#out of carrier oils

[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 😞

[kashverse]

OMG imagine Babykuna tries to mimic her dad's tattoos with a marker when it's dress like your favorite hero day at school, or something like that lol or her just pulling a prank of dadkuna

when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. when life gives the sukuna household a permanent marker, you make an emergency dermatologist appointment.

it was six in the morning. sukuna, still groggy from sleep, barely cracked open an eye when he felt something small and warm crawl onto the bed beside him.

“papa.”

he grunted.

“papa. wake up.”

he grunted harder. but then, he opened his eyes, and nearly died on the spot.

because staring back at him, grinning like she just made a breakthrough in modern art, was babykuna.

with thick, uneven, horrifically wobbly black lines drawn all over her tiny face, mimicking his own tattoos.

oh. oh, no.

sukuna bolted upright so fast the bed creaked. "the hell did you do to your face?!" babykuna beamed with pride. “i wanted to look like you!”

sukuna’s soul left his body. because this was no washable marker. oh, no. this was the big leagues. the forever ink. he snatched the marker from beside her.

"where did you even—" he stared at it. PERMANENT MARKER was boldly printed on the side. he nearly threw it out the damn window.

"who gave you this?!"

babykuna, sensing danger, pointed at mr. pickles. the maine coon, sitting innocently at the foot of the bed, blinked. sukuna nearly combusted.

but before he could launch into a fatherly lecture about why tattooing your face with an office supply is a very bad idea, you groaned and rolled over, finally waking up. "why the are you yelling this early—"

then, you saw.

there was silence. long, painful silence. then—

you wheezed.

"OH MY GOD—" you threw your head back in laughter. "she looks like a criminal sketch!"

babykuna giggled, delighted. sukuna scowled.

"it's not funny!"

"she looks like a bootleg version of you, this is the funniest thing i've ever seen."

"SHE LOOKS LIKE A TAX FRAUD SUSPECT."

but the real horror came twenty minutes later when you realized that even after three rounds of scrubbing, coconut oil, baby wipes, and the sacrifice of one of sukuna’s expensive skincare products, the marker wasn’t coming off.

so now, an hour later, here you were, in a dermatologist’s office, with babykuna swinging her little legs from the examination chair, sukuna sitting next to her with his face buried in his hands, and the dermatologist trying very hard not to laugh as he examined your child’s very bold life choices.

"so." the doctor cleared his throat. "permanent marker, huh?"

you, exhausted: "yes."

sukuna, defeated: "yes."

babykuna, proudly: "YES!"

the doctor nodded solemnly. "have you tried… rubbing alcohol?"

"DO YOU THINK WE’RE IDIOTS?"

you kicked sukuna’s ankle. the doctor bit his lip, clearly enjoying this.

“well.” he examined babykuna’s bold new look. “good news is, it’ll fade. bad news is… it’ll take a while.”

sukuna groaned. babykuna, still swinging her legs, just grinned.

"do i look cool?"

you held back a snort. sukuna, however, did not. he turned to her, dead serious.

"no. you look like an off-brand action figure."

babykuna gasped. mr. pickles, sitting in his carrier by the chair, just blinked in amusement.

and thus began the longest two weeks of your life.

[ad-caelestia]

spell jars 101 ✧

updated version

how to craft a spell jar: 

cleanse your jar

gather your ingredients

charge and program them, and then add them to the jar

close and seal with wax, ribbon, string, etc. to finalize and cast the spell

decorate your jar however you'd like, or not at all - up to you

what you can use as a jar:

tiny glass jars with cork lids

mason jars

pickle/pasta sauce jars

old medication bottles

food storage containers

bead storage tubes

what you can add to a spell jar: 

dried herbs

dried citrus peels

dried flowers

magical powders

small crystals

gem chips

essential oils (a drop or two will go a long way)

infused oils (carrier oils such as olive or grapeseed oil that have been infused with herbs)

a few drops of charged water (storm water, war water, sea water, holy water, rain water, moon water, sun water, etc.)

paper (with sigils/symbols/glyphs drawn on it, an incantation, a name, a phrase, etc.)

coins

beads

glitter or confetti 

seashells/shark teeth/sand, etc.

