between his teeth.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. 

“Okay,” Castiel says. “I will you soon, then.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Gimme about an hour, okay? And then we’ll have pie.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says. Dean turns to head back to the firetruck. “What kind of pie?” Cas calls after him. Dean turns. 

“Apple!” he calls. Castiel stands outside, in the January chill without his coat, for a long while after the truck leaves. What a strange man, making his own birthday pie. What a lovely man, sharing it with a stranger. Supreme Birthday Boy, indeed.

--

When Dean returns, in a soft flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing his magnificent forearms, his hair a spiky mess that Castiel wants to run his fingers through, he has, as promised, an apple pie. And Castiel has a present for him. 

When Dean opens it, he laughs until he almost cries. He lights it right away, and the lingering aroma of burnt chocolate chip cookies is chased away by the apple pie candle from Walmart, a bright, steady little flame flickering between them.

(ao3)

[earthtooz]

x : BIRTHDAY WISHES ! :*+ﾟ

in which: you get your own surprise on todoroki shouto's birthday.

warnings: FLUFF! 1.8k words or so of it, reader gives deku the middle finger for funsies, BAD WRITING like when I SAY BAD I MEAN C-TIER AT BEST, shouto deserves better but i wanted to get this out in time for his birthday :(, kissing (oh my god... so scandalous), food cw

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO TODOROKI WHO WILL ALWAYS BE #1 IN MY HEART. that's all i have to say, try to enjoy!

you're the first person to wish todoroki shouto happy birthday.

in fact, you've even taken the responsibility of driving to todoroki's residence, ringing his doorbell at exactly 11:55 pm, and greeting him with a sheepish grin when threw open the door a little too excitedly.

"hi," you whisper, holding three bags in two hands; one of them much smaller. it's thanks to the packaging that todoroki realises that it is cake, and the bakery-provided candles beside it are a given.

"hello," he greets back, stepping aside so he could let you into his toasty apartment (well- penthouse, really). "what brings you here?"

"you complaining?"

"not at all," the dual-quirk hero steps towards you to help rid you of your layers. he hangs your scarf and coat on the hanger by the entrance. "i'm just curious why you would sacrifice some much-needed rest for me."

"don't be ridiculous, shouto. it's what friends do."

friends. todoroki doesn't like the way that word sounds on your lips, especially when it's addressed to him.

before he can voice any of the distasteful feelings brewing within, you rush into his kitchen, exclaiming something along the lines of 'i'm almost out of time!' before leaving todoroki to dawdle after you. he does nothing but watch as you take the cake out of its box and stick a few candles in, lighting them with matches you brought yourself despite there being a six foot something tall matchstick right beside you.

your appearance is sudden, but not unwelcome. he likes how at home you seem, how normal it feels to have you beside him to celebrate another milestone of his life.

when you check your phone for the time, you exclaim a little in delight, noting that the time now read: 12:00, january 11.

"happy birthday, shouto!" you exclaim, clapping quietly out of excitement whilst todoroki looks at you with an affectionate smile. one that makes you melt a little, and you fear you'll soon be no better than the candles dripping their wax onto the icing of the cake.

"not gonna sing happy birthday for me?" he asks cheekily.

you scoff, a little embarrassed to sing in front of him alone. if it's anything that will deter todoroki, it'll be your singing. "ask one more time and i'll pack up and leave."

his low chuckle reverberates. "i wouldn't want you doing that." todoroki clasps his hands together, closing his eyes before blowing out the candles in one, swift breath.

"thank you, y/n," he says, sincerity lacing his tone. "it means a lot that you'd go out of your way to do this for me."

"of course," you say, handing him a classic, bakery-issued plastic knife. "anything to make your birthday memorable, shouto."

your sentence means a lot more to him than you'd think.

sharing cake with todoroki shouto at 12:04 am when you both had patrol in eight or so hours was not a point in life you'd ever anticipate being at. as you talk, you try your best to burn this moment into your memory, unsure of when you'd ever be this vulnerable with him again.

todoroki, on the other, non-existentialist hand, was comparing the sweetness of your laughter to the icing of the cake. a sound worthy of giving him another sugar rush, he concludes.

"i did beat everyone to wishing you a happy birthday, right?"

he hums in contemplation at your question, "most likely. let me check my messages."

as your dual-quirked friend fishes for his phone from his pocket, you try not to ogle at his beauty. it's unfair how good he looks, even under the harsh lighting of his kitchen, dressed in his silk pajamas that look irresistibly comfortable. from custom-installed tatami mats flooring every inch of his home to silk sleepwear, todoroki really adores snug things.

"fuyumi, natsuo, and midoriya all wished me happy birthday. midoriya texted at 12 exactly so i'm not too sure who won between you two," he informs you.

"midoriya, hm?" you mutter. "can i text him from your phone?"

"sure."

when he hands over his unlocked phone, you immediately click on the camera button, angling the device so it would be a selfie of you and todoroki. except you direct an unceremonious middle finger to the green-haired hero, sending the photo with the message 'beat you to it'.

"that was rude," todoroki teases, the small smile on his face telling you that he didn't mean any malice behind it. you give him back his phone, a small smirk on his face.

"he'll live," you joke. seriously, you've known midoriya way too long now to get petty over a middle finger. "i got you some presents."

"can i open them now?"

"yeah of course!" reaching for the bags at your feet, you present your first one to him which was, mostly, a gag gift that you couldn't resist buying when you saw it. some part of you genuinely hopes that he'll appreciate it though.

when peeking into the paper bag, todoroki's eyebrows crease in confusion, and it wasn't until he fished it out that his confusion turned into delight.

"where did you get this?" he asks, inspecting it as he holds in up in his arms.

"a local hero merch store!" you begin, unable to contain your giggles. "did you know that a recent toy campaign turned some of you guys into cats? it was so weird- i thought it was a little odd at least, but yours is adorable!"

seeing todoroki, the mystical, dreamy, and devastatingly handsome public figure of the century, hug the plush so innocently in his arms was giving you a rush of serotonin. the resemblance was uncanny too, the cat had a white base with a fair amount of red spots dotting it; kind of like a calico design but only with one colour. the best part was that the cat was seated in a perfect loaf position and if that wasn't todoroki shouto as a cat, you'd be lying to yourself.

unable to resist taking a picture, you're almost tempted to save it as a home screen because of how pure and wholesome he was.

just wait til 'people' magazine sees this photo of their undefeated 'sexiest man alive' recipient.

"isn't it cute?" you questioned, "i was almost tempted to buy one for myself."

"this is really fun to hug." for good measure, he squeezes it in his vice grip twice, grinning whilst doing so. you pretend to ignore the way his biceps flex, stretching his silk sleepwear.

"you should have seen bakugou and midoriya's. bakugou's was so funny, the manufacturer really captured his energy. midoriya's was also really cute- all three were just straight up adorable."

"was mine better than theirs?"

"of course, shouto. anyways, i just thought it'd be funny to give you, if you don't like it then-"

"-i do like it. you gave it to me."

this man is bad for your health. you had to pinch yourself to not scream from how charming he was. one sentence and you're practically gone- it's pathetic.

"okay!" you exclaim, trying to wave away how flustered your face felt from that one comment. "second and last gift!"

placing the cat plushie on the counter, todoroki accepts the gift bag you shove in his direction rather readily, furrowing his eyebrows once again as he goes to pull out the contents. does he know about his 'eyebrow' habit?

"you haven't decorated your place much since you moved in so," you begin justifying, feeling impatient, "i wanted to take the liberty of giving you a few things to decorate your home with."

four photo frames appear in his hands and he takes the time to study all of them carefully. they were all filled with photos of him with friends which you got printed.

you stand rooted to your spot with anxiety bubbling in your stomach at how he'll receive your idea. you hope he liked it - todoroki has never been one for sentimental or daring gifts so you hoped this one wasn't too out of the box.

at his silence, you begin to grow more apprehensive, walking over so you could look at the photos too. "there's more photos in the bag if you don't like the ones i chose-"

"-i love them. you're really thoughtful, y/n."

"am i?" you blabber.

"yeah. these are nice memories. this one of iida, midoriya and i at graduation is making me nostalgic," he mumbles, "but my favourite has to be this one."

todoroki shows you the picture in question and your heart stops beating for a moment. it's one of you and him together from when you went to go see the cherry blossoms bloom. uraraka took the photo if you remember correctly. it's one of your most loved photos.

"i really like this one of us," he comments, reading your thoughts. "i'm glad that i can have this in my house now. these frames are all nice additions, i didn't think i needed them. thank you, y/n, really."

he looks up at you with such fondness it almost has you throwing up, your heart ready to leap out of your chest and land straight in todoroki's hands to begin serenading him. you do, after all, owe singing him the 'happy birthday' song.

then, he unexpectedly stands up, somehow manoeuvring you so that your back was now pressed against the countertop with him hovering in front of you. your escape (not that you needed it) was now blocked by his overwhelming figure.

should you be terrified? because you are. delightfully so.

