#Bes Carrier Oil

[oilsaromaaz]

The Wonders of Organic Carrier Oil for Mind, Body, and Soul

In the rush and bustle of modern life, it's easy to forget the value of self-care. However, amidst the chaos, there exists a natural remedy that has been cherished for centuries for its ability to nurture not just the body, but also the mind and spirit – organic carrier oil.

Organic carrier oils, derived from nature's purest sources, are more than just skincare products; they are potent tools for holistic wellness. From soothing frazzled nerves to rejuvenating tired skin, these oils offer a myriad of benefits that extend far beyond the physical realm, touching the very essence of our being.

Nourishing the Mind:

In a world filled with stress and anxiety, finding moments of calm can feel like a luxury. Organic carrier oils, such as lavender or chamomile, possess natural calming properties that can help ease an overactive mind. Incorporating these oils into our daily routines through aromatherapy or massage can create a serene sanctuary amidst the chaos, allowing us to find inner peace and mental clarity.

Revitalizing the Body:

Our bodies are our temples, deserving of love and care. Organic carrier oils, rich in vitamins, antioxidants, and essential fatty acids, offer a nourishing feast for the skin. Whether used as a luxurious massage oil or as part of a skincare regimen, oils like jojoba or sweet almonds can replenish and hydrate, leaving the skin soft, supple, and radiant. Additionally, certain oils, such as eucalyptus or peppermint, possess therapeutic properties that can relieve muscle tension and inflammation, promoting overall physical well-being.

Uplifting the Spirit:

Beyond their physical benefits, organic carrier oils have the power to uplift the spirit and nourish our inner selves. With their subtle aromas and healing energies, oils like frankincense or rose can elevate our mood, inspire feelings of joy and gratitude, and awaken our spiritual senses. Whether used in meditation, prayer, or simply as a means of self-care, these oils can connect us to the deeper dimensions of our existence, reminding us of our innate connection to the natural world and the universe at large.

Incorporating Organic Carrier Oil into Daily Rituals:

Research Say that incorporating organic carrier oils into our daily rituals is not only easy but also deeply rewarding. We can begin our day by diffusing a few drops of uplifting citrus oil to invigorate our senses and boost our mood. Throughout the day, we can carry a small vial of calming lavender oil to inhale whenever stress threatens to overwhelm us. In the evening, we can treat ourselves to a luxurious massage using soothing chamomile oil to relax our bodies and minds before bedtime. Each moment becomes an opportunity to honor ourselves and prioritize our well-being.

Conclusion:

Organic carrier oil is a versatile and potent ally on our journey to well-being. By incorporating these oils into our daily rituals, we can create moments of peace, joy, and self-care that nourish our minds, bodies, and spirits. So, why not take a moment today to embrace the power of organic carrier oil and embark on a path to holistic wellness that is both simple and transformative?

[whatudottu]

Me, remembering that pill bugs can filter heavy metals from soil:

My brain: You know what this means, don’t you?

Me: What-

My brain: You can make talpaedans part pill bug-

Me, working on amperi headcanons: Wait LET ME FINI-

I’ve gone over a few times that I like to think that talpaedans are techno-organic, less so being silicon or silicone based beings but being an integration of organic carbon materials and the more industrialised physiology of being a walking talking construction equipment. I have also previously made use of the whole ‘machine’ aspect of their natural biology to not only consider them as burrowers, but also as ant-like burrowers with haplodiplody, this form of sex-determination system being used to expand the combinations of construction equipment that an individual talpaedan might have, but also as a basis of which I form the sociopolitical building of talpaedan cities, in which case we have large city state colonies of ant inspired pangolins recreating feudalism Europe of the 10th-13th century.

But up - until this point - there was not quite a lot of circumstances that would allow for actual metallic components to not only present itself biologically but also do so naturally, so with the heavy metal eating pill bug there’s a source of extra inspiration. Oniscidae (apparently the more accurate name for pill bugs/rollie pollies and literally any name under the sun) can remove arsenic (which is actually a metalloid), cadmium, lead, and depending on sources also mercury from the soil; additional metals that can be extracted from soil are copper and zinc. The pill bug in question would crystallise these ions in their gut and create spherical deposits within them, but since we are not talking about the isopod alone surely it isn’t too much of a stretch to the idea that perhaps talpaedans can use these deposits within themselves to feed into the development of their most notable features, their built in equipment?

Assuming that Poiana Lüncas has these metals and that talpaedans would in fact filter for them, in real world human employed Earth uses of these metals can indeed be of fine use. Both arsenic and cadmium can be used as alloys and zinc specifically can galvanise other metals such as iron to prevent rusting, very significant indeed in industry, notably especially with large amounts of zinc can be used in hardware industries. Copper has a very notable use in electronics and wiring of which motors are included, let alone more refined wiring in TVs and radio. And argueably the more infamous of these metals (at least to a standard ‘basic’ level of understanding) we have mercury and lead, the former being used in many different industries for it’s ability to measure the change in temperature and pressure, and the latter for some solders, gasoline/petroleum and wonderfully hazardous cosmetic items that uninformed humanity has come to be harmed by.

ngl, spent a bit of time trying to find an oxygen-carrier of these metals that can feasibly make black blood but i literally do not know if the colour of oxides is in any way relevant to how oxygen-carrier bloodcells would actually be coloured as i’m not a chemist

But in highlighting these metals, I am not simply looking to see if a techno-organic talpaedan can have galvanised armour nor if they come built in with blood pressure monitors. No no no, I am saying more than what talpaedans eat but also what metals can talpaedans have easy access to in the development of technology, and how one might say that actually interacts with the ant-psychology of utterly fucking despising other colony.

Well-

Let’s say that google might be a little concerned about me learning about elements used in the construction of ammunition and radiation protection ehek-!

With the earth tilling that many developing talpaedans need to incorporate necessary metals into their diet, depending on the availabilty of said metals they may be an over abundance for food alone; especially with the pressure of competition of resources in combination with a general disdain for anything extracolonial, a factor that may lead to an escalation of tech development. There is an inherent baseline for technology in talpaedans that would already give their industrialisation a boost, in addition to the materials that may vary on quantity based on the region, colony size, and general population needs. Before long there are city states reinforcing their own barriers and expanding their borders for more and more materials - to consume and to create - to in fact increase and increase the tension between colonies so loud to the point pressure spills like a broken thermometer spills mercury and conflicts arise.

And when everything boils over do they realise that many have to balance the act of raising young and building more weapons, the factor that may in fact be the tipping point to realise that the colonies with the most resources are not only a threat but a threat that can overwhelm on the technological scale and the population number. In spite of how many colonies may indeed hate each other, it is more than worth it to them to compromise and in fact LIVE rather than be caught between the suddenly unveiling superpowers of the world that had previously lay unknown thanks to willful ignorance. Decimation of land is significantly reduced from cataclysmic to catastrophic as entire colonies are rased and in fact dug out into craters, many war-era alliances held to the modern day of Poiana Lüncas. A tithing - remnants of the treaties formed at the peak of desperation - of the youngest generation of adult men stands as both tradition and of appeasement, a colony trade and marriage across many different colonial alliances as a symbol of what had to be done before, sharing resources and rearing while the soldiers fought to live.

And all of this because they got a pill bug diet see this is why ants aren’t allowed to have materials for megaton bombs smh 😞

[ferritins]

PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ | B. WAYNE

SUMMARY: You’re Bruce Wayne’s long suffering personal assistant. On a time crunch, you (re)teach him how to apply cologne.

NOTES: belligerent tension, Bruce is characterised more on the socialite side than Batman, though Batman is alluded to. Suggestive ending.

For all the years that you’ve been his PA, you’ve never quite understood the borderline hysteria surrounding Bruce Wayne.

The perils of having a pretty face and old money, you suppose; sex appeal sells, and the prestige of an established name and old money that lend him an air of modern-day Gilded Age aristocrat surely can’t hurt.

Not that it's of particular interest or importance to you; you're a member of the hoi polloi through and through.

The closest to celebrity you've ever come is being mistaken as Bruce’s latest paramour in some of your more extravagant efforts trying to prevent his sartorial and interpersonal disasters before they happen.

Speaking of which; as he goes to apply his cologne, you drop the lint roller you're passing over his broad shoulders and the elegant lines of his Kiton suit and grab his wrist before he can douse himself in the strong scent, aghast.

“You’re not putting cologne on like that, surely?”

Bruce quirks a dark eyebrow. "Unless you're expecting me to break the bottle over my head, sweetheart, there's not really another way to apply cologne."

“I am choosing to ignore that nickname, because unlike you, I am a consummate professional.” You inform Bruce, tone somewhere between haughty and resigned. “I know you know how to wear cologne. Mr. Pennyworth is the gentleman’s gentleman, there’s no way he didn’t teach you.”

“Oh, Alfred gets Mr. Pennyworth, but I get Bruce?”

“Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t tear loaned formal wear, disappear at inoppurtune moments, or make a tit of himself at networking events.” You huff. “You, however…”

Bruce chuckles, all baritenor delight at your insouciance towards him.

You roll your eyes.

Spray some on your wrists and dab them together, then come here and loosen your tie."

“Not that I'm not flattered, but I really don’t think we've got the time." He teases, daubing the cologne on his wrists, long fingers of his unoccupied hand working the Windsor knot of his tie loose.

Immune to his affected charm through long exposure, you sigh.

“Keep it in your trousers, Bruce. Tonight, you're learning how to wear cologne properly, again. Do you mind if I unbutton your collar?"

Bruce hums a permissive note, gaze hawkish as you step into his personal space.

“Right. So, as you already know, you want to put cologne at the pulse points on either side of your neck; your body heat will help the alcohol carrier agent evaporate faster. If you're using a lighter fragrance or a perfume oil, you'd put it behind your ears." You explain.

As you speak, you pluck the bottle of fragrance from his grasp with your unoccupied hand, and spritz his neck with it, swapping hands to hold his collar away and do the same the other side of his neck.

Finally, you spray the base of his neck; the mist of cologne gathers into a single small droplet that traces down into the hollow of his suprasternal notch.

“(All done.” You announce, stepping back.

Bruce buttons up his collar, works the silk of his tie back into a Windsor knot with infuriating ease.

“I still think it would have been less fuss to just spray it on over the fabric.”

“Lazy. Just be thankful you don't have to do your ankles." You say as you turn to put the bottle back on the dark oak of his dresser.

Heinously late, cognition kicks in, and the realisation of what you’ve just said strikes you like a thunderbolt. You close your eyes briefly, hoping against hope that Bruce’s more airheaded tendencies have kicked in, and the context has flown over his head.

When you finally steel yourself enough to turn back to face him, you find that the universe has not been so merciful; Bruce is staring at you, a wicked glee in his expression.

"Anyway! That’s specifically to perfume." You obfuscate. "The car is probably out front by now; if you're done, let's head out."

“No, no; you’re going to explain that delightful little tidbit before we go anywhere.”

Heat floods your face.

“You clearly know exactly what I meant. Let it go, it was a faux pas.”

Bruce says your name in a low rumble.

You parrot his name back at him in a faintly beseeching tone, begging him not to choose this moment to be a petty tyrant.

Bruce’s response is to raise an expectant eyebrow.

The standoff lasts as long as it takes you to check your watch, your resolve fracturing at the first hint of threat to your meticulously crafted schedule.

“Fine!” You snap, stepping close and dropping your voice to a murmur, to minimise the odds of anyone overhearing the frankly mortifying disclosure.

“You spray perfume on your ankles so that when you've got them over your partner's shoulders, they'll associate the perfume with you."

A faint flush floods the high planes of Bruce’s cheekbones, even as his smile turns gloating and distinctly carnivorous.

C Caught up in your own humiliation, you push past him, out of the dressing room, and quite miss the way his eyes trail down your legs to where the jut of your ankle bone is emphasised by your heels, and the considering smirk that his mouth pulls into as he follows you.

[fourmoony]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬

james potter x f!reader, modern college au, 1.3k

cw: smoking, past rejection, implied self-esteem issues

summary: reader isn't as subtle as she thinks about her crush on jamie

James is propped up against the hood of his car when you pull into the space next to his. He's talking to Sirius and Remus, who stand a few paces in front of James, both smoking a cigarette. Technically, they're not supposed to smoke on campus, but you doubt anyone would be stupid enough to mention that to Sirius Black and his infamously smart-mouthed boyfriend.

James turns his gaze to you as your engine cuts out, keys jangling in your hand and he lifts his hand in a wave. You wave back, half focussed on collecting the multitude of things on your passenger seat and stuffing them into your bag. The carrier bag in your footwell snags your attention, heart stammering a little with the reminder of what lies inside. It's cool. In your opinion, a very cool poster. One you know James has been looking for, for months. His favourite band.

But there's a voice in the back of your head, one born of being fourteen and asking a crush out, only to be told you'd gotten the wrong idea. A voice born of years of being lusted after, but not wanted. It's a voice that tells you James might assume you got this poster because you fancy him and find it weird.

And, sure. You might have went to the lengths of scrolling the internet for hours and paying extra for express shipping because you couldn't wait to see his smile when he unveiled it, to watch his eyes crinkle at the corners with excitement. There's something so overwhelmingly pretty and soft about James Potter. You've been living with that heavy admittance in your chest all semester and next week, your final term of sharing classes with James will end and you want him to remember you. You want to be able to say you tried.

But you don't want him to know all of that.

With a glance, you look back to James. He's waiting patiently for you, still talking to Sirius and Remus. The bag crinkles when you pick it up, the anxiety prickling over your skin like a heat rash. His friends offer you kind smiles when you exit the car, bag slung over your shoulder and the framed poster in hand. "Your engine doesn't sound great, love. You checked your oil recently?" Sirius asks, foregoing a proper greeting.

James laughs at the same time Remus rolls his eyes, akin to a love sick fool even when he's pretending not to be. "Ignore him," Remus drawls, flicking his cigarette to the ground, "He's decided he's going to be a mechanic."

In the year you've known Sirius Black, he's decided he's going to be an artist, then the lead singer of a band, then a lawyer, then a pilot, and now, he's going to be a mechanic. You hope, one day, that one might stick. Though, you've seen how much he loves his motorbike and would put money on the mechanic idea sticking around for a while longer than the time he wanted to buy a zoo.

"Oh, right. You can have a look if you like, but Jamie filled the oil last week." You tell Sirius, who scowls at his best friend.

James smiles kindly when you settle beside him against his car, leaning over to bump your shoulder with his bicep. His height difference is nothing, compared to Remus, but you still have to look up to meet his kind eyes. "Hi." He says.

"Hey."

Sirius scoffs, "Hi."

James pointedly ignores him, "What's in the bag?"

Your eyes nervously flick to Sirius and Remus, the former becoming incredibly interested in what's in the bag as well. Remus must sense your hesitation, because he grabs his boyfriend by the wrist and turns to walk away. "See you later, Prongs. Bye, love."

Sirius can be heard causing a scene even when Remus has dragged him half way across the student parking area. You smile after them fondly.

"You gonna make me guess?" James asks, pushing off of his car to stand and face you.

You have to crane your neck even worse to meet his eyes at this angle, but it's worth it. They're so light in the morning sun they look crystallised. He looks amused, lips twitching as he looks down at you. Heat prickles over your skin as he assesses you. "What's in the bag?"

You hand it to him, wordlessly, and nod for him to look inside. He pulls the frame, turning it until he can see the poster inside. His brows furrow, then lift, his lips parting in surprise. Genuine joy passes through his eyes and you wonder how someone can be so readable, so expressive. His beauty astounds you.

James looks at you, mouth opening and closing like he can't find the words.

"It's for you," You offer, rather dumbly, "Obviously."

James laughs a little breathless, the sound sending your heart slamming into your rib cage. "Where on earth?" He asks, bewildered.

"It's a secret. But I know how long you've wanted one, so I had it framed for safe keeping."

"Thank you," James slides the frame back into the bag, sets it to lean against the front of his car. "Seriously, thank you."

You shrug, hoping it's somewhat believable. "No big deal."

James rolls his eyes at your nonchalance. "Can I hug you? Is that too much? I feel like I should hug you."

You laugh, the feeling of anxiety lifting as James reaches forward to wrap his arms around you. He's warm and soft and smells like cologne and freshly washed clothes. His arms squeeze you tight, his nose buried in your hair where he's hunched over.

"Let me take you to dinner or something, as a thank you." James says as he pulls away, unlocking his car to place the frame safely in the passenger footwell.

"Really, James, you don't have to do that. It's just a poster." You wave him off, pushing off of the car and collecting your bag.

James follows as you walk, shoulder to bicep, skin brushing and your heart in your mouth from the contact alone. "I'm taking you to dinner. Not because I have to, but because I want to."

You find yourself fighting a smile, "Well if you want to." Your voice is teasing an it makes James smile.

"I do. It's a date." James tells you, like it's nothing.

You've halted in the doorway he's holding open for you, head tilting to look into his face. To be sure. To make sure he's not kidding, to make sure he doesn't mean a 'friend date'. He smiles, knowingly.

"You're not subtle, you know," He ushers you through the door, eager to make it to your class on time, "That poster is not easy to find, nor is it cheap."

"It's what friends do." You protest, cheeks warm and palms sweaty.

You brace for rejection, for a joke, for the 'I just don't see you that way'. But James rolls his eyes, reaching around you for the door to the classroom, "Friend's don't go on dates."

"We haven't been on a date." You laugh, incredulously, leading James to your usual seats.