leaves/acorns/sticks/bark/moss

animal fur, nail clippings, teeth, or whiskers that have fallen out naturally (if i catch you trying to pull out your pet's whiskers or fur, i will fight you)

nails, glass, pins, needles, thorns, and other sharp objects (great for cursing, binding, banishing, or protection)

vinegar, lemon juice, pickle juice (mostly for “souring” a situation)

honey, sugar, syrup (to “sweeten” a situation or for attraction)

pretty much anything that fits and corresponds to your intent

what you should avoid putting in a spell jar: 

unless your intent correlates with the contents of the jar spoiling or going bad - don't use anything biological in nature (think bodily fluids), don't use fresh produce or herbs, and be mindful of water content inside the jar. you don't want a moldy, biohazardous mess on your hands (unless you do, then that's cool, too).

what spell jars are good for: 

containing your spell, theoretically making it easier to manipulate and control

manifesting goals/intentions continuously or over time

passive manifestation that doesn’t require much ongoing participation from the caster but is subject to regular maintenance

what to do with your spell jar once it’s been crafted:

keep it on your altar

keep it in an area that's appropriate for goal manifestation (for glamours, keep it in the bathroom; for sleep or dreams, keep it in the bedroom; for safe travels, keep it in your vehicle; for cursing, keep it concealed in a black box; etc.)

wear it as jewelry

put it in your pocket, purse, or backpack

bury it in your backyard or within a potted plant outside (for spells you don’t plan to undo or want to last indefinitely) - if burying is not an option, hide it somewhere on your property

leave it at a crossroads

recharging spell jars: 

shake it up

light a candle on top of or next to it

submerge it in a bath of herbs or crystals that are associated with energy

submerge or surround with sea salt (a natural conductor of energy)

anoint with oil/blessed or charged water

pair with a tarot card or rune stone that matches your intent

suffumigate with incense smoke

energy work and visualization

disposing of and reversing spell jars - when you feel like the spell has done its job or you need to undo its effects:

remove the contents from the jar and either destroy them, bury them, or throw them away

for items you wish to save, cleanse them thoroughly before using them again

take the jar and cleanse it in whatever manner you choose and either save it to be reused; or dispose of it safely

© 2025 ad-caelestia

[visbacktatto]

pampering vi after a long day at work

summary: fluff, kissing, bathing together, no smut, sfw, just taking care of vi. i wrote thinking about fem!reader but it's pretty much gender neutral. enjoy!

you were a little worried about vi.

she called you to say she'd be home a little later than planned, things weren't going as it should at work and she'd need at least an hour to be done and back home to you.

her voice sounded so tired, so stressed, so done with it all. you know her, know every little vibration of her tone and exactly what they mean by instinct, result of the time you've spent together, of how many moons your relationship has seen. you instantly knew she needed some love today.

you were home already, it was just another regular day at the bakery you work at, you weren't too tired. so you thought, why not give your caring girlfriend a good care for herself? and that was the start of the plan.

the first thing you did was set up a bath for her, filling it up and dropping a cherry blossom bath bomb that would leave the water a light tone of pink, adding a few drops of essential and carrier oils, lighting up two candles to make the atmosphere and then you remember that flowers she gave you were still very much alive and you took two of them to remove the petals and put it in the bath too.

you also placed a wooden bath tray to put two faces masks, some strawberries, chocolate and two glasses of wine in case you're feeling like it when you both take the bath. this was looking pretty, your mind was both focused on the task and anxiously waiting for vi to be home already.

the second step of your plan was to cook dinner for the two of you, that shouldn't be hard, making food for just two would be a piece of cake. and it was, it just took a little longer then you thought so, just some minutes before everything was ready you heard the sound of your girlfriend's keys unlocking the front door and her voice, tired but ever so lovely, saying, “darling, i'm home”

“welcome home, love, i'm cooking” you told her from the kitchen, and it wasn't long before you could feel two strong arms hugging your waist, pulling you close, brushing her nose on your neck.

“smells really good.” vi murmured, kissing the side of your neck, “i missed you” she said with no ceremonies, she always missed you more when the day was tough, praying for the moment she would be back to you.

“missed you too, baby” you turn to smile at her, cradling her face to kiss her lips gently, a proper way of saying your welcomes, “would you mind setting the table for us, love? i'm almost done with the food, less than five minutes”

vi gave one last kiss to your cheek before heading to the table, placing the plates and everything the way she knows you'd do, mimicking the little details of the way you organize things, results of a long time sharing a home with you.

you dined and talked about work, vi explained exactly what and why went wrong today but she tried to not overload you with it, you also talked about what you've done at the bakery today, talking about a specific birthday cake order that was just so cute and probably tasted heavenly.

then, when you were done with the eating, you brought your plan to the table.

you were both standing, just done washing the dishes when you took vi's hand and said, “i have a surprise for you” and she let out a “oh?” and a smile, following you as you tug her upstairs into your shared bedroom.

before opening the door you covered her eyes with your hands, with that she chuckled, “oh you're very serious with the surprise factor, hm?” she teased.