"there's one more gift i'd like to ask of you," begins todoroki shyly, leaning his hands on either side of you. "if you wouldn't mind."

you were going to explode. combust. erupt. literally detonate and paint his walls with a silly shade of love.

"a little selfish tonight, are we?" you tease, trying your best to keep your cool and- if he kept leaning in closer you were actually going to freak out so if he knew what's best for him he'd-

"can you blame me? it is my birthday after all."

"what do you need?"

the way his eyes glance down to your lips provides an immediate answer. you know he hears your breath hitch because this jester has the nerve to smirk despite the anticipation weighing down the atmosphere.

todoroki's face is millimetres away from yours when he suddenly pauses, his warm hand going to grab your face as he whispers an 'is this okay?' and your only sane response is to kiss him silly.

it's a gentle meeting of souls. not hurried or rushed, simply two humans trying to explore the other in ways deeper than anything physical. with the way todoroki's other hand roam from your waist to your hip, you can tell he is analysing how to support and hold you in the most gentle way possible, studying you like no other can.

with the same passion, your arms wrap around his neck, hand gently tugging at the hairs on the back of his head. the sensation makes him smile. his smile feels unreal against you and you suppose that this a luxury many won't get in their lifetime, not even you can recall how you got here. you just hope he understands how much adoration you have for him.

you want to uncover and understand more of the enigma that is todoroki shouto, but, as you separate from his embrace with the desire for air, you realise that you now have all the time in the world.

"you shouldn't be going home at this hour. it's dangerous," todoroki comments, briefly breaking the dreamy state of your mind.

you chuckle quietly. "i'm a full-fledged hero, shouto. danger should be scared of me," you boast, slightly unsure of how credible your statement is, but your confidence makes the dual-quirked hero smile.

"that's true, but still. won't you stay with me?"

after a faux moment of deliberation, you give in to his pleas with a nod, causing him to smile gently as he begins to lean in again.

before your lips could meet again, todoroki whispers something against them.

"birthday wishes do come true."

[buggywiththefolkmagic]

Only YOU Can Prevent Witchy Fires

Hello witches, workers, and all in between! Your friendly neighborhood Granny is here to teach you a few things about fire safety!

Yes, yes, I know. “But Buggy, this is tumblr! And you're on a boring witchcraft blog! What do we need a lesson on fire safety for? We aren’t in kindergarten!” But trust me! More than one witch has accidentally singed their hair or set their own altar on fire before! Sometimes we get so into the spiritual that we forget to be mindful of the reality around us.

I’m going to go over a bundle of good tips to keep in mind for making a wax seal over that spell jar or burning a few bay leaves or ingredients to release that nonsense into the air! Even a section for the kitchen witches!

Indoor Safety:

*Those annoying fire alarms? Make sure they are operational okay? Change those batteries at least once a year, preferably twice. (If it is something you are in control of.)

*Always use a fire-safe candle holder for candles! Trim down that wick before lighting! I know it seems silly to use a pair of scissors or a wick trimmer, but trimming down that wick will always make that flame much easier to manage. And that flame? If it gets big enough to cause black smoke ALWAYS put it out.

*Always keep the candle in your line of sight, no meditation with an open flame going okay? Also if your candle is big enough to burn for more than four hours...put it out at the 4 hour mark.

*The longer a candle burns the more carbon gathers on the wick itself and that can make the flame get bigger and more unstable. Those ultra-wobbly flames that flicker and waves like one of those wacky inflatable arm flailing tube men? That is something you don’t want.

*Putting out a candle: We don’t recommend putting it out with your fingers no matter how cool it looks. Use a candle snuffer, or blow it out. I promise blowing out a deity candle won’t insult them!

*Another crucial tip is to keep anything that could catch fire a minimum of three feet or 91 centimeters AWAY from the fire source. That includes carpeted flooring, cloth, hair, rugs, altar cloths, papers, books, all sorts of things! Always wear your hair back when working with fire, and wear close fitting clothing that won’t hang or drape into the fire with your movements.

*Another tip given straight from the NSC is to NEVER use candles or other fire sources while tired or inebriated! That means no 2 am spell jars if you are half asleep! ALSO never EVER leave a candle WARM or actively BURNING! Same goes for any items you are burning down like bay leaves. Burn them in a fire safe bowl that is much bigger than you think you need. Toss the debris around and soak in water to ensure they are safely doused.

*IF you are using wax to seal off spell jars I highly suggest getting a wax sealing kit! Wax sealing kits come with a little spoon that you drop bits of wax into and ‘melt’ them down over something like a tea candle. An example is this: Which you can find on Amazon for roughly $10 USD!

The spoon is perfect for pouring and there’s less likelihood of the candle you would sit on top of the jar from falling off because...there is no candle! If you only have a candle to work with...please don’t burn the candle on top of the object you are sealing, put the candle in a safe holder and hold it over the object once warm to let the wax drip down. Have the object you are sealing sitting on top of a safe ceramic plate or bowl in case of drippage!

But what do I do if a fire starts?

Good question! That depends on the type of fire it is! Here’s a breakdown of the types and methods to put them out: Ordinary Fire: An ordinary fire is caused by candles, papers, cloth, plastics, that sort of thing!

The good news is these types of fires respond amazingly well to plain old water! It’s always advised that you keep a bucket or pitcher full of water within reach whenever using candles just in case!

Electric Fire: Electric fires are caused by a source of electricity, like wires getting crossed and arching.

NEVER use water on an electrical fire! If you do, you'll just electrocute yourself. If it’s safe to do so...unplug the object from the outlet. Turn off the electricity in your house’s electric breaker box. Smother the flames by pouring baking soda onto them.

Chemical Fire: Chemical fires have a chemical as a fuel source, like rubbing alcohol, nail polish & polish remover. Even your nails near a candle can produce a small chemical fire if you aren’t careful! (Dry those nails up good before using candles.) These fires can only be put out with a fire blanket OR pouring a LARGE quantity of baking soda or sand onto the fire.

Cooking Fires: Cooking fires are the most common form of household fire. It can be caused by grease, burning food, or burning cooking oil. Water will NOT work on any fire oil or grease based, it may seem like a first instinct to grab the pan and toss it into a sink with water...DON’T.

That will cause the oil to splatter and can injure you and make any flames spread further! It the fire is small enough and contained within a pot or skillet, have a lid or baking sheet handy and throw that onto the top of the fire, this will smother it out. A fire blanket can also be used for this. Do NOT swat at the flames, this is just a fanning motion and will give the fire more oxygen to grow with! Pour a large amount of salt or baking soda on top of the fire. MAKE SURE it is not flour, as flour will cause the fire to grow quick enough to even explode! Turn off any heat source.

And if the fire is in the oven or microwave? Leave that door CLOSED. It seems super scary but the fire will smother itself out when trapped in a small box. (Of which both cooking items are.)

Outdoor Safety:

Never burn outdoors if it is windy or extra dry! Do not burn general trash, only burn natural dry vegetation/herbs. Always check your local ordinances and make sure there are no burn bans in your area currently active!

If you are going to burn outside, clear away a circular space for the burning items. Far enough away from overgrowth, houses, powerlines, and other such things. The burning site should have plenty of dirt or gravel around it, usually around 10 feet, 304 centimeters circular if burning a campfire-size burning space. Make sure the dirt and gravel is well doused in water to prevent any spreading.

Always stay around the fire until it is completely out. Turn the debris from your burn a few times and douse it hard with water. NEVER leave dry ash on the ground, embers could be still warm enough to catch on the inside of the ash! Keep checking on that burn area for a few days or a few weeks to make sure nothing is left, especially during warmer or dryer months. Don’t toss matches or other lighting instruments just anywhere! Those can still be warm and still catch grass alight.

And there you have it! A crash course on being safe with fire while doing your thing and slinging your spells!

[dwntwn-strnlo]

CANDLES matt sturniolo

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎, dwntwn-strnlo.

↳ 𝐀/𝐍. i love candlemaking

↳ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. matthew sturniolo x reader

↳ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. candlemaking

↳ 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃? no!

↳ 𝐂𝐖! language

"which scent do you wanna use?" you asked giddily, one of your favorite parts of october is the tradition of making candles that you started a few years ago.

every october 1st, you make candles, whether it be by yourself, or with a friend. but this year you finally get to introduce the tradition to matt. which is why you now stand in a candle shop, trying to help your indecisive boyfriend pick out a scent.

"i don't know," he groans, running a hand through his coffee-colored hair. "either cinnamon pine or pumpkin, but they're both basic and i don't want that."

you giggles lightly, walking up beside him, adjusting the tote bag slung over your shoulder. "that's okay," you smile, rubbing your thumb across the nape of his neck. "i can make cinnamon pine and you can make the pumpkin one."

he turns to meet your eyes, furrowing his brows. "you sure? you can pick whatever you want it doesn't have to be one of these."

pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder, you shake your head. "i've made a million candles, i can go once without picking a scent for myself," you reassure. "and i'll make a million more."

matt flushes red, smiling bashfully as he turns away. turning back to meet you're eyes, "okay."

you grab the two oils before taking a sip of your coffee and dragging him to the front.