It's a nice feeling, a warm feeling, to feel suddenly safe within your conversation. To feel the normal level of comfort you do with James, even when putting yourself out there. James frowns, "We've been on multiple dates. The library, the cafeteria, the coffee shop just off campus. We even went to that Ethics seminar that one time!"

It takes looking at him to realise he's kidding, the corners of his lips twitching up until he can't fight it anymore. It should be unsettling, for him to make a joke of it. But as he sits, his hand brushes over your shoulder, a gentle touch that sets your skin on fire. "I'm kidding, when I take you out for real, there'll be no confusion on whether or not it's a date."

His breath fans over your ear, warm and his voice thick and you think you might pass out, saved only by the entrance of your professor. James settles in, sends you a wink that has you more flustered than it should.

"Noted." You whisper, though you don't imagine James has heard you.

[ad-caelestia]

basic ass witch tips 🔮

[revised post from ~2018 & last edited on 9.29.24]

please note that these are all related to things i have actually seen discussed or mentioned. please do your research before blindly following the advice of someone online, myself included.

if you're on some kind of medication, including but not limited to hormonal birth control, heart medication, and anti-depressants, double check with your healthcare professional/provider [HCP] before you drink that new tea you just bought.

always, always, always tell your HCP before trying any kind of herbal supplement, whether it’s something you made yourself or something you bought at the store.

have a diagnosed medical condition? talk to your HCP before ingesting anything or putting anything on your body that you aren’t familiar with.

don’t. drink. essential. oils. essential oils are not consumable!!!!!

citrus oils can cause photosensitivity, or being sensitive to light and more susceptible to sunburns so be mindful when using these oils on your skin.

if it hasn't been emphasized enough, PLEASE dilute your essential oils before use! common carrier oils are grapeseed, castor, olive, coconut, avocado, almond, etc.

oil and water don't mix, so you would need to use an alcohol based solution with essential oils to dilute them that way (if you plan to use them for a spray or something of that nature).

be mindful of using sprays, incense, powders, etc. that could release particulates into the air around pets or those who have allergies, respiratory issues, etc.

don't involve your pets in your practice in a way that could be harmful to them - no essential oils on them, no crystals in their water bowl, no moon water that's been sitting on your shelf for weeks.

i beg you, please don't put crystals in any uh bodily orifices.

there are some herbs you absolutely cannot burn (or use safely, really) for any reason, so make sure you're educated on all that beforehand; yew, for example, is highly toxic and potentially fatal if consumed or inhaled. the leaves, bark, and seeds contains a chemical called taxine, which is what some of the most hardcore chemotherapies are made from so keep that in the back of your mind.

that being said, please wear gloves and use common sense if you decide to forage for your own herbs or plants. i know that plant identifying apps exist so if you have a smartphone, that might be a good place to start.

putting salt on grass does a couple of things: salt removes moisture from the soil, thus drying out the grass and killing it; and, salt causes chloride to build up in the soil, thus making it toxic which inhibits chlorophyll production, leading the grass to eventually "starve" and die - please don't do this.

don't leave candles unattended - even small ones; it's not a good habit to get into.

also!! crystal balls in direct sunlight can cause a fire so be careful!

more fire stuff - be mindful of the environment and also safety so check for burn bans before you make a fire outdoors.

sterile lancets, not needles or pins. that's all i'm gonna say about that.

don't drink water you collected from anywhere outside unless you plan to properly filter it first.

if you plan to store water for later use (moon water, for example), refrigerate it or set it in a cool, dark place.

distilled water is free of minerals and contaminants so it has a longer shelf life than tap or bottled water - keep this in mind when making charged waters or other potion type things.

fresh herbs or other things of that nature left at room temperature can also grow super harmful bacteria. for example, putting raw garlic in olive oil and leaving it at room temperature will end as a breeding ground for botulism and mold.

be safe out there!

© 2024 𝚊𝚍-𝚌𝚊𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊

[bellaxgiornata]

SAHD!Frank Castle Headcanons

I picture Frank being an amazing, hands-on father if he ever managed to fall back into that role again and I just think he'd make such a wonderful stay-at-home-dad. I couldn't resist sharing some of my SAHD!Frank headcanons so they're below the cut! And I'm also just going to make him a girl dad here because he absolutely is in my mind.

I could also certainly be persuaded to share some girl dad!Frank Castle headcanons...

With the ridiculous cost of daycare, you and Frank would eventually come to the conclusion that it was just more cost effective to have one of you stay home with the girls. And while you might be tempted to do it yourself, you'd also know how much Frank would cherish being present for every moment with his kids. He'd never want to miss a single thing after the tragic loss he'd experienced, and you'd have already seen his steadfast devotion during your pregnancy. While he would argue that you should be the one to stay home with them, eventually you would win out.

On weekdays, Frank would be awake early every morning--possibly even before your alarm went off. He'd always have a mug of hot coffee or tea made for you whenever you finally stepped foot into the kitchen. And when you did, you'd find him preparing breakfast for the girls. He'd always make you up a plate of whatever he cooked, insisting you eat something before you were out the door for work ("You gotta eat, baby. Just a few bites, c'mon."). And Wednesdays would forever be known as pancake day in your house.

Frank would never run out of activities to do with the kids, even if you found some of them to be very 'Frank.' He'd have them help him build things (a new bookshelf, a baby crib, a birdhouse, etc), and he'd teach them what tools to use while he's at it. He'd have them assist him with changing the oil in the car, fixing a leaky sink, or preparing vegetables in the kitchen for dinner (with child-safe knives that he always complained to you later about how "they can't cut for shit."). When playfully teased about the things he teaches them, he'd tell you he wanted your girls to learn "the real shit they won't get from school."

Every Friday is Library Day in the Castle house. Frank would take the girls to the library in the morning for story time where he would sit back and watch with a big grin on his face as his girls sat "criss-cross applesauce" among all the other kids and listened to the books with rapt attention. Aftwerwards, he'd let them pick out new books for bedtime for the upcoming week. Then he would always make the morning extra special by taking the girls out for brunch.

He loves nothing more than to free up more time for all of you to spend together as a family on the weekend, so he would be the dad running errands during the weekdays with a toddler holding each of his hands (or a baby strapped to his chest in a carrier). He'd be out grabbing groceries, hitting up the hardware/home improvement store so he could work on projects around the house, or he'd be taking the kids to their doctor/dentist appointments so you wouldn't have to think about it later.

Frank would be the cool dad at all the parks, the one not afraid to play with his kids and push them on the swings. He'd be making small talk with the other moms and setting up play dates for his girls. He'd also be the one all the other kids flocked to on the playground whenever he was there because he was known to easily be persuaded into playing hide and seek or tag.

A few times throughout the month, Frank would stop by your work just before your lunch break to drop off food with the girls as an excuse to see you ("Had to come see my favorite girl. Wanted to make sure you're not workin' too hard."). You always loved it even more on the random occasions that your lunch came with a bouquet of flowers--either store bought or freshly picked on a walk by him and your girls.

If Frank knew you had a big presentation coming up or that you were just having a rough week/day, you could always count on coming home to something he made with the girls--pictures they colored or crafts they made--to cheer you up ("S'posed to be a butterfly ring or something. Shit, I don't know. Girls wanted to do somethin' with pipe cleaners. Blame YouTube.")

At the end of a long work day, you'd come home to see that dinner was almost finished cooking most nights. You'd either find Frank out back with a beer in one hand grilling while the girls were playing in the yard, or he would be in the kitchen surrounded by high-pitched laughter.

And when you came home from a long day of work, you could always count on Frank greeting you with the biggest smile. He'd wrap you up in his big arms and give you the sweetest kiss, even if he had to pause cooking dinner ("Missed you today, sweetheart. Hope you're hungry."). It would be the thing you looked forward to most at the end of every day, especially on particularly difficult days.

[midnightbears]

✿ duskbound, afterlight.

#STARRING: cybertronian femme reader & other characters.

#TAGS: a lot violence. death. anxiety and angst. mc goes haywire for a few minutes. flashbacks. mentions of cybertronian blood. anxiety. no appearance of canon characters.

#NOTES: here's the third chapter of my fic which i've officially named duskbound, afterlight. enjoy!

part one | part two | part four | part five

taglist: @buubblegum

You were knocked back a meter or two before you clutched your mid-section, your tank twisting and the sizzling air of Kaon burning inside you. Clumsily, you tried to counter his next jab, but the kick sent to your knee plates caused you to buckle and fall like a sack of stones.

Panic gripped you like a vice as you desperately attempted to defend yourself, your movements erratic, uncoordinated. But your efforts proved futile against the experienced maneuvers of the mech. Blow after blow rained down upon you, each sending shockwaves of pain through your circuits.

The sharp, metallic tang of energon permeated the atmosphere, curling around you like a shimmering veil. It intertwined with the pungent aroma of oil and various fluids, creating an intoxicating compound that stung your olfactory sensors. Your ventilators whirred incessantly, battling against the oppressive heat that threatened to overwhelm you at any moment.