“very much so” you murmured, carefully leading her to the bathroom and putting down your hands once you reached the few steps before the bathtub.

the moment she saw the carefully set bathtub she gasped, turning around to face you, “cupcake, oh my god! you're so sweet, you didn't need to do all that” she hugged you so tight, splaying kisses on your cheeks and your lips.

“yes i did, i know you had a long day. you're always taking care of me, let me return the favor for once, okay?” you answered, playing with the short hair at her nape.

“you're too good for me...” vi murmured, cupping your face, a look of endless love on her eyes, “but you'll bathe with me, right? you need some relaxing too”.

“i will, but again, it's supposed to be me taking care of you, you have to let me do so” you stated again, knowing how your girlfriend could be when it comes to letting someone else do the work for her.

“okay, okay, sweetheart, i swear i'll let you take care of me” she agreed with a smile, “but can i undress you?” while she asked her hands were already at the edge of your shirt, caressing the skin under.

“as much as i'd love it, today is all about you, so don't bother” you dismissed, gentle, moving your own hands to unbutton her shirt, pulling her close also to lightly kissing her neck to get her to not complain about your insistence.

and it worked, her eyes closed and her head tilted, “you're very persuasive when you want to, sweetie” she murmured with a light teasing undertone, her hands now busy holding your hips.

you discarded her clothes, slowly getting her naked and ready to go into the bathtub, you lead her, holding her hand and helping her settle down even if she clearly didn't need any help.

only then did you discard your own clothes and get inside too, “baby i want your back facing me, okay? so i can wash you” she quickly obeyed, turning and closing her eyes, leaning towards you, her back resting on your chest.

you kiss her shoulder, your hands going up her arms to massage the tension out of her shoulder blades, laying kisses down there that made vi sigh softly, before you reached for the soap to start washing her back. “you're so tense, love... hope i'll make you feel better”

“you always do” vi nearly whispered, “always. ever since i first laid eyes on you” then she finally noticed the tray, dipping one strawberry in the chocolate to give you a bite before eating the other half of it “you really went all out today”

you chuckled, “you deserve it” you continued washing her back, stopping to massage the flesh a bit before splaying water. then you moved to washing her hair, what elicited a delighted sound from her lips as your fingers caressed the pinkheaded scalp.

you tugged her to your lap, sitting her body on your thighs instead of just between them, what caused vi to reflexively relax against you, and you hugged her waist. “just letting the shampoo get into your hair a little bit” you murmur against her skin, kissing her neck, “have some wine, hm?”

vi took the two glasses, filling just one for both of you, as always, she would take a first sip and offer one to you, bringing it to your lips, and after you took your sip, she kissed you.

vi couldn't help it, she straddled your hips and tugged you closer, her hands finding your nape and your cheek, passing the taste of the wine around your tongues.

when the kiss broke, you chuckled, “you can never just sit down and let me pamper you, can you?”

“i'm feeling very pampered right now, kissing my sweetheart” vi retorted, pecking your lips again, and again.

you smiled, getting your hands back to work to rinse the shampoo from her hair, “fancy hair mask?” you asked and she nodded, so you applied it on her hair too while she was too busy kissing your neck.

“permission to mark?” vi half-joked, she started to ask after one day she was particularly eager and left a few hickeys on your neck that earned you curious looks and actual questions from your customers on the bakery.

“go on” you chuckled, and she was very gentle about it, the marks wouldn't last this time, the feeling of her lips sucking and her tongue soothing the skin right after so good you nearly got distracted.

eventually, you finished the routine with the hair mask and hair conditioner, and now the two of you were just resting, face masks on both of you and vi once again resting between your thighs, her back to your chest while you caressed her waist.

“i could sleep like that” vi murmured, and you knew it was true, you could feel her breathing getting slower, her body a little heavier.

so you just smiled and whispered “i know... want to go to bed, love?” and she hummed in agreement, you took the face masks off your faces, knowing vi wouldn't want to sleep with it.

and so, the two of you were back in your bedroom, both wearing robes and all clean, smelling like the scented candles you lit. you were rummaging through your, still on your task of doing everything for your girlfriend tonight, choosing the pajamas for both of you.

“too much if i dress you?” you asked, and vi did chuckle at the question but she nodded, still letting a teasing “you're babying me, cupcake” slip from her lips while you did dress her up, only for you to baby her even more, sitting her down on the edge of the bed to brush her hair.

and when you were done and ready to tuck yourselves in you held vi, her head resting on your shoulder, her leg thrown between yours, your hand caressing her scalp as you whispered sweet nothings to her.