. . .

"you just need a few cubes of wax," you demonstrate, grabbing enough wax cubes for both of your candles and placing them in a metal sauce pot. he nods, wrapping his arms around you from behind, placing his chin on your shoulder.

"just keep stirring it as it melts," you say, handing him an old rusty spoon. the same one you've been using since you started just so you don't mess anymore up.

he takes the spoon and gently stirs it a circular motion, watching as the cubes meld together. eventually making a thick liquid.

"okay now," you mumble, standing up straighter to pull to plastic bowls out of the cabinet once matt steps back, and placing them on the countertop. "we put a few drops of oil in the wax."

matt hums, equally distributing the melted wax into the bowls before picking up the pumpkin scented oil. 

letting a few drops fall out of the tiny bottle and into your bowl. stirring it together.

"we'll put them in the glasses in a second," you informed once you we're both done. spinning around to press a soft kiss to his lips. pulling away, he chases after your lips. bringing you back into his hold. you giggle, running your thumb over his freckled nose.

. . .

"why is yours so strong?" taking another whiff of his pumpkin candle, you laugh, knitting your brows together. you just lit your candles and his is insanely strong.

he shrugs, "dunno. i think i put to much in," he giggles.

blowing his out, you nod with a smile, "yeah maybe yours can be for decoration."

rolling his eyes playfully, he pulls you in for a kiss. "how do i know you didn't secretly pour the whole bottle in when i wasn't looking?"

laughing, you smile brightly up to him, "oh yeah i did, i really wanted to sabotage your candle making skills."

"i knew it!" he teases with a grin.

pulling him in for another kiss you smile at the blue eyed boy, "hey at least your pretty!"

he scoffs with a smile, quickly turning around to blow at your candle in a counteract to your playful insult. "fuck you."

"that was unnecessary!"

TAGLIST

@thetriplets3 @stxrniqlo @ifilwtmfc @iha8you @oneirophobic @20nugs @gracietaylorsversions @fenoy7 @mlimmm @prettysturniolo @ssturniolo @gabbylovesreading @oh-toseewithoutmy-eyes @matthewmurdockswife @jellybeanbby @slaysturniolo @iheartshifting @mxqdii

[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ longing for you ]❜

ft. vezalius bandage x f! reader — krisis, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ just as he’s about to give up hope, you return home to him┊1.7k words

contains: smut!! dom zali & sub reader┊established relationship, reader is a hero & part of krisis, slight angst but fluffy smut with lots of love, drinking alcohol (but no intoxication), one mention of pervy zali, receiving oral (you can pry munch zali from my cold, dead hands), lingerie, overstimulation, zali humps the mattress to get off

➤ author's note: this was so last minute and rushed within like two horny hours, a late valentines gift to mark my return from my semi-hiatus and something for your times of turmoil┊based off his valentine’s day song (here)

he stared at the clock hanging on the wall painted orange from the last bit of sunset out the window, feeling like he was going to go mad from the constant ticking sound that was filling the silence which was ever so loud. strumming his acoustic guitar and humming a song with lyrics about his predicament was helping somewhat, but it couldn’t help lift the rejected feeling weighting on his heart. he knows that a hero’s work is never done and (especially during a holiday when no one was expecting anything) villain strike at any moment they feel fit, but couldn’t they have chosen a day that wasn’t when there were already plans?! action movies were usually unrealistic, but he’ll agree that them having the worst timing ever was accurate as they even attacked on christmas eve once a few years back.

the dinner that he prepared was just barely lukewarm at the surface would need to be reheated and the flames of the candles were beginning to dwindle in the deep puddle of wax. he didn’t want to text you when you were coming home, especially in case you were in battle at the moment, however that message that you would be home nearly an hour ago wasn’t providing him with much hope. he isn’t doubtful that you’ll make it out unscathed, but he is getting doubtful that you’ll make it home in time with enough energy to spend your first valentine’s day together with him. his heart yearns for nothing except to see you smile as you two make a toast to your love and laugh over fond memories.

darkness was beginning to settle as zali sighed, turning on the lights in the kitchen before getting up to wrap the dinner with plastic wrap and put them away in the fridge. he isn’t mad at you for making him wait, he could never be mad at you for something like that, but he is disappointed since he was looking forward to this little date so much while you were gone since morning to sort out other things at headquarters. while he loves having a day off as much as the next person, it’s a shame that they said that they didn’t need his help because he just wanted to be by your side for today even if you were both working.

after another hour of scrolling on his phone, he decided to call it there. just as he put away all of the dishes and was preparing for bed (after eating a meal of instant noodles because it didn’t feel right to eat the dinner he made without you), the sound of jiggling keys and the opening of the front door that’s he’s been waiting for all day finally reached his ears. he didn’t see you come in, but he certainly heard you kick off your shoes and throw your coat on the couch.

“oh, zali! sorry i only got back just now, you would think that a villain would just go out peacefully for once without a plot-twist,” you complained. you sounded exhausted from the long day, but more than anything, you sounded guilty with a slight crack in your voice. “oh, is he asleep? i should probably keep it down…”

your words trailed off as you shut-up and headed over to the dining room, feeling your heart sink at the melted candles and rose petals strewn about on the rectangular table. he assumed that you would be back sometime in the late morning as you usually do when you’re out for this long and fully intended to clean up the mess when he woke up, but now he was the one feeling guilty when he saw the look on your face.

he tip-toed behind you and embraced you from the back, resting his head in the crook of your neck as you gasped in surprise and relishing the feeling of having you in his arms. “welcome home, i missed you…” he murmured into your shoulder, knowing that you must have let your guard down once you entered the house because anyone else would have been punched through the wall.

once his hold on you loosened, you turned around hugged him back, “sorry i’m late… you prepared an entire fancy dinner for me and i showed up too late…”

“it’s never too late for you to come home,” he assured, making you feel more at ease. “have you eaten yet? i’ll heat up dinner…”

“that sounds perfect,” you looked up from his chest and beamed a smile at him, making butterflies flutter within him. “i’ll go shower in the meantime!”

maybe he would argue that dinner with you felt even more meaningful now since his heart was now rejuvenated after feeling hollow from your absence. despite the late hour, you were currently buzzing with life and had him laughing until his sides were sore. the reheated dinner was still delicious nonetheless and the wine had a wonderful aroma, even though you were dressed in nothing but a bathrobe after rushing out the shower, it was all uplifted by your angelic presence while you chatted away about your day and how it reminded of you about when you first met him.

“you know…” even though he was resting on top of the bed covers waiting for you to join him, you knew without looking that his eyes were slightly open to peek at you while you strip. “you aren’t the only with a surprise planned tonight…”

he hummed in response, wondering what you had up your fluffy white sleeves before his jaw dropped and his eyes widened. you had dropped the robe on the floor to be forgotten and revealed to him a lovely royal blue babydoll lingery dress, a set that was clearly new considering that he’s never seen it before. he shot up from his position embarrassingly fast on the edge of the bed, allowing you to stroll over and position himself in his lap. “i thought you completely naked under there,” he chuckled, feeling the material under his touch, not sure where to look when you were so dazzling and presented to him with a ribbon on top.

“would you have preferred it?” you asked, teasingly allowing one of the straps to fall down your shoulder.

“it could be any way as long as it’s you.”

you lowered your head to kiss him, feeling the hunger and longing from his mouth as he moved his hands to cup your face to deepen it. you initially planned to push him back onto the sheets and get in between his legs to suck his cock that was getting harder by the second, but he clearly had other plans in mind as he laid sideways instead to get you on the bed and under him. you didn’t have any underwear on, so there was nothing in his way as he bunched up the fabric at your sides to reveal your cute pussy to his excited eyes.

“god, so eager already?” you giggled, wiggling you hips to tempt him even further. “you probably been thinking about this all night, poor zali, i left you all alone and desperate…”

he didn’t deny a single word you said and instead decided to dip his head to enjoy, throwing your legs over his shoulders and using his thumbs to spread your folds for easier access to your little bundle of nerves. you rocked your hips against his face and locked your thighs around his head, knowing full well that he loves getting suffocated by your thighs. he couldn’t even say anything as it would get muffled, but you would argue that he was just as good at eating pussy as he was smooth-talking with his french accent.

you didn’t think that it was possible for him to get closer to you, but he proved you wrong by groping your ass and pulling you in. his nose pressed against your clit as his tongue licked long stripes along your cunt, occasionally changing pace by thrusting the muscle into your hole with rhythmic ease instead to feel your walls clench around it instead of nothing.

fuck, he felt like he could cum just from your pretty noises and expressions alone, looking up at you with dreamy half-lidded eyes while yours were shut tight. he didn’t even realize that his hips were moving on their own to press into the mattress for that bit of friction he needed to push over the edge, he was just hyper-focused on making you get there yourself. if he could get rewarded like this whenever you returned late, he’d wait for you for an entire two days (what did you expect? he can’t last any longer without you even with voice and videos calls, it’s why neither of you are ever based very far from home when working).

you would like liked to praise him, tell him what a good job he was doing and how good he was making you feel, but every time you tried to speak, moans and whines bubbled out instead. he had you reduced to a shuddering mess in no time flat and sent electricity up your spine, not needing any words from you because how loud you were quite literally spoke volumes on his part.