A heavy blow landed squarely on your chassis, sending you crashing to the ground with a resounding clang. As you struggled to regain footing, your opponent loomed over you, their optics gleaming with malice.

With a surge of adrenaline, you lashed out with renewed determination, striking back with all the strength you could muster. But it was too little, too late.

The mech quickly overpowered your feeble attempts at resistance, driving you back with relentless force, and suddenly, you lay sprawled upon the unforgiving floor of the arena. You gasped as your servos instinctively clad around the mech’s, which were pressing against your neck plates. Darkness surrounded you as the mech towered over you, swallowing you whole.

The volume of the crowd was loud enough to sound as if the whole of Cybertron had packed into the small stadium. With coolant and energon streaming down your cheeks, you surrendered to the inevitable. This was it. You were going to die here. Your spirit broken, your hope extinguished in the merciless light of the arena.

Only, gazing into the light, you were transported to a much simpler time.

"If you could change anything in the world, what would it be?"

The chamber was extremely quiet, save for the occasional tinkle from Starlight’s digits as she caressed her daughter’s helm, comfortably snuggled on her carrier’s breastplates and sleeping her questionably-earned exhaustion away.

"Mmh," you hummed out loud, turning to look at your friend from your berth, "I don’t know, what would you change?"

Starlight smiled harder, though the rest of her face plates remained the same, so it was quite the rare expression. "I wish Vaportrail was born in a nicer place, Cybertropolis, maybe."

"You wouldn’t wish to change anything for yourself?" you asked.

"I have you, and there’s not another you anywhere in all of Cybertron."

Starlight, was this what you felt before dying?

Starlight, was this what you felt before being killed?

Starlight, was this what you felt before being murdered?

You couldn’t breathe. Black tinged the edges of your vision. Then it turned red, scarlet, maroon. In that moment, something snapped inside you like a sea wave crashing against the rocks at the beach, like the snapping of a rubber band, like a balloon being popped, and all semblance of fear evaporated, replaced by a singular focus: revenge.

An awful rage so deep it reminisced the sun started bubbling inside you. A wave of anger so profound it dried up every drop of liquid in the world and replaced it with sand. Indignation blurred everything you’d ever been and ever would be, and you felt yourself gaining colossal strength. You needed revenge. You needed it like you needed to breathe. You wanted him to hurt.

And so, when your tremoring was at its greatest, your resentment was beyond bitterness and revenge, and the mech was about to enclose you in a makeshift grave—you just let go.

With a guttural scream that echoed across the arena, you unleashed your pent-up fury upon your assailant. You struggled and battled with a wild intensity fueled by nothing but the sweet, cold feel of revenge, scratching and gnawing as you attempted to escape from the hold that confined you.

Dams broke, and your processor slipped into a high of adrenaline so strong you didn’t know whether your body would purposely overheat. You couldn’t feel the pain of your wounds or the shooting pains in your gauntlets and your mandible. Had you inwardly deactivated your pain receptors?

You wrestled the weapon from your opponent's grasp with a lethal cascade of adrenaline-fueled strength and swung the blade in his direction.

The keen clangor of the blade hitting the mech's helm wreaked the arena into a hysterical state.

The mech stumbled backward with a scream as he gripped his facial plates.

But you didn't just stop there.

You leaned over him and swung the blade.

It found the base of his helmet.

A sickening crunch of metal against metal.

The mech staggered. He even dared to gasp in shock.

You swung again, a pained cry leaving his dermas.

Another crack.

You pulled back your elbow, a spray of energon hitting you on the plates of your face.

You swung again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Ag̷̹͈̭̟͎̰̳̳͙̞̃̈́̌͑͒̍̐͠͠ain.

Agá̷̧̡̨̛̪̫͍̻͓̭̖̠̿̎̾̍͛͝in.

A̸̖̳̠͊g̷̹͈̭̟͎̰̳̳͙̞̃̈́̌͑͒̍̐͠͠á̷̧̡̨̛̪̫͍̻͓̭̖̠̿̎̾̍͛͝i̵̝̖̬̬͐̿̓̒͆̐̄̀͠ņ̷̤͕̣̙͈̏͌̎̃̎̾̀̃͒̓͊͗̽̚͝

W̸̧̘̣̝̻͎͕͉̥͖̋͊̍̌̅̚ì̷̝͋͠th a final, cathartic scream of defiance, you drove the blade deep into the mech’s helm, watching with grim satisfaction as sparks flew and circuits sputtered.

There was a brief, abrupt silence while the mech moaned more quietly, attempting to move. It crumpled inward with a low huff.

A pool of energon gushed out from his wounds, soiling the ground around him as you backed away to watch him die. You were shaking—breathing heavily, limbs quivering with exhaustion—and moments later, the other gladiator went limp.

You willed yourself to raise a hand toward your dermas, coolant pooling around your optics.

But the spectators erupted as your servos went up to your face.

And when the adrenaline finally wore off, you were almost sent to the ground at their sheer volume.

They were cheering for you.

It only took a moment to register the blinding pain.

You turned around and stumbled away from the pit and into the building, your optics tracing the ground and your servo scratching at the metallurgic skin over your sternum to ensure that your spark was still whole.

You stumbled down the corridors, the roaring cheers from the arena fading distantly and morphing into something you could not comprehend anymore, but their echoes still haunted your audials. The steady drip of energon from your body was driving you crazy, some of it your own, but most of it not.

Your servos trembled uncontrollably, the once-raw adrenaline slowly draining from your systems, replaced with an overwhelming surge of panic. I killed him. I killed him. The words repeated in your processor like a damaged disk, a nightmarish chant you couldn't silence no matter how hard you tried. Your optics darted around wildly as you moved deeper into the complex.

The tunnel's cool metallic walls closed around you. You forced yourself to keep moving, your breathing shallow and frantic, as if the very walls themselves were constricting around your chassis, squeezing tighter with each second. 

Your servos—trembling, bloodied—kept reaching for the walls, hoping to steady yourself, but every step sent your processor spinning. You were panting, desperate not to overheat your body, vision blurring as your optics struggled to focus. What have I done?

Then, you saw it.

In the dim light of the tunnel, your optics caught a glint—a flash of silver reflecting the low glow of the overhead lights. You staggered toward it, desperate for something, anything to ground you. The surface of a discarded metal panel gleamed like a mirror, and it was there that you saw yourself.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your reflection stared back at you, but it was a version of yourself you didn’t recognize.

Your armor, dented and scratched, was smeared with dried energon, your own, and the mech’s you had killed. Your pale and trembling faceplates were streaked with the liquid, your optics wild and wide in disbelief. You could barely make out your features beneath the mess of fluids and grime.

You looked... feral. Broken.

But alive.

You were alive.

Somehow, against all odds, you had survived.

Your trembling slowed. The ragged, panicked breaths you’d been drawing in deepened as you stared at your reflection, the horrible truth settling into the pit of your spark. You had made it through that pit of death. You had won.

Slowly, your servos reached up, brushing over the dried fluids and scratches as if confirming that the wrecked reflection was indeed yours. You were bruised, battered, drenched in energon—but you were still standing.

That strange, cold realization started to settle in your spark.

"I’m… alive."

Then, cutting through the fragile silence, a voice crackled through the speakers above you, the distorted sound making you cringe.

"Winner," the voice declared.

You recognized the voice immediately.  Bullway. His tone was cold, devoid of emotion, and very different from the charming facade he’d put on in your old satellite. "I want to see you. Now."

A chill ran down your spinal strut. Bullway. If he wanted to see you, it wasn’t because he wanted to congratulate you on your victory. Had you done something wrong? You had won. You had given them the entertainment they wanted!

Your optic twitched as Bullway’s voice echoed in your audials again. You swallowed hard, your stabilizers shaking as you tried to regain your footing. There was no time to hesitate. You had no choice in this. If he wanted to see you, then you had to go.

Taking one final look at your reflection—bloodied, battered, but alive—you wiped a trembling servo across your faceplates as if trying to erase the horror of what you had just done. But it didn’t come off and just smeared across your cheek like a second paintjob.

You turned just in time to see a mech waiting for you across the hall.

"Hey, come with me."

Not trusting your voicebox to articulate what you wanted to say correctly, you wordlessly nodded, following after him.

Albeit a small part of you felt smug about it, you didn’t comment on how the mech visibly cringed at the energon staining your faceplates, quietly realizing that he was walking a great distance from you, as though if something he said would set you off the wrong way. As if you would repeat your previous actions upon him.

A few clicks later, you noted that the hallways were different, and with great dismay, you realized that he wasn’t leading you to the bosses’ offices. An ugly thought of what they might do to you now that you had unexpectedly won the match knocked on your processor. It would explain why the guard was leading you somewhere else. Your optics widened as it appeared and disappeared just as quickly.