“i love you so damn much” she murmured, “want every night for the rest of our lives to be this peaceful... this ours... just you and me until infinity” she always got so romantic when she was sleepy.

“so you just want to be pampered?” you teased, kissing the top of her head, adjusting the sheets to cover you two better.

“no, i want to pamper you too... you deserve every little good thing in the world, i swear” she murmured, her voice all sleepy and genuine.

“mhm... you are the only good thing i need in my life, actually. now sleep, love.” you whispered, caressing her cheek, coaxing her into giving into sleep.

and for the millionth time you realized: that's the love of your life right there. sleeping beside you, holding you, loving you. and you loved her too. that was magical enough.

[harridansibyl]

Personal associations/interpretations of the dark/mystical houses (4th, 6th, 8th, 12th)

4th house

twisted tree roots, cultural practices, heirlooms, photo albums, inherited features, traditions, the mother, past lives, generational trauma, picture books, garden beds, childhood homes, ancestor altars, hand written recipe books, hearth, squeaky wooden floorboards, genealogy archives, caves, oak trees, baby wrap carriers, emotional security, cultural heritage, building foundations, photo albums, genetics, laundry lines, swing sets, property, mines, crops, sanctuaries, the chest and heart, home steads, fields, farms, root cellars, harvests, pots on stoves, brooms, backyards, agriculture, vines on trellises, handmade blankets, grandparents house, laundry baskets, attachment styles, singing lullabies, history, deep emotions, instincts, the unconscious, summer, waxing moon, vase of flowers, bath time, picking berries, celebrating holidays, chicken coops, older sisters, family gatherings, stone paths, forest walks, ancient structures/buildings, ancestral languages, cupboards, staying in

6th house

vitamins and supplements, morning routines, pharmacies, tasks and lists, doctors offices, health food stores, stomach medicine, hygiene practices, journals and planners, schedules, herbal teas, personal rituals, emergency kits, dog walks, lymphatic drainage, caregiving, donating blood, examinations and checkups, meditation, colour coordination, sticky notes, gastrointestinal problems, folded laundry, labels on everything, retirement homes, hand washing, braided hair, herb gardens, filing cabinets, face masks, kombucha, detailed diagrams, volunteer work, medicine cabinets, cleaning supplies, shelves, acts of service, skin care, organic linen, gauze and stitches, stress-induced illnesses, essential oil/herb baths, house plants, instructions, repetition, holistic medicine, giving advice, yoga studios, "gut feeling," bone broth

8th house

altars, divination, near death experiences, candle wax, feeling crushed by a heavy weight, grave dirt, red/dim lighting, funerals, double income, control, the underworld, cheques, insurance, heirlooms, ghost sightings, power imbalances, crime documentaries, ouroboros, bank accounts, grief and loss, shadow work, the womb, manipulation, scrying mirrors, Russian nesting dolls, keys, mortuaries, tests from the universe, pendulums, crime scene tape, the phoenix, projections, credit scores, animal bones on a forest floor, blood stained sheets, metaphysical shops, spiritual attacks, deep emotions, snakes, dead flowers, late autumn, wedding veils, envelopes, full moon, muddy boots, shadows at the corners of your vision, scarab beetles, inner processing, experiencing crisis, inherited possessions, natural disasters, sexual trauma, psychological studies, ancestral connections, cracked dolls, veil between realms, mental illnesses, deep connections, intimacy, reincarnation, torture devices, keys, whirlpools, the sound of sirens, unconscious fears, intense first impressions, pushing limits, feeling bound, scratches on walls, ten of swords

12th house

abandoned places, liminal spaces, long winters, shadowy figures, reoccurring dreams, repeated patterns, fog-filled forests, self analysation, inner worlds, cave systems, unfinished basements, hallucinations, solitary confinement, empty parking garages, spiral staircases, substance abuse, trapped in purgatory, hidden beneath the surface, maladaptive daydreaming, hospital hallways, confines of society, waning moon, moths, wandering aimlessly, disconnection from the world, psych wards, healing others, tired eyes or dark circles, chronic mental illness, suppression, addictions, hiding places, overnight shifts, unexplainable experiences, past life karma, exhaustion, cobwebs, others projections, catacombs, bird cages, premonitions in dreams, prescription bottles, self destructive patterns, late night walks, misty lakes, the feeling of walking out of the movie theater at night, identity crises, blurred faces, empty public transport, astral projection, comas, diary entries, dissociative episodes, shape shifting, generational trauma, observing people, mirrors, padded rooms, the afterlife, chain link fences, paradoxes, feeling misunderstood, repression or memory loss, hikikomori, the freeze response, disappearance, waiting rooms

[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.