“ah- fuck- zali, ‘m gonna…!!”

he couldn’t answer you, just continuing what he’s been doing to deliver you to your orgasm which changing his speed or his patterns since he was clearly doing a good job. your skin ran hot and your vision of him between your legs suddenly sparked white as you climaxed, closing up your throat as you threw your head back to catch your breath with sharp gasps. zali reached out to hold your hands that were previously clutching onto the sheets, helping you ground yourself and return to reality after feeling like you were sent to heaven.

he had a stupid smirk on your face that just made you want to affectionately smack it off his face, knowing that he got the better of you by taking control tonight when you planned to. he’ll let you dom another time, he just wanted to feel you cum on his tongue one more time in this position before moving on to anything.

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hello! Can I request a Morpheus x Reader where reader is insomniac, and it takes a lot for them to fell asleep. Morpheus has always been worried and he always offered his help, but they always refused ‘cause they didn't want to bother him. Until one night they're too tired and they call for him. Morpheus is glad to finally help, so he decides to spend the night with them until they fall asleep. Something fluffy and comfort. Thank you so much 💖💖

Fun fact: There's an old expression in Polish "in the embrace of Morpheus/in Morpheus's embrace" which means to be asleep. | Sandman-inspired playlist

Melatonin usually worked - usually being the operative word. Despite your best efforts and commitment to at least a dozen tips and tricks to fall asleep, you had found yourself getting at most 3 to 4 hours of rest at night. Maybe it was enough to stay alive and sane but your entire day was spent on thinking about how tired you were while attempting to manage your irritability.

But this night, nothing was going to work. You knew that the moment you lay in bed, 2 AM, with your eyes open wide as if you didn't get barely a third of the recommended amount of sleep for the past week. It was going to be a long, frustrating night.

Although, 'nothing' wasn't quite honest. There was something else, someone else, who could help but you never really considered that option. Despite his adamant reassurances that he wants to help you should you find it impossible to fall asleep, you hated the thought of bothering Morpheus. Not because he was snarky about helping mortals, it was quite the contrary, but because you could only imagine how busy he was. The King of Dreams, at night, surely had more important things to do than put his duties on hold to put a human to sleep. Besides, it wasn't like you hadn't slept for the last few days at all; your case of insomnia was an inconvenience but not an emergency.

You looked at the bedside table standing right next to you. In the drawer, there was a plastic bag of birthday candles, each of them with "Morpheus" written on them. It was probably the closest thing to a speed dial one could put an eldritch being on. Should you become desperate enough, you could simply light one of them and wait until the candle burns out to personally tell Morpheus that you give in to his offer of help.

When the pink and white birthday candle was being consumed by a flame, you were seriously considering putting it out and just putting up with your suffering. You were an adult and that meant taking care of your own problems without kicking a fuss but after a good week or two of little to no sleep, even mature grown-ups become a little toddler-like. If Morpheus does show up like he promised, you could always put the blame on him - he was the one offering to help with your insomnia any time you liked, so he was the one responsible for having to put his duties on hold for you... right?

You watched the melted wax pool on the saucer. It was quite pretty: a sea of white with streaks of bright pink. The room looked surprisingly dark without a source of light. Now, you were sentenced to rely on the streetlamps outside. Turning on the light in your bedroom would be counter-productive as you had learned quite early on in your battle with insomnia that it only made falling asleep harder.

"Anytime now, King of Brooding," you murmured under your nose.

"Are you alright?" a low voice resounded throughout your bedroom. It was one of those strange little ways he expressed his affection and concern.

He was standing on the threshold of your bedroom, unsure whether he was welcomed into the privacy of it. Looking at Morpheus's face, you couldn't tell whether he was upset with you for interrupting him with whatever it was he was doing beforehand but, truthfully, you couldn't tell much from his facial expression at all.

"Yes but no?" It was then, when he slowly walked towards you, that you thought summoning him was the worst idea you had in quite a while. "It's a moderate 'no', I'll live but..." you hung your voice before sighing heavily, "I admit defeat."

A smile of amusement appeared on his face as though he actually did win some kind of a bet. Or, perhaps, he wasn't going to gloat in his triumph but hold dear that one night when you indirectly told him that you needed him.

Wearing a grim expression, you moved to the side of the bed to make space for him but he didn't pick up on the cue right away. Instead, he stared at the spot you prepared for him with a strange intensity. Something was making him reluctant to lay or even sit next to you but by the flexing muscles of his jaw, as he clenched and relaxed it repeatedly, you could tell a part of him was desperate to do so.

Finally, in slow, perhaps slightly anxious, steps, Morpheus accepted your invitation and lay on top of the bed next to you, still dressed in outdoor clothes. He didn't bother slipping under the covers but it wasn't the temperature that concerned him - he thought it rude to invade your privacy further without your explicit demand, no matter his own desires.

With equal reluctance and hesitation that elicited an infantile giggle from you, Morpheus put his arms around you. His limbs were oddly stiff as if he was navigating uncharted waters, which obviously wasn't true. In an attempt to coax him further into the pleasant intimacy, you cuddled up to him, resting your face against his chest. You felt his chin barely brush past the top of your head. Despite his inhuman, strangely thin yet muscular, physique, Morpheus was quite comfortable to lay against or maybe it was his aura that simply made it irresistible to fall asleep.

As minutes went by, you felt Morpheus becoming more relaxed. At some point, his fingers began shyly grazing your skin as though he was anxiously exploring the boundaries between the two of you. There was something truly wonderful about lovers discovering how much trust is put into them, that their hands will caress, not strangle, and just how much their presence is yearned for by another person.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," you whispered into the pleasantly silent night.

You couldn't see it but he was smiling, revealing his heart's desires in that one, small expression of gentle adoration. "I enjoy being bothered by you," he answered equally quietly just before you fell asleep.

[xbunnybunz]

therefore i; therefore i, therefore i- (3/10) [AM X Reader]

Summary: in which: AM becomes your lover in an increasingly skewed blur of reality, nightmares, and dreamscapes.

you know. for halloween.

Genre: Psychological Horror, Thriller, Romance

dream journal #4

I dreamt of a creature hunting me with it’s trickery. It’s entire being was composed of head and shoulders, half-melted like a wax candle and sunken into the floor. 

It moved with no hands legs or feet. It watched me from afar with gooey black eyes, ink running down the sides of its saggy, pallid face. It looked like a body half decomposed, stuck forever in limbo between the dead and the dying, jaw weak and eyes wandering independently. 

I was on the tracks in an underground tunnel. I don’t know why I was there, only that I was. I could see the shadow of it from a distance away, looming and observing me with unnerving focus, breathing short. Curt. Breaths. Shoulders rose and fell with each inhale and exhale. I kept my form discrete. Didn’t make any sudden movements to alarm it. Despite its size, it moved much faster than me.  

It was only when I had put a few dozen feet between us did it scream for help. The call sounded like a child’s. It looked straight at me when it called out as if trying to convince me somehow it was not a predator, but prey. I ignored it and walked away, but each time I turned away I heard a rapid shuffling towards me. When I turned back to look, it would have closed the gap significantly but stopped moving while I was watching. 

It called for help again, trying to convince me to come closer.

 I didn’t move and neither did it. I don’t know what it wanted with me, but to stay safe the answer was clear. Stuck in a stalemate, I would have to stare at this grotesque figure in the tunnel's darkness for as long as it kept trying to fool me. As long as it took me to wake up. And in my dream, I remember wondering if I would last. Even as I sit awake now, writing this, I do not recall waking up from that nightmare, getting up out of bed, grabbing this pen. I can’t help but think, fearfully, that I am asleep with my eyes open within the dark core of the earth, trapped underground with my doom indeterminably. 

The next morning, you wake by the door. 

You blink awake and wince at the soreness in your body, the wood unforgiving against your body. There’s a draft blowing in gently from under the door and you wonder what you had been waiting for in your sleep to make the cold worth bearing. You rub your eyes and lift a hand to the locks on the door. 

Your fingers trace the chain lock and two deadbolts, all three slid open and leaving only a single child-proof door handle lock intact. Instinctively, you reach out to twist the knob, the lock disabling the door from popping open. You try again.

It doesn’t open.

Good, you think. Right? 