"Hey," you called out to him, waiting until he briefly turned his head to glance your way. "Where are you taking me? This is not the way to see the bosses."

"The lobby." he said curtly, "You’ve won your place there with us, gladiators only."

"You’re a gladiator?"

"Yeah," he nodded, turning to look at you. "We were told there would be a match worth watching, so we all knew that Bullway had snatched a new batch of rookies from somewhere. Normally, rookies lose, bloody fights and all."

"I didn’t lose."

"That you didn’t," he answered, a ghost of a smile pulling at his dermas. "It was a horrible fight, you know. You finished it quickly and left right after. You gotta drag it out nicely if you want the audience to go crazy, but knowing that you are a rookie, I guess that’s why the crowds went wild."

The mech's relaxed demeanor grated on you, sharply contrasting with the turmoil still bubbling under your armor. You could sense the adrenaline coursing through you, the lingering echoes of the bloodlust that had propelled you through that arena, and now this gladiator was speaking as if it were just another routine battle.

As if the brutality you’d unleashed was nothing more than an expected performance. His words only heightened the gnawing discomfort in your spark, but you forced yourself to stay calm.

"Is it like that for everyone?" you asked, voice strained but steady. "Just... another fight?"

The mech glanced at you from the corner of his optics, his pace slowing just enough for you to fall in line beside him. "For some, yeah. For others, it's a way of life. Once you’ve been in the arena long enough, it’s just routine. You win, you survive. You lose, well... you don’t have to worry about much after that."

His matter-of-fact tone, almost automaton-like, grated on your nerves incessantly. There was nothing routine about what you'd just done. You looked away, staring down the dimly lit hallway as you walked, trying to ignore the thick, cloying scent of oil and energon still clinging to your frame.

"I didn’t expect it to feel like that," you muttered, almost to yourself.

"Like what?"

"Like I became someone else."

He gave you another sidelong glance, his optic ridge rising slightly as he considered your words. "Yeah, that happens. You change in the pit. It's not always for the better."

You stopped walking for a moment, your steps faltering. He paused too, turning to look at you, his expression unreadable. You could feel the rage from earlier simmering again, but it was different now—colder, more focused. Disdainful.

The mech took a step toward you, saying, "First time’s always the hardest. But you fought, and you lived. That’s what matters. No one’s going to ask you how you feel about it."

You scoffed, the bitterness in your processor spilling into your voice. "I bet they won't. As long as I keep bleeding for them."

He shrugged, as if that was just the way things were. "That’s the game. But hey, at least now you’re in it. There are worse places to be."

"Yeah?" you muttered, bitterness twisting your words. "Like dead?"

He didn’t answer immediately, his optics studying your face for a beat too long. "Something like that."

Before you could respond, the hallway opened into a larger space, a sprawling, multi-leveled chamber. Above and around you, several balconies arced around the space in a tiered structure, almost like a coliseum turned inside out. Each level was packed with mechs—some leaning over rusted railings, others pacing along narrow walkways, their heavy footsteps echoing through the chamber.

From these balconies, stairs spiraled down to the main floor, where groups of gladiators clustered together, some repairing their armor, others sharpening weapons or talking in hushed tones. A few glanced up at you as you entered, their optics lingering on your energon-stained form for a moment before they returned to their own business.

The smell of energon hung thick in the air, integrated with the acrid tang of oil and the metallic scent of freshly-welded parts. Overhead, dim lights flickered erratically, casting long shadows across the grime-slicked floor. In one corner, a group of mechs were hunched over a makeshift table, clearly gambling away whatever shanix they had earned in the pits.

Here and there, you could spot racks of weapons—blades, maces, guns—lined up along the walls like trophies. Some mechs were testing them out, and the sound of sharpening blades and the low thrum of power cells charging filled the space. Despite the noise, an underlying tension threaded through the room, like a wire stretched too thin.

You caught a few mechs eyeing the stains that marred your armor, their optics narrowing with curiosity and something else—respect, maybe, or wariness. It wasn’t clear. You knew what they saw when they looked at you: a newcomer, fresh out of the pit, still drenched in energon—both yours and your opponent's. And yet, you had survived.

The mech beside you nudged your shoulder gently. "This is it. Gladiators’ lobby."

Everything was interrupted by the sudden, sharp clang of a door being thrown open.

All optics snapped toward the entrance as Bullway stormed in, his heavy frame rattling the metal grating beneath his peds. His presence was electric, and even the more seasoned gladiators went quiet at the sight of his fury.

No one was scared of him, not really, but everyone agreed it'd be better if they didn't anger the one bot who controlled rations and the few things allowed for entertainment.

You, of course, weren't aware of this rule.

His optics, blazing with indignation, zeroed in on you.

"You," he barked, jabbing a thick servo in your direction, his frame practically vibrating angrily. "You just cost me one of the best gladiators I’ve ever had."

Bullway’s voice reverberated through the chamber, louder than even the murmurs of mechs on the balconies. His tone was sharp and accusing, and the heat in his optics made it clear that he hadn’t come to congratulate you.

You straightened your frame but didn’t get a chance to speak before he stomped closer, his bulk imposing.

"I thought it'd be a good fight, figured he’d rough you up a bit, maybe teach you a lesson. But no, you had to go and kill him!" His fists clenched tightly, the metal creaking. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to build him into the fighter he was? And you—you just walk in there and ruin him in your first damn match!"

The crowd watched you both closely, their optics flicking between Bullway and you like they were watching another fight unfold. He was livid, but there was more behind his anger. It wasn’t just the loss of a fighter—there was humiliation, too. Bullway had bet on the wrong outcome, and now he was making it your problem.

You felt your spark flare with defiance. The words tore out of your mouth before you could stop them.

"I didn’t ask to be here," you shot back, stepping forward, the energon staining your frame somehow making you more confident in yourself. "But I won. Fair and square."

Bullway sneered, towering over you now. "Won? You think this is about winning? That mech was supposed to be my winner. You were just a piece of bait! A rookie!"

"Y/N."

His visage morphed into confusion at the single word that left your mouth, though there were still traces of the anger that had previously plagued his faceplates.

Your optics narrowed, and you repeated yourself. "Y/N. That is my name. Use it."

Bullway blinked, taken aback for a split second before his expression twisted into cruel amusement. "A name? You think that matters? In this place, you don’t have names. You’re all just numbers, commodities, pieces of metal to be used up and thrown away when I’m done with you. And I couldn’t care less what you want to call yourself."

His words stung. Bitterly, he was reminding you of what you’d been reduced to in this violent, brutal world. Yet, despite his callous dismissal, you held your ground. You were more than just a number now, more than the faceless gladiator he wanted to make you. You weren’t H-08 anymore, at least, not to yourself.

You hadn’t been since the day Starlight changed everything.

"My name," you said slowly, wiping energon from your cheek as your voice trembled with both defiance and strength, "is Y/N."

Bullway’s optics flared, but you didn’t stop. His words, his mockery—none of it could erase the truth of who you were.

You had once been H-08, a nameless designation in the cold, sterile halls of the satellite where you’d been force to mine until your protoform ran out of strenght—a number, nothing more. You hadn’t even thought it mattered, hadn’t known it could matter, until Starlight came along. She’d been the one to look past the designation, to see you for who you were, not what they made you to be.

She didn’t see you and think, "What is she for?" but instead, "What is she like? What are her hopes and dreams?" She didn’t once think to see you above or below her. Nor did she ever think you were better than her or she better than you. You were her equal; she drilled that into you.

Starlight had always pushed you to choose a name, something that was yours and no one else’s, just like how she had chosen Vaportrail’s name.

"You deserve that. Not a number, not some cold code in a system. A real name. One that means something to you."

At first, you hadn’t understood why it mattered. Why choosing a name felt like reclaiming something, like grabbing hold of a piece of yourself that had been hidden away. But as time passed, you’d grown into it, and when you finally said it out loud for the first time, Starlight’s optics had gleamed with pride.

That name was all you had left of her now, and you weren’t about to let Bullway or anyone else take it from you.

Bullway snorted, his optics narrowing. "Whatever you call yourself—it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still standing here because I let you. Don’t forget that."

But his words fell flat against the wall of resolve that had built up inside you. You met his glare without flinching, the weight of your name grounding you. You were Y/N, and no matter how many battles or insults Bullway threw your way, that wouldn’t change.

"I didn’t ask for this," you said, your voice initially a whisper, but soon growing into words that the entire room could hear, "but you threw me in that pit, and I survived. I earned my place here, and I’ll keep earning it. Don’t talk to me like I’m some scrap metal to be tossed around. I won. He lost. That’s how this works, isn’t it?"

The defiance in your voice seemed to shock him, and for a moment, the entire lobby went deathly silent. The mechs perched on the balconies leaned forward slightly, some in surprise, others in thinly veiled approval.

"You think that makes you special?" he spat, "Killing one gladiator doesn’t make you invincible."