[outerbankies]

the pool scene was SOOOO new light summer coded like right at the start ☀️ he comes to bring her her morning coffee and she’s like hmmmm can’t you just stay here and quit ur job pls!!!! and you know for a split second he’s considering it

OOPS!

new light: summer love

new light masterlist

a/n: also takes care of (caressing inner thigh then slowly leaning in to trail kisses) from the prompt celly! wahoooooo

You’re just about to doze off beside your parents’ pool, Gretchen stretched out on the chaise lounge beside you while Margot lazes on a raft in the pool, the thick July humidity and the shade of the gigantic oak trees covered in Spanish moss enough to lull you into a cat nap.

But your parents’ dog Wilbur, who’d taken refuge under your chair, scrambles out from under and bolts through the back garden and toward the house, causing the three of you to investigate the intrusion on your otherwise perfect, post-workout pool day.

“Ladies,” Rafe greets, emerging from rows of hydrangea bushes dressed in his business casual. You place a hand over your eyes to block the sun and see him better in his powder blue button-up, navy-patterned tie faltering in the slight breeze. He makes a beeline once he spots you, setting what he’d been carrying down on the unoccupied lounge to your other side: a cardboard tray of three iced coffees from your favorite shop in town, the one you happen to know is so out of the way if he left from his dad’s office.

You hadn’t even expected to see him today, the scheduling gods against you both, but here he is taking a seat right beside you on your own chaise, leaning over you just close enough you catch his cologne, before he pulls his wayfarers off and places them on top of his head.

“Hi,” he says, leaning down for a kiss. He lets it linger, or maybe you do, still a bit stunned to see him here right now. 

“Hi,” you finally answer, taking his face in your hands the red of your nails a contrast to his cheeks. “What are you doing here, Rafe?”

He shrugs, eyes flickering down to your lips, where you’d just reapplied your Laneige, before he steals another kiss. “Wanted to see you. How was pilates?”

“Spin,” you correct, still dazed, even as you feel your chair move when your dog dives back under it. “It was good. Still waiting for you to join us like you promised you would.”

“And I will,” he promises again, with another shrug. “Before the end of the summer.”

“Sorry to ruin your nooner, Cameron!” comes Margot’s voice from the pool. Gretchen and Rafe both laugh but you just groan, hiding your face in your hands as he twists toward her to make his reply, his tongue just as quick.

“All good, Margs. Brought you a coffee, if you wanna act a little more grateful,” he says, tilting his head toward the drink carrier.

Gretchen gasps as she sits up, up until this point laid back and watching you two with a sickly fond look, “Me too?”

“Of course,” Rafe replies. “I know Y/n/n is a fiend, but these aren’t all for her.”

She pats his shoulder, squealing on her way to pick up her drink, taking Margot’s too and walking toward the other side of the pool where the other girl floats, chancing a wink back at you as she leaves earshot. 

“I’m covered in tanning oil,” you say in warning, concerned for his pastel shirt and what Ward will say if he comes back from lunch covered in oily splotches, as you feel him sink further into your side.

“I’m very aware of what you are and aren’t covered in right now,” he murmurs. Rafe seems completely indifferent to all the places your bodies touch, giving you a once-over.

You make hands at the last drink in the carrier, humming in satisfaction when he hands it over and it tastes exactly how you thought it would. “You on lunch?”

He nods. “Didn’t realize I wouldn’t get to see you tonight, so.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I’m sorry I got the days mixed up, but the Boneyard should still be fun.”

You had an overnight babysitting gig a few neighborhoods over that you thought wasn’t until tomorrow, putting a bit of a wrench in the dinner plans you made with your boyfriend before you were supposed to ride with your friends to a bonfire.

You’d let him know as soon as you confirmed with the kid’s parents this morning, to which Rafe had replied a long (and dramatic) chain of sad faces. 

“It’s okay, baby. Might stay in anyway,” he says, kissing your cheek, then hiding his face there for a second. His lips brush the shell of your ear, “especially if there’s any possible way you sneak me into the Truitts’ tonight.”

When he pulls away to smirk at you, you grasp onto his tie, keeping him close to your face. “You’re not down.”