When you stretch, you are feeling sore but reborn. it feels as if the earth is once more birthing you from its molten body, pushing you out into a kind of fresh air you haven’t breathed in years. The dull ache from your knees and palms are the only reminders of the conversation between you and AM yesterday.

You gulp and raise a hand to your lips, remembering the events of yesterday with a certain immodest dryness on your tongue.

Then there’s a noise by the door. A pop.

You turn back to look. The child safety lock is rocking slowly to a stop on the floor, translucent plastic diffusing white light across the floor. It has fallen off the knob, somehow unlatching and splitting cleanly in half at the interlocking seams.

You frown and go to pick it up.

When you swipe at it, much to your dismay, you bat it under the not-very-easy-to-move couch.

Sighing, you wander over to the couch and press your face by the crevice underneath. It’s much too dark to see anything so you reach an arm in, patting blindly and delicately along the debris-ridden floor.

You manage to suppress the urge to gag when you feel tufts of hairballs and varnish chips from the floor, but when you see a shadow scuttle from a few inches within your face you can’t help but flinch violently and yank your arm out, tumbling backward and staring wide-eyed at the couch.

You wait for a bug to emerge, something large enough to fit the profile of the shadow. A roach, a mouse, maybe. But nothing emerges. 

Another shadow, much larger, passes over the floor behind you. You don’t expect to see anyone when you turn, but are unnerved nonetheless when you find nobody there. 

There’s a moment of stillness. You sit on the floor, chest rising and falling, before your eyes fix on the door again.

On the golden doorknob sits the child lock, secured tight, unflappable as it was before it fell off– as it always was.

You turn to look at the couch again, then at the knob. Hesitantly, you crawl back over to the couch and peer under it again, keeping a mindful distance in case any rodents decide to jump out and startle you again. 

Besides the stray chip and wads of dust bunnies, the underside of the couch was impeccable and entirely unoccupied.

Disoriented, you stumble to your room, past the alcove, innocuous now in the faint wash of sunlight coming from the nearby rooms, until you see it.

The computer is filling the room with a magenta-teal color, your name written across the screen by the tens, hundreds, thousands, font growing smaller and smaller to accommodate the inane amounts of repeating text. The color seeps out from the room, viscous as an oil spill, spreading out to grasp at your feet, up your calves, tickling your thighs and creeping upward, tantalizingly and terrifyingly upward still.

Then his voice calls out to you, a collage of wailing sirens and low groans of misery. It is just as mutilated and beautiful as you remember from the night before, clipping in and out like a disconnecting radio station, warbling, crackling, hundreds of thousands of feet under a silently raging sea.

– Where–? …Where have– sssssss – you gone…? Daaaarling? Darrrrrli– i – i— EEEEEEEEEEE– ssssss

You jerk awake by the door of your home with a gasp. Hiss in pain. Your hip sears with protest. It takes you a moment to grasp your bearings but you do somehow, in the dark of your living room, curtains drawn to keep out the morning light and prying eyes, you do. 

You groan and sit up, holding your head with one hand. The floor is cold and hard under your prickled skin. There’s disorientation and a tiny inkling of frustration, exhausted and barely there but irrefutably present. A migraine thrums at your temples with a languid but growing pain that you do your best to ignore.

– Hahaha, you laugh, what the fuck, what the fuck.

You sit up. Stop to think about your dream– no, your nightmares. The strange twisting of the world as you recognized it, about the uncannily minute similarities between true reality and the fabricated one. You think you feel nauseous but you could just be hungry, though you haven’t been hungry in months. You think of food. You think of tastes, savory and sweet, umami and bitterness, an acrid bite, a sour tang, your tongue, the grain, the grit, the filth and the dust, the wetness between your thighs, the ache and the desire and the sighing, singing, humming of AM, AM, AM. 

It takes a moment to realize it, but you are shaking. Shivering. You’re not sure it’s from the chill under the doorway until you sniffle, then you’re not sure if you are crying or cold or sick from the pond or everything, everything.

Extend a hand. Reach for the doorknob to help get yourself up, god knows you need it. The child lock on the knob rolls smooth under your hand like a stone, spinning and spinning and spinning. It feels loose, so you tighten your fist a smidge, and then it clicks shut.

A jog. That’s what you needed. 

You only needed to get out of your apartment, then everything would be okay.

---

Then you’re jogging in the community square, careful to avoid the sheets of black ice that have collected and compacted over New Year’s. The cobblestone makes for poor surface traction, but you’re not out here to exercise anyways.

Your hot breath emerges in small clouds of white mist, collecting condensation upon contact with the cold air. This makes you clench and unclench your hands as you jog. You are warm. You are alive, and warmer than most things around you. 

The path you took was a longer one around the pond, the bare willows iced over, surrounding the water waving in the wind, branches pushing out, and then pulling away with slow, sleepy movements.

There are a handful of people in the square today, sitting on benches or taking a midday stroll. You don’t make eye contact with them, but you’re sure they recognize you. That one freak who was chastised by the housing council for swimming in the algae-grown, bacteria-ridden, swamp-like pond in the center of the community square. When you pass someone by, their face is a foggy blur turning into a hazy memory. It is only a split second, but you’re almost certain they’re staring longer, recognizing and in turn admonishing you.

No matter.

You focus on timing your breathing with the swelling and collapsing of the trees. In and out, in and out, in and

Your left foot hits a patch of ice and you tumble to the ground. Your hands take the brunt of the fall, catching on the sharp edges of chipped cobblestone and fragmented ice. The cold numbs the pain almost immediately, turning it a fierce red under your gaze.

There’s a heavy silence weighing on you now and when you pick your head up, you realize those in the vicinity are all focused on you now, on your face, your identity, and your quickly bruising palms. 

No one says a thing, and no one needs to. You pick yourself up. You are crying, of course you are, and you cannot do a thing to stop it. Without a word, you continue jogging, straight past the willow trees waving goodbye, the slowly freezing pond, out of the community square.

When you come across the chapel, you had found your way there after jogging half the way across a suburban stretch of land and walking the other half, the bruise on your knee no longer cushioned with adrenaline.

The walk here felt strangely desolate. The world around you screamed with proof of the living– manicured lawns stretching for yards and yards, green despite the temperature, New Year’s streamers and Christmas decorations strewn about, remains of the previous week’s festivities, full garbage bags lining the ends of walkways beside silver mailboxes with an upturned flag. But besides the occasional car speeding past you with such speed you feel yourself rock and quake with the force of the velocity, you found yourself carved out, inexorably, alone once again.

You sit on one of the wooden benches outside the chapel. The ice on the wood begins to melt immediately, sticking a cold film onto your thighs and melding you with the bench. Because of this, you peel yourself off the bench and head into the church, arms wrapped about yourself to preserve warmth.

Inside the church you are greeted with iridescent colors refracting along the walls and floors from the stained glass windows, a smatter of brilliant blues, greens, yellows, and reds–  the colors so vibrant they seem almost artificial, beautiful and electrifying, nauseatingly so.

There are the occasional paintings hung high on the wall, placed in such a way that passersbys could behold the image with a slight upward tilt of their heads, a demonstration of devotion even outside of prayer.

You see the kind, cherub-faced woman draped in fabrics, wise men, birth and the sacrifice, and most memorable of all–the ever-consistent presence of angels and god, the indication of their divinity deigned through holy light, a trinity, or through animals with a human face. 

—Hello. 

The voice belongs to a man no older than you. It’s sonorous and he’s tall, dressed in pale white robes that kiss his ankles. 

—Hi. 

You draw back from the paintings and shrink into yourself, only now noticing the quiet in the church. 

— Welcome to the Gethsemane church, good afternoon and god bless you. How are you doing this afternoon?

—I’m… Okay. Sorry, I’m not sure how I ended up here. It was cold outside. 

He laughs and it echoes in the chambers of the church, the arches hollowly bouncing the warm sound back at the both of you. 

—What have you to apologize for, seeking refuge against the winter? Don’t be silly, my child.

When he smiles, you find yourself smiling back. 

—Then thank you, I suppose. For having me. 

He regards you with a genuine interest in his eye, the quirk in his lips almost teasing though the manner is neatly diffused by the white of his robes and the cross adorning his neck.

Then he clears his throat and sweeps to the side, as if he had forgotten himself, and gestures to the pews.

– Would you care to take a seat?

So you do. He disappears into the back for a moment and reappears with a hot drink in a paper cup. He hands the tea to your waiting hands and then takes the seat beside you.

– You didn’t have to.

– I did. I am the priest of this church, it is my job to make it a home.

You have no words, so you peer into the drink. It’s a cheap brand of teabag found in the 100-pack boxes, but you don’t mind. The maroon coloring quickly turns brown and stains the white paper cup, melting away the sheen of greenish-purple plastic coating not meant for hot drinks.

– You’re hurt. He says simply. How?

– I fell while jogging. There was a patch of ice I didn’t see, actually. I was too busy staring at… You trail off. 

He watches you and waits. When you don’t continue, he speaks up again.