"I don’t need to be invincible. Just strong enough to survive."

Bullway glared at you for what felt like an eternity, his faceplates tight with frustration. Finally, he exhaled, stepping back just enough to let the tension drop a fraction. His optics roamed over you as if sizing up what you had left after that brutal match.

"Well, congratulations," he said, turning on his heel sharply. "You survived. But don’t think this is over. There’s always someone bigger and stronger waiting, and next time, I won’t care how long they’ve been in the pit. You better be ready."

The door slammed behind him, the echo reverberating through the lobby.

"Don’t just stand there like a lamppost!" A mech seated by the stairs raised his voice, causing you to look his way instinctively. "For Primus’ sake, look at her. Somebot take her to the infirmary!"

[seat-safety-switch]

"Hey, buddy, you've been hogging the Supercharger® long enough," emits the carrier signal of a Tesla owner. They're right to be upset. Ever since they opened up their fancy DC fast chargers to every Tom, Dick, and Ford owner, what was once a hoity-toity elite parking lot full of American-made economy cars is now full of a bunch of weird shitbags trying to fill up their batteries.

My electric car? Pretty much the same as yours: a 1974 Plymouth Fury III, with the original smog-coughing low-compression 400-cubic-inch V8 engine replaced with nearly a metric ton of golf-cart batteries I borrowed from the local country club. Hey, they weren't using any of them in the middle of November when I cut through the fence. Not to mention it's unethical for anyone to hoard valuable resources that could be used to reduce emissions, such as I am doing (unless you count the fact that this vehicle is still, somehow, leaking 10w40 motor oil from somewhere.)

The system isn't perfect. For instance, the "fast charge" system is not particularly fast. This is because it's an old Canadian Tire 12-volt boat battery maintainer that I've riveted onto the hood, and tricked the Tesla system into talking to. As far as the computer inside it knows, it's just a really stupid SUV. Before you blame me for being a charge hog, you must also know this: it is keeping my decrepit Galaxy Note smartphone alive, which hasn't had a working battery in it since that whole airplane fire snafu. And in turn, that phone is playing an educational podcast, about climate destroyers. This, I believe, is what the Tesla owner is actually angry about, and not the fact that I have been "fast charging" for the last seventeen hours using a stolen credit card.

I ignore him. I have long ago learned that pedestrians talk a lot of shit, but are generally afraid to actually damage my car: an emergency tetanus shot, after all, is unpleasant and can cost upwards of $25. Walking back inside the donut store at which I am "parked," I ask the attendant to refill my bottomless coffee once more. Maybe I'll live here, I think. I don't want to go anywhere more than about five miles away from this charger from now on.

[astra-ravana]

Cat Magick 🐈‍⬛

What is cat magick? Well it's no secret that cats have been beloved by witches for centuries, perhaps longer and it isn't hard to see why. They were worshipped in ancient Egypt, helped fight the plague by killing infected rats, and were even tortured and killed along side us in the witch trials. These powerful, intelligent, little creatures understand magick better than perhaps any other. After all, legend says that cats are really just witches in disguise. As such, they possess their own potent class of magick.

Cat Correspondences

Herbs: Catnip, cat grass, silver vine, thyme, basil, valerian, fern leaf yarrow, cat thyme, rosemary, sage, witch hazel, echinacea, licorice root, cat's claw, dandelion root, calendula, goldenseal, dill (all these herbs are cat safe)

Crystals: Mookaite, amethyst, cat's eye, turquoise, hematite, lepidolite, pink Botswana agate, lapis lazuli, fluorite, tiger's eye, emerald, rutilated quartz, black tourmaline, jade

Planets: The Moon, Saturn, Pluto

Element: Earth/spirit

Deities: Bast, Freyja, Diana, Hekate, Odin, Lilith, Artemis, Sekhmet, Parvati, Juno, Ra, Erishkegal

Abilities

• A cat can purr at a frequency between 25 and 50 hz, which has been show to relieve stress and pain, increase oxytocin production, heal wounds and injuries, and even repair broken bones.

• They can enter a meditative state whenever they like which makes them incredibly perceptive.

• Cats see/sense spirits, the Fae, auras, and all manner of energies.

• Natural generators that can lend their energy to spell work and divination as well as charge crystals/magickal tools just by touch.

• Cats can expand your auric field and increase your magickal output.

• They act as guardians against negative energy and malevolent forces.

• The only beings that can enter or leave a magick circle without breaking the energy field.

• Cats act as guardians of doorways and thresholds and are keepers of many spiritual secrets.

• They have a strong connection to the Moon and the powers of the night.

• Your cat can act as your anchor/tether while hedge-riding/astral projecting.

Cat Colors

Brown: Grounding, love, companionship, peace

Orange: Cheer, leadership, happiness, fun, Sun energy

White: Purity, bliss, peace, good luck, psychic boost

Grey: Hope, support, comfort, healing

Calico: Good fortune, relationships, prosperity, abundance, psychic ability, strengthens family

Two Tone: Friendships, harmony, warding, wisdom

Striped: Good luck, happiness

Siamese: Success, good health, longevity

Note: If using cat hair in a working, consider the color of the animal it came from and apply those properties.

Black Cats

• They represent witches and witchcraft, magick, the Moon, protection, prosperity, the in-between/thresholds, dark goddess energy, the night, mystery, independence, resilience, and cleverness.

• If a black cat crosses your path they're removing danger and blessing your way.

• If you see a black cat on your way to gamble, luck is on your side.

• To catch a thief, write their name on a fish skin and feed it to a black cat.

• If you see a large, black cat for seven days money is on its way to you.

• To get away with something, wrap your name paper around black cat hair and burn it with yellow rose petals on a Friday.

Black Cat Oil

This oil is great for protection, good luck, seduction, breaking curses/hexes, working with the dead, divination and more.

Recipe:

• Sage

• Bay leaves

• Myrrh

• Mugwort

• Dragon's blood

• Steel wool

• Lodestone dust

• Hair (or whisker) from a black cat

• Carrier oil

The Power Of Cat Whiskers

Naturally shed cat whiskers are one of the most potent spell compents you can get. These tiny treasures contain a ton of magickal energy and can be used in the following ways:

• Carrying a cat whisker brings great luck and helps you easily overcome obstacles.

• To see your desires manifest, whisper your wish to a cat whisker and burn it over a yellow, gold, or orange candle.

• Hold a cat whisker in your hand while hedge-riding for a safe journey.

• Boosts the power and potency of any spell.

• Burn with jasmine and mugwort to bring prophetic dreams.

Whisker Appearance:

• The whisker length is said to reflect how long the spell will last.

• A very long whisker will aid in a long term goal and a short whisker; a short term goal.

• White whiskers aid in purification, healing, purity, empowerment, and luck.

• Black whiskers protect from bad energy and can be used for binding magick, spiritual power, and baneful workings.

• A grey/blue whisker represents neutrality, deities, shielding, patience, and resolve.

• Orange/copper whiskers bring success, strength, joy, truth, and encouragement.

• Banded whiskers assist with stability, physicality, love, comfort and peace.

Miscellaneous Cat Magick

There's a lot more magick to cats than I could ever cover here but here are some more examples of cat magick:

• Use cat hair in shape-shifting rituals.

• Burn a cat shaped candle and carve runes/sigils/prayers into it to protect and empower your cat.

• Feeding your cat the last of your meal keeps them from running away/getting lost.

• Bringing your cat/cats to a new home first brings good luck.

• Naturally shed cat claws can be used in spells for getting out of a tight situation. In baneful magick they help your curse "grab on" to the target and brings them sudden agony.

• Stroking a cat's tail nine times brings good luck in love.

• Hang a protective charm such as a bell, pentagram, or cowrie shell from your cat's collar.

• If a cat licks itself against the grain, a storm is coming.

• If the same cat comes to your window, three nights in a row, a witch has cast a spell on you.

• To learn the answer to a question, ask your cat while they sit on one side of a doorway. If the cat walks through the door with their left paw, the answer is no, with their right paw, the answer is yes.

• Incorporate catnip into your workings to draw your cat and borrow their power.

• You can divinate based on cat sightings/behavior, this is called ailuromancy.

• August 17th is 'Cat Night', a sentiment that has its roots in Celtic legend. A witch could turn into a cat eight times, but upon the ninth transformation, they would stay a cat forever. This is the reason we say cats have nine lives. Honor/celebrate your cats on this day and leave food for strays at night.

• A protective blessing for cats: "Bast of beauty and of grace, protector of the feline race, shield [cat's name] from hurt and harm, and keep them always safe and warm, watch over them from day to day, and guide them home if they should stray, grant them love and happiness, and a life free of strife or stress".