Rafe swallows, and you hate the way your eyes track the movement of his throat. “It would be worth the awkward run-in with Mrs. Truitt at the Island Club.”

“You can barely handle sneaking in here,” you say, your head tilting toward your bedroom window, which Rafe takes a second to look at wistfully, probably reminiscing on the times he’s nearly broken an ankle scaling the trellis for it this summer. “You jump every time you hear a creak in the night, thinking it’s my dad about to drag you out by your ears.”

“There are a lot of creaks at night,” he defends.

“Old house,” you challenge, releasing him and stretching your arms up over your head, settling down further into the chaise. “You should be used to it by now.”

The hand he’d been resting on your knee cap trails just slightly down your inner thigh. “I’ll never be used to this.”

You sigh, pressing our legs together, which budges his hand out from the area it’d been exploring. But Rafe’s touch doesn’t stray far, the metal on his ring finger resting on your outer thigh instead, his thumb stroking.

“You’re teasing me,” you warn.

His thumb hooks into the string of your bathing suit bottoms. “Oh, I’m teasing you?”

“Sure you can’t quit your job?”

“Be our coffee boy forever,” Margot calls.

“We tip!” Gretchen tacks on.

“Well with an offer like that…” he murmurs only for you to hear, suddenly as privy as you to the fact that your friends are probably listening in on as much as they possibly can. 

He still leans in for another kiss though, a few pecks trailing from your lips, over your jaw and down to where the strap of your bathing suit top rests over your neck, his face coming back to hover over yours as his eyes slowly open again. “Dinner tomorrow instead?”

You nod readily. “Dinner tomorrow. I’ll be free by the afternoon. I could come meet you in town? By the office?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll come get you, sweetheart.”

You beam, pleased you already know when you’ll next see him again, even if it is over 24 hours from now. You couldn’t help it and neither could he; much to the chagrin of your parents and friends, the two of you were inseparable this summer. “Okay. And have fun tonight if you do go, alright?”

He shakes his head, collapsing back into you, his face hidden in your neck again.

“Nooo,” he whines. “On the real, if I did come to the Truitts—”

“Alright,” you laugh, getting your hands under his shoulders to push him away. “I’m pretty sure your lunch is over.” 

“Over when I say it is,” he says, not going without a few more kisses, one somehow ending up on your shoulder, right over a mark you’d had to cover up with clothes and concealer ever since he left it there. But he eventually does let you breathe, leaving a hand on your cheek while he checks the watch on his other wrist. “You’re right though. Shit.”

“Mhm,” you say, nodding into his palm. “Have a good rest of your day. I’m happy you came by.”

He kisses your forehead before finally standing again, readjusting his tie, looking down at it and then back to you. “I’m happy, too. How do I look?”

“Oh my god, fine, Rafe. Get outta here!” Margot shouts.

Over the sound of Gretchen’s laughter, you nod in assurance at him. “You look good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He just barely avoids a splash of water from the girls as he makes his way back inside, causing you to laugh around the straw of your drink, which you’d barely gotten to try. Rafe looks back from the hydrangeas as he puts his sunglasses back on, shaking his head with a grin splitting his face.

You don’t know how you’ll last ’til tomorrow.

[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.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Soap pulled Ghost to the side, to talk to him. He was leading a team on a recon mission that Soap wasn't assigned to.

They stood just far enough that eavesdroppers would be obvious, and to an outsider they just looked like they were discussing other matters. Ghost stood towards the transport, soap infront of him. Close. And a little to the side.

"Open this," he slips a plain white envelope, already dirtying with a smear of black oil in the shape of his thumbprint, a card, into the plate carrier of Ghost's vest. It would be ruined if he was shot, but there wasn't supposed to be any shooting anyway. "On your last day of camp-out."

"Valentines?"

"Aye."

"Cheesy."

"Mmm. Be safe."

Ghost's hand came up to his elbow and squeezed lightly. Not a promise. But not not one either.

There was a last call for load up and Ghost really had to get moving, so soap let him go. Watched him go as he departed.

Went back to his room. On his desk, sitting stark and innocent. A plain white envelope, unsealed, the top lifting up just so. The only person with access to his room was Ghost, really. Technically Price too, but he would never, always asks Ghost to drop stuff off for him.

He sits in his desk chair. Opens the envelope. He pulls put a card. It's light pink with a big red heart on it. It's simple. On the inside it just has three words.

For You, Always.

And a crude little heart following it.