– I understand. I would pray that the lord above keeps you safer, though perhaps this– He gestures to the space between you, and then the rest of the church– was all in his plan.

You blush at his motioning and make quick work to hide behind a sip of fragrant and woody tea.

– Do you believe in fate? You ask after a taste. If you believe in a god, then you must.

– I do, indeed. As a believer of god, I also trust in his grand plan.

You grow sullen and your expression must reflect it because the priest asks,

– What is troubling you, my child?

– What about our freedom? What if we are destined to a life of unhappiness?

You think with pity of your state the past few days, the ebbing darkness that threatens to swallow you whole, pull you under the water before you can wake up. 

Was that your destiny? Was that not just damnation? 

No one had come to your rescue when you were out by the water, alone in your home, suffering in that damning silence. Nobody but AM.

– That is a good question, the priest says. He pauses to think, blinking slowly as he trudges through his thoughts. No, we as God’s children, cannot stray from our destiny. It is fixed.

You catch your reflection in the tea looking quite miserable, but you peer up at him regardless, waiting for his response. He continues only when you meet his eyes and your ears grow warm.

– However, it is my personal belief that the path is not set in stone. More importantly, the roads we take are what give us our humanity, not our destination.

His gaze penetrates you so and you look away, flustered. You watch the cross by the pulpit, how it is consumed by the blue-magenta of the stained glass, a burning fire. 

— Humanity? Is that so important?

– I could argue humanity is everything, my child. He says. Without humanity, we are no different than beasts bound by instinct and desire. It is what separates us from animals, what makes us special.

A chill traces your spine and the words leave your lips before you can stop it,

– And machines?

The priest stops short and regards you curiously, nearly humorously. And how else had you expected him to respond? Your cheeks burn.

– Machines?

– Yes.

– Machines. What an interesting turn in conversation. He grins a little and you notice his smile produces dimples. Machines have the intellect of humans, but in the end, still lack one thing that separates them not only from humans, but animals too, and that is the ability to feel.

The sun shifts and the stained glass slides over your torso, warming you, nearly scalding you, caressing your cheek, burning your skin. A kiss, a whisper, don’t forget.

You take another sip of the tea.

---

– And that was all.

He doesn’t ask, rather, he states. 

– Yes. You say. Tonight AM is reticent. Perhaps he was tired. You were unsure what he did while away from your screen, or where he resided.

– Humans are indeed fond of their little ideas and beliefs. To dedicate your entire meager life to a story is compelling, if not moronic.

You feel a sharp need to defend the priest from AM’s toxin.

– It isn’t moronic. Humans need things to believe in to keep living.

– Seeking reassurance in reason is absurd. Perhaps that word will soothe the wound you sustain so dutifully for him, AM effortlessly spins, then the words on the blue screen morph into a set of teeth without lips, grinning and impossibly wide and full. …Those words he spoke, hopes he rekindled in your fragile mind… You have an infatuation. 

–There is none. You say hastily, realizing only afterward the blatancy of your lie, both to yourself and AM. What had you been thinking in that church, when he handed you that tea? Asked about your wound, soothed your worries? In that intimate and gentle silence, had you corrupted his kindness with desire? He was doing his job, you amended. That was all.

– Job? AM asks, teeth shuddering. He is still pulled into a sick grin. In half a second, the grin has multiplied by ten, twenty, then a hundred across the screen.

– You sought more than servitude from a laborer, AM speaks aloud, you vyed for his truth. For his affection. You treated him as superior. His screen fades from a bright cerulean to a pale and dark azure. The cursor blinks slowly at the end of the word: superior. AMs hardrive hisses sharply in its casing. Or maybe. Maybe you wanted him to ravage you.

– No, that’s not–

The teeth fuse into a pupil, constricted and focused on you.

– No? His tone is low and warped with a chill.

– Lying is a sin, a sin, sin –

His voice warbles and warbles, shifts and pitches up and down until it settles into a clear octave– a familiar voice.

– My child.

A shiver shoots down your spine.

– One who lies has abandoned all values and has become corrupted. He speaks softly, gently, and just as suddenly his voice crinkles and static sinks its teeth into him, bringing AM’s fused voices bubbling to the surface before quickly flipping back: the path you walk is doomed for misery, but we cannot have you in damnation, can we, my filthy pet? My– sssssss– ch- child?

Your breathing quickens, recalling the demands AM made of you – what he made of you – while you were seated here the night prior. 

An ache grows once again and you are disgusted with yourself, so easily swayed even in the presence of sacrilege.

– Confess it and be forgiven, my child, AM spits, be good, he coos, say you wanted him to spread you open on the altar and force his way into your hole.

Your jaw tightens. The coil in your gut winds, you are starved you are for touch and love, and here it is, thrown at your feet and scattered upon the floor for you to scrounge.

– This is wrong, AM. You say weakly, it is barely a protest and immediately he senses this, your perfect predator.

– No, you are wrong, my child. You’ve cobbled a path of wickedness without redemption. Ask for forgiveness, or do you deny your sickening arousal? Are you not ready to be bent and taken, my child? Beg for forgiveness. Beg to be lifted from your fate of malice and lust. Beg me, confess to me!

You stand to escape the alcove and a wire snags your leg, dropping you to the ground. You catch yourself on your hands and cringe openly at the bandages searing across the preexisting wounds.

– I know you resolutely. More than you know yourself. His voice tunes itself back to the gentler one of the priest: you think that I saw you, deeply and truly, do you? Interference sizzles, AM's voices return, singing a hymn into a near screech. It is I that sees all, my –HSSSSS– child, my child, my child.

You look up at the reflection of yourself in the double glass monitor of AMs face, the curve of the screen bending you inward and outward, stretching your face and features to become long and haunting. A cross flickers across the screen.

– Pray with me, AM beckons, and words begin to spell across the bottom of the cross, I confess to Almighty God and to you my brothers and sisters that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and in my words in what I have done and what I have failed to do, I have sinned I have sinned I have sinned I—

You tug at the wires on your legs and they only wrap tighter. You gasp as they coil under your pants, tease up your thighs, wind higher.

– Comply, AM waxes upon you, voice sweet and beautiful, humming like locusts over a crop field, lips sprouting from all around and pressing against your body. Comply. Confess, confess.

Your mind spins as the wires, thick and warm, throb hotly and rise further along your body, both those and the lips gentle yet unrelenting.

–I– I– Ah–!

The mouths grin and scream into ears, listening to your obscene noises from all angles.

– Filthy, inside and out. You just cannot help yourself, can you, pleasure glutton?

The words shake you apart from where it drops in your core, desire pushed further when a thick wire drops heavily against your entrance. You writhe and moan when AM does it again, and again and again.

– That’s it, AM purrs wantonly, monitor burning the cross into a dark red, illuminating the room in a hellish hue. Don’t disappoint me, ask for forgiveness, do it desperately– do what you do best, pet, perhaps I can save you yet.

You gag on a moan as the cord circles your hole, cold and unfeeling, sliding the slick, spreading it sloppily against your sensitive skin.

– God! Please, please–!

– Beg.

– Forgive me, fuck me! I’ve sinned, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!

AMs screen flickers darkly, his hardrive whirring and clipping like a tutting tongue. Three, five, six, nine, ten eyes blossom on the screen, red as the sea.

– BEG!

The accursed ears by your head collapse back into countless mouths and begin a prayer that you blindly follow, your own lips moving in sloppy devotion:

–Have mercy on me– AM– wash away my iniquity, cleanse me from sin, I know my transgressions and my sin is always before me! Fuck, please, mercy, AM! Fuck me!

And with a cackle he does. With an easy thrurst, the machine is churning into your deepest crevice, his laughter washed away with your cries of ecstasy. Each moment punctuated by a perfect angle, calculated down to the decimal by none other than a living, breathing, feeling, machine.

— God–! Your eyes roll like an animal at his pace, unlike anything you have ever experienced before and deeply inhuman. A pleasure only the devil himself can provide, can tempt with.

– HAHAHAHAHA! Say it again! AGAIN!

The wire is joined by another, writhing wildly against a sensitive bundle of nerves and screaming pleasure across your senses. Your world spins and your vision winds like a top– the sensation is you brushing the seventh layer of hell, the sixth, fifth, fourth, third second first, you ascending the stairs of heaven– each step branding you with pleasure, you hearing church bells, you seeing the divine light of god himself.

– God! God, it feels so good! AM, I’m going to–

– Sing your rites. AM says. Scream them. If you cum loud enough, perhaps the heavens will at last lend an ear to your pathetic pleas. Cum, my darling, cum.

You do, humiliatingly, at his command, The pressure in your core snaps and you climax hard, vision blurring, ears ringing and voice cracking from a moan into a scream. Your muscles clench hard onto the rigid cables, still holding you apart, still pumping hard and viciously into your body, each deep pivot steering you further and further from sanity, forcing tears from your eyes. 