[genderqueerdykes]

do you have any favorite guides to diy hrt (transfem)

i'm actually glad you sent this ask:

i cannot condone DIY HRT for anyone due to how unsafe and unpredictable it is. i will never post or share guides on DIY HRT, estrogen OR testosterone, because i do not want to be responsible for someone's injury or even death.

people have been spreading myths online that estrogen is 100% safe to DIY, and it is not- no hormones are. you NEED to know if it is safe for you to be taking that hormone before you start taking it. the reason why folks go through so many tests when getting HRT through doctors isn't medical gatekeeping. they are testing your existing hormone levels, as well as your kidney and heart health, blood pressure, bone density and liver enzymes. this sounds like nothing to the average person but this is a HUGE deal, these are all VITAL parts of your body's health and safety and screwing with any of these could have life long or life ending consequences. you need to know if you have a pre-existing health condition that could possibly kill you if you start HRT

people have bought into the myth that because estrogen is associated with women that it's completely harmless, but just like taking too much of ANYTHING, taking too much estrogen can be extremely harmful and even potentially fatal. it can cause osteoporosis, heart attacks, deep vein thrombosis, and cause damage to the liver and kidneys while it's being filtered out. you can overdose on hormones, potentially leading to death. many folks who DIY testosterone HRT end up overdosing accidentally, and it happens to just as many people who DIY estrogen

there is no way to know if estrogen pills pressed by a stranger online or bought off the street ACTUALLY contain estrogen, and in the exact same doses and amounts every single time that you need to transition. there's a possibility that one batch tests strong, one batch tests weak, another has no estrogen in it whatsoever- especially if you're getting your pills from different people. there is no way to know that vials of estradiol bought online/off the street actually contain estradiol and are not just 100% a carrier oil. there is NO way to know if those vials of hormones are sterile, either, which is a huge concern. getting needles and syringes secondhand is extremely unreliable as well.

without medical testing to help, you will have no idea what dose is safe for you to start at, what will be safe to titrate up to, and the rate at which it will be safe to do so. a lot of people will be tempted to start taking more and more and more estrogen because they're not seeing the effects they want soon enough. a lot of people will start off with a dose that's way too high for them, or advance their dosage too quickly. there's no way for you to know if you're damaging your organs until it's too late if you don't get regular tests

plus some folks run the risk of further organ damage by taking anti androgens that they may not even need to take in the first place, but were lead to do so because of dysphoria. some people may start taking more and more of their anti androgens because they're not seeing results fast enough, only to further risk their health. medications like this are filtered out by the liver and kidneys and putting undue stress on them can damage them for life, making continuing HRT potentially deadly

unfortunately, there is no one size fits all dosage or plan when titrating up to higher doses. every single person has different needs when it comes to HRT, every body responds in a unique fashion. your HRT NEEDS to be tailored to your body. you cannot follow a guide given by another transfem, unfortunately, because your body is not guaranteed to react in the same way theirs does. you may have health issues that you didn't realize you had that could endanger your life by starting HRT.

overall, i'm very sorry to disappoint, but as someone who has a special interest in medicine, i cannot condone DIY HRT for anyone, regardless of what hormone you're taking. i understand that many people do not have access to medical care that will provide them with HRT, and i know it seems unfair to tell people in these situations that they're shit out of luck. i can't stop you from doing anything, but i just want to urge to you that DIY HRT is very unsafe and can very easily result in someone's death if they're not careful

stay safe out there, good luck finding what you need. i wish people could just get the appropriate medical care they need and not have to try to pull all these strings to make it happen. you shouldn't be forced into a position where your only option is DIY, or that you feel you won't be able to get it any other way. it's a shitty symptom of a greater problem. nobody should be forced to take medications in amounts that they don't know if it will hurt them or not because of the hateful beliefs of someone else. you deserve to be in good care to get what you need.

[bruciemilf]

What about an AU where Talia's car breaks down conveniently close to an autoshop.

Gotham is built and divided by shady places and dark places, but this neighbourhood takes the shit cake.

Damian's been fussy the minute they got here, wooden toy sword waving dangerously from his tiny fist, aimed perfectly at three dark-haired boys arguing about directions,

One of them is named Jason. He reminds Talia of a black kitten she used to feed right under her father's nose, mischievous and sweet, " How can I be lost on my own turf?!"

Dick, from what she's seeing, likes to think of himself as the leader. She has the fond suspicion that he doesn't trust her one bit. Smart boy.

" Look, clearly, she's a very capable, independent woman who doesn't need a baby like YOU."

" I'm not a stupid baby! Tim's a stupid baby!"

Tim, who's nursing on a red robin pacifier, stomps his foot, '' I'm not a baby!"

"As adorable as this insult tournament is. Isn't this the place?"

Damian shakes in his baby carrier the second Talia steps foot in the autoshop. It smells faintly of oil and green tea and fresh, bitter coffee.

" B is gonna fix you right up. And then you can go," Dick is trying to wrestle Jason off, who's not in the least bit happy about being called a baby for the 10th time, " Just, -- OW, biting is againts the code! Tim, go get dad."

Damian and Tim, who have been sticking their tongues at eachother for the past minute, both roll their eyes at the order.

Their father looks nothing like she expected.

But then again, she never dared to hope she'd see him again.

Time changed, but he didn't. Those big brown eyes still put an uncomfortable knot of affection in her stomach, glowing softly with painful tenderness under long eyelashes.

Talia physically tastes the feeling of safety shivering down her back in warm chills. His name is on her lips like a silent prayer, a contrast to Damian screeching and wiggling and trying to break free from her arms to his.

Jason climbs on Bruce, who hasn't blinked once in the time he studied her with a frown, held onto his father's neck protectively. Bruce hugs back, pressing a kiss to the boy's temple. Damian hisses with jealousy,

" Bruce can't speak, but don't you think you can scam him because of it! Even pretty ladies have to pay."

Talia doesn't know what pain she prefers,

That either her beloved remembers her and hasn't searched for her,

Or the fact that he doesn't.

Either way. Explanations are owed.

[mychlapci]

so I was chatting with a buddy of mine a few days ago, and my brainworms conjured up titan preggers in the sense that those tiny baby sparklets they conceive? Just like mama Primus'(titans are just Primus' oldest children when the largest contingent of Unicron's cum condensed to ignite the heaviest sparks before the process evened out) and the Well of Allsparks, fresh sparks ignite when there is enough robocum fizzling on the inside of their delicate meshes.

But you see, all those sparks are normal mecha-sized sparks. They're sooooo tiny in contrast to their massive gestation chambers and chasmic valves, their gigantic carriers have to rely on internal monitors to keep and eye on them. So these titans will exhibit all carrying symptoms even if they can't /feel/ where the sparklets have been deposited on their insides unless the entirety of their forge walls are covered in itty bitty baby sparklets.

Now, I like to imagine that every part of a titan can be converted into a functional facility that can accommodate normal sized mecha; this includes their valves and gestation chambers of course.

Just imagine how cavernous that shaft of a valve would be as mecha make pilgrimages up that slick surface to enter the forge, their little feet tickling the resident titan and charging them up so good. Sometimes they'd even convert their valves into being a part of the subway system, tightening just enough to still let trainformers pass through them, giving the mecha a pussy express shortcut to their holy destination: the soakhouse in the gestation chamber.

It's like a bathhouse, but you mainly go there to soak like in a hotspring or an oil pool. And of course, participate in various orgies while within. I mean, with how fertile everything smells when covered in the titan's juices, how can a bot resist? But do remember though, if you want to fuck inside the host, you best be sure to be ready to take up the responsibility if you happen to leave a happy little bundle of joy behind. Not that it's a definite guarantee, it's like a 1 in 3 chance, but still.

Because if you get a titan pregnant, they will never let you traverse through them peacefully until you go back in there and continue feeding the growing sparklet with your transfluid. Best hope your spray game is up to par if the sparklet is attached to high places. You can of course try to placate them by interacting with the physical features inside them, like rutting against any surface, like their missile silo shaft of a valve or against the spiral doors to their forge. You can even suck off the various fixtures in the soakhouse, like showerheads, faucets, gate pistons etc, but they still won't let you out until you nourish their sparklets.

Primes in particular are banned from spilling their seed inside the soakhouse, because the Matrix makes their cum extra fertile. This is why Rodimus gets locked in the cuck chair every time the lads say they're going for a soak in the bath house. FortMax and Metroplex are kind of tired of Rodimus knocking them up too many times.

Like don't get them wrong, they like the feel of those little adorable sparklings hatching and popping out from their casings after fully developing, falling into their liquids and crawling all over their insides until the pilgrims arrive to pick them up. But they're very, very tired of having sparklings with Rodimus' annoying temperament when they could have bitlets from the pick of an entire populace of diverse sparklines tochoose from yeah.

They singlehandedly repopulate/colonise any region they settle on after all, it's only fair that they should be allowed some extent of fussiness, no? Think about it, do you want Autobot City on Earth to be filled with nothing but baby Hot Rods? Not even Metroplex has the patience for a city full of mini Hot Rods.