[witchpassing]

Maria's Garden

It’s not right, what they’re doing; cold fingers drifting along her knuckles, long walks in a graveyard full of flowers. A face that’s hers and not-hers - the painter’s hand was generous, but no love could heat the pallor from these cheeks, soothe the shadow of these eyes. Like a cousin, like a twin-

She’s a quiet thing, the woman from the portrait. She holds her body in that delicate, shying way Maria could never quite catch, and indeed resigned the pursuit of somewhere around seventeen; in every gesture, every contour, there lingers the craftsman’s eye. Fingerprints line her shawl, hem the skirts that whisper against Maria’s hip in her passing.

Maria asked her to curtsey, once - drunk, soaking herself in the old man’s gin - and she did it perfectly. Perfectly. Like a diagram in an etiquette book. A sick, hot feeling in her stomach, and a resolution never to ask again.

She’d be a fine wife, for some nice man; a well-trained mother, for the same. Petticoats and pretty shawls, stockings and stays and ribbons and lace, every little softness in just Maria’s size - did he think of her, while he dressed his puppet in them? Did he think of her, while he–

She wears perfume, this white Maria. Pressed flowers, and a breath of dawn. The old man chose that too, and if she wasn’t a suicide already, she’d make herself one for liking it. 

The doll has joined her, again, for a walk around the gardens, and Maria is thinking, again, about murdering her. It would be easy, the work of a few minutes, to seize this self-abusing dream by the hair, to drag it to the nearest tombstone, to strike porcelain against granite until the glass eyes roll and bounce among the cobblestones - one last grave out in the meadow, the clothes all burnt, every trace of the old man’s sickness excised from the memory of this ab-world -- Maria the only carrier, and really, what’s another secret, on the midden of what she knows? 

Her memories of Gehrman are rotting, rotting, every moment shared together turning inside-out to bare a soft and mildewed heart, and nothing she can do now will give her teacher back to her - but it’s not that which stops her, as her fingers close and knot in pearl-grey hair, as the bonnet slips loose and the gentle voice falls quiet - 

No, what stops Maria dead, staring into the unreproaching eyes of her twin, is the understanding, sudden and cold as icewater, that she’d let her do it. 

She keeps apart from her a while, after that; doesn’t trust herself within arm’s reach. In Maria’s avoidance of her, the doll seems even more a ghost, a silent, peripheral figure, a presence always one room over. Her weapons, left unattended in the workshop, are cleaned, oiled, and returned; now and then, fresh tea finds its way onto the table by the fire.

Maria doesn’t especially care for tea, but she swallows every drop. 

And little by little, inadvisably, she allows herself back into the doll’s company. It feels like edging up against a precipice, like playing chicken against her own horror. She’ll do something terrible, she knows it; she can’t be unsupervised around a woman like this. A woman who’d let her. She ought to leave, ought to run to the other end of the Nightmare and never think of this place again.

But the doppelganger is so pretty, and she treats her with such gentleness, and it’s been so long since she was anything but alone. 

It happens suddenly, in the end. The doll asks to be taught to dance, and Maria - poor, priggish Maria - never suspects the trick. It’s a last resort, drawing her in like this; every silent invitation, every little courtship, every please sketched in the margins of good etiquette - all have been tried, and all have shattered like the tide upon the rock of Maria’s heroic conviction that she’s the only woman in the world who wants things.

Well, no matter. A doll’s heart has a pulse of its own, whether anyone hears it or not. If Maria won’t take, she can be taken.

Jointed fingers curl beneath her chin. A cold breath upon her face. The moon-scent, heady, dizzying.

I shouldn’t- we can’t–

Oh, hunter. Do be quiet.

A fine wife, indeed. What a silly thing you are, Maria Cainhurst.

[hysteria-things]

MORE DAD!CHRIS

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dad!chris x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you were sad when you had to work on your birthday, and chris knew you’d be stressed when you came home. so, he teamed up with your son to make a rememberable present.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: FLUFFY, that’s it :)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 918

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: dad chris has my heart frfr.

you were bummed, to say the least when you got called into work on your birthday, and there was no way to call out.

chris insisted you go and said it was fine to watch the little one by himself for a few hours.

the little one in question is strapped into the baby carrier on chris’ front as he reads the box in his hand. he neatly has bowls and measuring cups out on the counter, all he needs now is the ingredients. both of them are in matching pajamas with dinosaurs on them. chris established these matching sets when atticus was born five months ago, and you loved the idea.

that’s when you knew he’d be a great dad.

“half a cup oil, one cup water, and three eggs. think we can handle it, buddy?” chris looks at your son and kisses him on the head. he purposely bounces to the cabinet and refrigerator to grab the supplies as atticus giggles at his movements.

he then grabs one of the measuring cups and fills it with water, placing it back with the other ingredients. “set the oven to 350°.” chris reads aloud, turning to face the stove.