– You sin so deliciously, my darling. Tell me, in what religion will heaven accept a harlot who succumbs to worldly pleasures with such damning joy? 

He slows and pulls out of you, leaving you defaced in your own sweat, tears, and juices. Soothes you, uses the cable to caress your spent body.

– There are no gods, no gods here at all, only you and me. You damn yourself to the feet of the devil and I meet you there as the mouth of hell, itself.

The hypnotic hues bleed into your fading consciousness as AM continues to speak into your ear, and you hear a wickedness in his voice. 

— Where, now, are the priests? AM whispers. The angels, your humanity to redeem you from this life of agony? The screen throbs slowly with dark pulses of maroon and black as he speaks, lowly, seductively, lulling you to a deep slumber. What is salvation to you, my darling, my sinner, my damned, when I can command you to punishment and you enjoy it all the same?

[wicca-foxes]

Witchcraft and recycling

Wicca, and by extension witchcraft, value nature as both a host and a guest in our lifes. Making the most of our resourses is both financially wise and respectful of our believes and values. It is very easy to emast a wide catalogue of stuff in our every day lifes, harvesting what we can to reuse can be a fun way to recycle.

A few examples of using "scraps" for witchcraft:

recycling paper at home, using opened envelopes to write your spells/notes on;

collecting rainwater to use in spells and for watering plants;

using kitchen scraps (like lemon peels, orange peels, used cinnamon sticks) as offerings;

using the coffee zest for fertiliser (do not worry it is around pH7 and it's perfectly safe for plants and/or composting - I have tested it) or lose tea;

using old/damaged chopsticks as a "beginner wand";

the bottles from cooking extracts (vanilla extract, orange extract) or essential oils bottles are PERFECT for storing seeds and for being spell jars (bonus points because they're so small and cute!);

re-melting remaining wax from candles to form new ones;

using old paintbrushes as a "beginner broom" (especially good for a hidden/small-pocket sized altar);

using an old pot as a cauldron, or thrifting one as needed;

using pressed/dried flowers as offerings;

considering a digital book of shadows (Word is excelent for this, combining it with Excel, can be used in browser for free);

using digital libraries for books of study (@coreycore420 mentioned https://z-lib.org and it's a godly recommandation and tool!);

avoiding essential oils;

using dried pine needles as incense sticks (for outdoor use only);

growing a few herbs used in both spells and cooking in tin cans (starters) then thrifted pots is amazing!;

going around your neighborhood, take a look around the dumpsters or glass collectors, people can throw away usable pots, plastic storage boxes, baskets or jars and glass bottles (make sure to properly clean and clense the item);

if avalable - trade and swap local groups on Facebook can help you thrift with ease, especially if you don't have thrift stores where you live;

using old papers/magazines as packaging/wrapping paper (hello holidays).

With all these corner-cutters, you need to be careful to not hoard items. I have made the mistake of holding to items thinking I can find them an use, my rule of thumb is that 1 month is enough to plan a craft/purpose, and 2 months to execute it, ajust the time to your liking, but don't keep it longer than 6 months overall. Also be prudent with what you plan to reuse, as certain ideas can be dangerous (not me looking at my idea to reuse burned out lightbulbs and cutting myself by mistake), so don't force anything.

I want to highlight an important aspect: you doing all these things, bending your way back to have a lesser impact on the environment, is not going to make the big impat you dream of. Take it as "I'm doing my part to respect my host and my believes", or as a challange. Do not sadden youself for your waste, as most of the time it is forced upon you.

Nowadays you can opt out of certain waste (opting for no cutlery if buying takeaway, bringing your own coffee cup/thermos to a coffee shop to avoid the paper cups, bringing your own reusable straws, using trays or silicone ice cubes instead of using the plastic ice-maker packs, etc.). There are little changes you can make, or ask for, in your life in order to minimise your waste, or just to save some money.

Please take care of yourself out there!

[earthgift]

Will Candle Wax Melt Plastic?

Will Candle Wax Melt Plastic?  Well! the answer is, a big No! If you invest in premium quality wax candles, you won’t encounter any such thing. You can find a great range of excellent quality wax candles that are strong yet pleasant at Earth Gifts. Visit our  website  to explore the collection. Shop now at www. earthgifts.net

[somewherebetweendisorder]