The MetroProwlMagnus fic is coming along very painfully. I hate being in university sometimes-🔌

oughhhHhh i love this, i am writing this down immediately.

This is like a perfect mix between perverted mechpreg and normal transformer reproduction. Yes, cybertronians are forged in caves deep underneath the surface of cybertron, created from sentient metal and spark energy. and the caves? Pussy and uterus. Dripping and pregnant and so very fun to bathe in. And it's an extremely pleasant experience for the titan themself, who'll be overloading constantly as the little hands and feet of their citizens stroke their walls.

The sparklings hang from the ceiling and the walls of the forge, pulsing with life energy, each of them encased in a soft sack of energon and transfluid... I absolutely love the idea that as long as they have a titan with them, cybertronians can mostly reproduce wherever they settle. All they need to do is turn their large friend on and they'll be birthing a new population in no time. It's probably a little scary for the inhabitants of Earth... but it's not like they're gonna overtake them or anything!

ahshsjagsh and of course, Rodimus needs to be locked out of the bathhouses. He already has too many babies out there in the world, they don't need more.

[tracklessreason]

Fallen a bit in love with the bittersweet idea of some bots being voluntary carriers (Carrys) during the war. All they do is try to repopulate.

Some of them enjoy the job, they want Cybertron to thrive and love bearing sparklings.

Others get too attached, they lapse into depression with each sparkling taken from them after birth, knowing they may never see the bitlet again, and the child may die a footsoldier before ever seeing peace on Cybertron.

It's a taboo job as well. Despite there being plenty of asexual reproduction methods, bots who take on this role are often seen as lesser, and derogatively referred to as "oil bots", the Cybertronian equivalent of hookers.

Best case scenario is being treated like a useful tool. You don't have the respect of an average mech, but at least you aren't viewed as worthless or used.

[ddejavvu]

it’s dbf!indy anon and I finally had a thought!!!

looking at old photos of your dad and indy with dbf!indy, and just being like “wow I would’ve smashed younger you” or “you’ve just gotten more handsome with age” or like, subtly flirting and he’s trying so hard to not flirt back bc he’s still trying to forget that he finds you attractive

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

this post is 18+ (due to an age gap), minors dni.

Your dad seems to have been a whole other person before he'd settled down with your mom. You've never seen this side of him before, the cocky young man pictured beside Dr. Jones at a dig site, squinting into the sun and marred with dirt. Now he's neat, proper, and wouldn't spent days at a dig site if he was offered millions of dollars.

Dr. Jones is even more jarring to look at. There's a layer of rugged scruff on his face in the picture, his shirt hanging half open over his chest and sweat lining his brow. His sleeves are torn off in the photos, probably due to the sweltering heat they're working in, though you wonder if having his skin exposed left him vulnerable to sunburns. He doesn't look burnt, only gorgeously tanned, and you marvel over the man he used to be.

"That's you?" You ogle at a shot of him standing atop a carrier plane, lugging crates of god knows what into the hold. The cut-off sleeves give you a fantastic view of the muscles in his arms bulging while he lifts the boxes, and you only wish you'd have been there in person to avoid the slightly grainy quality to the film. It's a precarious position he's in, one that you wouldn't expect from the proper professor beside you.

"That's me," He drawls, "You like my hair?"

It's not combed, laying fluffy and natural over his forehead. There's a hat hanging from his belt, and you're surprised it hadn't messed up the strands of hair that flop so naturally over his head.

"it's different," You laugh, turning to face him. He'd been peering over your shoulder to see the pictures you're looking at, so when you turn, you're rather close. He doesn't move away, though, not even as you study him with a discerning gaze.

"You're proper-handsome now." You decide, "The gelled hair, the glasses, the suits-and-ties. But you used to be rugged-handsome." You flip to the next page, showcasing him caught sleeping against a load of cargo in the tiny plane.

You're too focused on the photos to notice him watching you, jaw working to tighten his lazy grin so that it doesn't turn upside down. He's fighting an internal battle, he knows he shouldn't be attracted to you but he is, and he can't decide whether he'll allow himself to accept your compliments or not.

"See?" You point to his posture, toned arms stretched up and over his head, his hat over his face to block out the sun, "That's a picture they'd put in one of those super-sexy firefighter-of-the-month calendars. The muscles, the open shirt, the thighs on display..." You muse, tracing over each feature you name.

He's torn. You're complimenting him, openly, brazenly. He knows he's not taking advantage of you, you're coming to him, but something about it seems so forbidden that he almost can't respond. But he's well-acquainted with danger, with the exhilaration of doing something he shouldn't, so he lets a chuckle escape, "Yeah? You think I'd make it as a sexy firefighter?"

"Oh, for sure," You nod, like you think you're reassuring his insecurities, "Just lose the shirt and swap it for suspenders, Indy, you'd fit right in."

"Really," He marvels your bold nature, unable to stop from laughing again, "Well sweetheart, maybe you 'oughta take the pictures for me. Pose me, oil me up, that sorta thing."

"Deal," You grin, turning back to face him again, still not backing away from your tantalizingly close proximity, "Should I bring socks to stuff your crotch with?"

"No need," Indiana assures you, his drawl never having been cockier, "I've got that covered myself, sweetheart."

[glassartpeasants]

Had a fic idea but decided it wasn't gonna be long enough for a full fic so here's the slice of idea my brain had. Also written on my phone at work so-

Eustass Kid x GN!Reader

Warnings: angst, cheating but literally one line mentioning it.

~~~

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you stare out to sea, wishing you were sitting on a ship instead of an old rickety dock. The salty breeze blowing against your face lightly. In your hands were open letters and letters waiting to be sent. Each one dripping with love and devotion. Words of encouragement scribed on the pages along with a red origami heart waiting to be discovered.

All that for the love of a man who you realize you'll never see again. Even though he promised he'd come back for you. That all you had to do was give him a year and he'd be back to take you with him. To bring you to sail the seas with him as he paved his way to becoming king of the Pirates.

All you had to do was wait a year. And wait you did.

Even though you couldn't tell him how much you loved him in person, you sent him letters every week. Each and everyone expressing you love for him, about your week, congratulating him on getting in the paper and giving him the little red origami heart. Or when you didn't have the red paper, you'd gently pick a red tulip from your garden and press it before sending it put in an envelope with the letter. Watching the carrier bird fly away made your heart jump as you couldn't wait for the letter that would come your way in return.

You remember how joyous you used to feel when a letter came only a few days later. Being handed a letter covered in oil and smelling of metal felt like tou were getting a present everytime. When you opened it after immediately running home and jumping on your bed to read it, you were always met with a piece of metal formed into a flower. Each one different then the last.

While some might not be able to read his brutish hand writing, you could understand it perfectly. Reading each one made you kick your legs and giggle. Excitement filling you as you waited for yhe day when he returned to the south blue to whisk you away and show you how life is meant to be lived. Each letter only made you impatiently wait for the day.

But one year turned two, then three. And still no sign of your live coming back. The weekly letters turned monthly before then turning once every few months. Each passing day was like torture. Waiting and praying a letter would arrive only to be broken hearted 99 percent ot the time. You heard about him in the paper more then you heard from yhe man himself.

The times a letter did come, there was no longer a crafted flower along with it, the writing sloppy and no longer had the words 'I love you' written at the bottom of the page. While the envelope was still stained in oil and had the intense smell of metal, your heart no longer jumped when you were handed it. What once you use to read immediately, you now wait till the end of the day to read it. Anything and everything before reading the letters.

Now, the letters have stopped coming. And you've stopped sending them. No point in continuing to shatter your already broken heart, crying for another only for it to never arrive.

The final straw your fragile heart could take was seeing a picture of him kissing an unknown person. Seeing it on the front page of the newspaper made your world crumble around you. The life you planned stolen from your fingertips right before your eyes. Dreams of going places out to sea and away from the south blue crushed. Bringing you back to the same dock you met him at, clutching all his and your letters close to your heart.

"Red headed bastard...you really are the worst of the worst generation."

[frukmerunning]

Hello! Are YOU tired of not being able to buy the sexy Hetalia perfume that they have in Japan? Well, so am I. That's why I've decided to make my own scented oil rollers themed off of the different characters in Hetalia. Unfortunately, this is not a cheap task, which is why I'm asking for YOUR help! My goal is to raise $150 so I can buy all of the necessary supplies - A massive thing of carrier oil, a small bulk order of rollerball perfume bottles, and however many different fragrance oils I can get. My goal is to start off with the main 8, and then do the other characters as I see fit! If you have any suggestions for scents I should use for different characters, please send them to my inbox, I'm open to any and all suggestions! Once I work out some good and pleasant scents, I will sell them on Etsy for you all to buy! If you donate any amount, you get a doodle from me! Either leave it in the messages of your donation, or DM me on here! Please help me make my dream of smelling like APH Japan a reality.