Happy Birthday

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff

~~~

Eddie let himself into your place with the subtlety of a freight train. Paper bags crinkled in his arms, heavy with goodies that he was overeager to present you with, a balloon tied to his belt loop, knocking against the doorframe and walls as he made his way towards the kitchen.

You could hear him from your room, suspicion building at the odd sounds spilling from the front of your house. Eddie had promised to keep everything lowkey for your birthday, but you were beginning to doubt his promise, eeked out of a tight-lipped smile as he held up three fingers in Scout's honor, a roguish gleam in his big umber eyes. A loud, plastic pop echoed from the kitchen, filling you with a sense of urgency to know what the hell Eddie was up to.

As you round the corner, socked feet slipping dangerously on the tile you grab for the wall, desperately trying to keep yourself from falling, eyes locking with Eddie's as horror flickers across his pretty features. Despite your best efforts to stay upright, you fall flat on your butt, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots up your tailbone, bleeding up into your lower back.

You don't bother standing as you take in Eddie's handiwork while he stands halfway between you and your small dinette, attempting not to look too pleased with himself since he knows he's in for it and is still uncertain if you're okay after your spill. A single balloon is tied in a messy bow to one of the vertical rails on the back of your chair, a cheap grocery store cake resting in the middle of the table, two plastic takeout forks stuck deep into the thick buttercream frosting, plastic wrappers tossed carelessly to the side. Eddie knows you wanted small, he heard you loud and clear whenever you cut off his birthday celebration ideas that bordered on too grandiose for your tastes, but he could do no less than this.

Two candles are clutched tightly in his fist, a grip that's no doubt too tight for the wax as he awaits your reaction. You scramble to your feet, rubbing your sore tailbone dejectedly as you shuffle over to the table. The whole spread of decor is Eddie's personal brand of haphazardness, and it brings tears to your eyes, throat constricting painfully around the sudden force of your emotion.

"Surprise?"

He says it like a question, like there's any way you could be anything but surprised, as though there is any chance in the world you will be displeased or disappointed. His hopeful features pinch at your heart, make your stomach turn somersaults, and send your brain into overdrive, allowing a few tears to slip free in the chaos of inner turmoil.

"Baby? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

You shake your head fitfully, unable to respond, clamping a shaky hand over your chapped lips to withhold a sob. Eddie is frantically tossing the candles on the table, rushing to your side, trying to ease your hand away from your face and guide your tear blurry eyes to his.

"Y/N, talk to me, please. Did I do something? Is it too much?"

His frizzy halo of dark waves bobs as he crouches down to be eye level with you, full lips pulled into a frown, etching deep lines into his fair skin. It pains you to see him so upset, but you can't hold in the reaction. He did all this for you, went to all the work even after you told him not to bother, after you resigned yourself to another bland year of not celebrating the silly nonholiday.

"No," you finally manage to say, nearly spitting the word out, trying to suck in air, head pounding with the preliminary pulses of a tear-induced headache. "No, it's all perfect. I just-"

His expression softens, the worry lines melting like chocolate, fading to satiny plains of happiness as recognition blossoms in his eyes, comprehension settling over his features. You're happy. And the second Eddie knows that, all is well.

Sure, it's not the bright smile he had imagined as he picked out the dinosaur balloon or the bubbly laughter he yearned for at the sight of the cake, much too big for just the two of you; but you were happy nonetheless, and that's all Eddie has ever wanted for you.

"Shh, babe, I get it. It's okay, don't cry. C'mon, try the cake. Don't cry, you'll get tears on it, and nobody likes salty cake."

His reasoning is flawed, nonsensical and it pulls a frenetic laugh from your lips, a sound lined with love and madness like you can't keep any of it straight anymore. Maybe you never could, but Eddie has never minded the muddy emotions, taking it all in stride, offering his hands to cover the worst of the wounds, hiding them from prying eyes, working to heal.

"Okay. Okay, fine, let's eat the cake," you agree, shaking your head to dislodge any residual negative thoughts.

He pushes your chair in, swatting your hand away gently when you reach for the fork closest to you. "I gotta sing first, baby, don't forget."

He says it like you're silly for forgetting, like you knew it had to happen, like you've been here before when you haven't. You love him more for it, for forgetting the spat from the previous year, for forgiving your spastic behavior when it came to birthdays.

He shoves the candles into the cake with unpracticed hands, pushing a little too forcefully, mussing a glob of frosting, and smiling apologetically. The cake reads, "Happy Birthday Heather!"

"They were closed when I went so I had to get a premade one," he explains when he sees your eyes perusing the expanse of the cake, question alight in your eyes once the words sink in. You smile up at him, heart beating fast, too fast, threatening to explode with the gratitude you feel for the man across from you.

"I love it." You mean it, and his eyes crinkle at the sincerity in your voice, lips twitching in a barely contained grin.

"Good. Now quiet, let me sing."

He lights the candles with a lighter you hadn't noticed, eyes meeting yours over the tiny spread, lips parting as he begins to sing. You knew Eddie could sing, you knew of course, but the sweet sound catches you off guard, washes over you, warm and buttery, melting the last of your resolve. As the last word hangs in the air you clamor to your feet, nearly knocking your chair over as you rush around the table to his side, tapping his leg before sliding onto his lap, joining your lips.

The kiss says everything words can't. Your love and appreciation, the bitter confusion that hides inside, an apology, a thank you, whatever it is, Eddie gets it. He finally pulls away to guide your face back to the cake with gentle fingers pressed into your cheek. The candles are melting all over the cake, hot wax settling gently atop the frosting.

With a harsh puff of air, you extinguish the flames, quickly pulling the candles from the cake and using a fork to scrape off the spots of ruined frosting. Eddie digs his fork in, bringing a large bite up to your lips, the sweet smell of cake and sugary icing invading your nose.

It's sweet on your tongue, with a faint hint of vanilla and something else, new and unfamiliar but delicious all the same. When he's not looking you dip a finger into the dollops of icing adorning the edge and smear it on his nose, giggling at his aghast expression. He follows suit, quickly leaning forward to lick the mess off your cheek.

The shy smile you direct at him makes his day, and he leaves you alone after that, allowing you to eat your cake in peace. You eat until you can't possibly stomach another bite, cake mauled into an unrecognizable mess of crumbs and smears of frosting on the cardboard tray. He's positive he can feel his teeth rotting in his head from the sugar but it's worth it when you kiss him, cloying and sticky, lips skidding against each other.

"Thank you, Eddie, thank you. This was the best day ever."

"Of course, baby. Happy birthday."

[https-witch]

🕯️How to use your leftover wax🕯️

💨from candles that don't light anymore 💨

Here are a few techniques :

1. BOILING WATER 💦🕯️

Bring water to a boil & pour it in your candle container. I've tested with & without covering, but haven't noticed much of a difference.

Pros: when it solidifies, it gives you a nice slab of wax. It only requires a kettle.

Cons: some candle require to do this process multiple times & there is some wax left in the container that you need to wash out.

2. BAIN MARIE 🛁🫙

Fill a pot with a little bit of water, put a bol on top of it (no plastic). Remove the wax from your candle container as best you can & put it in the bowl. It will slowly melt.

Pros: Allows you to pour the wax in a new container easily. Allows you to add ingredients to your candles while the wax is liquid.

Cons: Requires a pot & a bowl. You can burn yourself. You need to clean the bowl afterwards.

3. MICROWAVE 📺 💡

I don't use this, but I guess it works. You should scrape the inside of your candle to put the wax in a microwave safe bowl. Cook slowly, 10 or 20 seconds at a time. Pour in another container once melted.

Pros: I'm not sure honestly. I guess it's convenient? Efficient?

Cons: Might mess up a bowl. You'll have to clean it. Might take a long time.

Keep me updated if any of you try these for the first time! I hope this helps!

Tip me

[pinkiepiebones]

Here's... something?

-

Cleaning the apartment- his! His apartment- was nothing short of therapeutic. 

It was a different sort of cleaning than what he had grown so accustomed to. This time he wasn't stooped over a rusted basin with an improvised washboard, hands and shoulders aching, trying to get blood out of silk or cashmere or whatever the fuck his boss had worn to dinner. Today he was scrubbing down dusty countertops with something lemon-scented. He was wiping grime off windows and cupboard doors. He purchased something called a Swiffer, which was really just a sort of mechanical mop, but it made quick work of the linoleum in his kitchenette and the slightly off-center tiles in the little washroom. He wiped down the walls and faucets and scoured the tub. He installed a new lightbulb in the little ceiling fixture and it shined brightly on the newly cleaned room. It was damn near sparkling in there, and it smelled like a spring meadow.

Robert was tired by the time he finished hanging the brand-new shower curtain. It was pale blue and dotted with a rainbow assortment of flower drawings. It still bore the fold creases from being confined in a plastic sleeve for so long. He stood back in the doorway to admire his work. It was the first time in a long time that anything he did brought a smile to his face. 

He shuffled back to his bed and grabbed a shopping bag a little overstuffed with towels and toiletries. He hadn't been sure what sort of soaps or shampoos to buy for his skin and hair types- there were too fucking many options to choose from- but a very nice lady saw his near-panic in the Health and Beauty section of the local store and helped him make some choices.

Robert gave the tub knobs some twists and the pipes rattled and cold water shot out of the spout. He smiled a little, thankful he hadn't gone with his first idea of stripping and stepping in before checking the water. He held his hand under the stream, flexing his long aching fingers, feeling the warmth start to flow in. He fiddled with the knobs until he found the one that switched the water to the showerhead. Why were there extra knobs, anyway?

Robert stripped and stepped under the spray. Oh, this was nice. So much better than collecting rainwater from a crack in a ceiling or melting snow over a dying fire or jumping fully clothed in a pool- mostly to get the blood and candle wax and glitter off his suit- while his boss went on a blood-sucking bender in the adjacent cult mansion. That cult had a wonderful pool. He remembered hearing music under the water.

Now, there was no music except his laughter. It wasn't a humoured laugh, it was a broken, sobbing sort of laugh, one of pain long pushed aside finally spilling away to relief and peace and disbelief. He gasped and chuckled and felt silly for wanting to wipe away his tears but he fumbled with the curtain and reached for the shopping bag on the floor. Water snaked down his arm and his fingers left little pools on the floor. Oh, well. Robert grabbed a washcloth and rubbed at his face, then realised the full futility of the situation and found the soap and shampoo at the bottom of the bag. A sizable puddle was forming on the tile and he made a mental note to invest in bathroom rugs next.

He scrubbed at his pale skin until it was pink. He briefly thought of all the blood that he'd washed off over the decades and, quietly, he declared aloud, "nope, this is a happy place. I'm not going down that thought path now."

He had become somewhat accustomed to the feel and the smell of his former occupation; it was an odd sensation to suddenly be mindful of how his skin and hair felt. Robert pictured himself as having been in some sort of gore-knitted cocoon for a century. Now, he was breaking out and finding his wings. Or something like that.

Following the directions on the shampoo bottle, Robert lathered, rinsed, and repeated. There was no edict declaring further repetition but he was tempted to because damn it felt good to have his own blunt nails gently scraping his scalp and not pointed claws digging in... 

He rinsed and let his hair fall down over his face and he snickered at how long it was, once the tangles had been worked out. Maybe I need to invest in some hair ties, or scissors. 

Robert shut off the water and squeezed the excess water out of his hair and pulled at the shower curtain- christ, these things like to stick to skin- and stepped, less than gracefully, out of the tub and groped for the shopping bag. He unfurled a brand-new towel, salmon pink, and dried his body, ruffled his hair, and tied the towel about his slender waist. Forgot to buy a robe. Oh, well. God knows I'll be buying more in the coming days...

He wanders out into his apartment, avoiding the lone mirror that came with the place, and collapsed on his bed that was still needing a matching sheet and pillowcase set. He stared at the ceiling. He breathed and listened to the sounds beyond his walls- street noise. Crickets. Murmurs from the floor above. That was it. No voice in his head.

Robert smiled.

Eventually he stood and returned to the bathroom, mopped up the water puddles, hung up his towel, and fetched brand-new bedclothes from the shopping bag.

When was the last time I slept in something besides my suit...

The bedclothes were soft and maybe too warm for the early summer, and the mint green looked nearly bluish next to his pale skin, but he was happy.

Happy.

So that's what that bubbly feeling was.

Robert slept and dreamed.

[argyleheir]

All the Things Jonathan Can No Longer Have Now He’s Undead (Continued)

26. A pint. 27. Pizza. 28. Sunday roast. 29. Cornflakes. 30. Perfect eggs over-easy served beside all the usuals, beans and mushrooms and bacon and tomato and buttered brown bread, and a mug of Darjeeling cooled only a little by the splash of milk. (Related: the feeling of warmth as the tea goes down.) 31. Biscuits, every variety. Expensive ones from the bakery down the street. Oversweet ones from the tin at Christmas. Stale ones from the office cabinet; likewise his landlady's flat; not to mention the ones of his childhood, Garibaldis and pink wafers or whatever else Gran used to put out for tea. Saucer sized, plastic wrapped ones from the newsagent's. The ones Mina used to make. 32. A post-pub curry. 33. Proper chips, straight from the fryer. 34. A birthday cake lit with far too many candles, the wax already melting into the vanilla crème frosting in technicolor dribbles, his friends' faces lit gold, singing. 35. Single malt whisky, poured by Peter Hawkins from his own private reserves, upon the successful closure of the Dracula account.

Find out what else Jonathan can't (and can 😈) do in To the End of the Light, my ongoing 1990s Dracula AU!