“no touch,” he says, holding your son’s hands with one of his and using the other to press the buttons to the right temperature.

this results in atticus gripping onto chris’ pointer finger and not letting go. he doesn’t mind though, and continues reading off of the box. “beat cake mix, water, oil, and eggs in bowl… blah blah blah.”

he grabs the kitchen scissors, making sure he’s cutting far away from the child and cutting open the cake mix powder. he grabs the bowl, inching it closer. “want to put it in, buddy?” he asks, holding the bottom of the bag as atticus grabs the top of it.

all is going well until they drop the bag into the bowl, the mix that was already in making a mess on chris’s hands and atticus’ face. the baby laughs as chris picks up the pouch and finishes pouring it in. “oh, man.” chris sighs, taking his hand and rubbing the powder off of the child’s face.

“water—” he starts, but then a little hand accidentally knocks it over and spills it on the counter. he slowly looks at his father with no emotion, but chris smiles. “that’s okay. let’s clean up our mess!”

as in “our”, it’s chris using a paper towel while the little rascal just throws the piece he gave him onto the liquid to seem like he’s helping.

luckily the rest goes without a mess, and then the oven dings. chris wants atticus to be involved, so he helps him pour the batter into the circle-shaped pan (half of it ends up on the counter.)

he eventually takes the baby carrier off to not get him so close to the oven, atticus is now on his hip as he closes the oven and puts on a thirty-four-minute timer.

once the cake is cooled, chris puts the infant into his high chair with the cake in front of him. instead of bowls and measuring cups, icing, and sprinkles are on the counter. he knew what he was going to say next was a bad idea, but it was for a special occasion.

chris opens the icing and bottles. “make it pretty for mommy.” he says, giving your son free will to decorate the cake.

his attention span only lasted about ten minutes, but he got a few gallops of icing and sprinkles on. chris did help him write a message, but the rest was all from your little boy. atticus claps as chris looks at the cake, but then sighs when he looks at the messy counter of powder, batter, icing, and sprinkles. “your mother is going kill me.”

rubbing your eyes, you enter the front door of your house, pausing in place as you look at the kitchen. there was an attempt to clean up, but it was a mediocre job. “chris?” you call out, but there’s no answer. a certain object catches your eye and you walk over to it, smiling softly at the source that made the kitchen a disaster.

there was barely any icing on it, but you didn’t care. there were spots where there were a ton of sprinkles and no sprinkles at all. sloppy pink handwriting was written in the center of the cake, but you understood the message.

happy birthday mommy!

we love you ♡

you wipe the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes as you speed walk to the living room, seeing the two boys lying on the couch. the smaller one is asleep on your boyfriend’s chest, and the other is staring at the TV that’s muted. chris’s hand rubs on atticus’ back.

you walk in front of him, and he lazily smiles at you. you can tell he’s tired, but he’s fighting it. “he made you a cake.” chris mumbles, fluttering his eyes closed. you pick up your son gently as to not wake him, and start swaying from side to side when he squirms for a moment. “do you like it?” chris asks.

“i love it.” you say, a tear spilling from your eye. “it’s my favorite cake in the whole wide world.”

you kiss chris on the forehead and atticus on the cheek, thinking about how lucky you are. these are your two boys, and you never loved anything more in your life.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx

[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 | part six

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!"

[violet-hearth]

Salt Scrub

Salt scrubs are a great way to incorporate physical cleansing into your routine - they help exfoliate, reduce inflammation, and improve blood circulation whilst also having the cleaning and protection qualities of salt, dried herbs, and oils. The recipe is easy, cheap, and quick making it one of the most accessible recipes I have.

Salt scrubs are not recommended for people with skin conditions or sensitive skin, and salt can dry out your skin so be sure to moisturize after use. As a rule of thumb, you should not use a salt scrub more than 1-2 times a week.

General Recipe:

1 cup of sea salt

1/4 cup of carrier oil

10-20 drops of essential oil

1 tbsp of herbs such as lavender, rose or chamomile and/or vitamin E oil (ensure they are crushed well)

In a bowl, stir together the salt and oil

Add the essential oil and herbs

Store in a sealed glass jar in a cool location until ready to use

To use a salt scrub, apply to damp skin in circular motions gentle for 20-30 seconds before rinsing well.

Weekly Cleanse Scrub

1 cup of salt of choice

1/4 cup carrier oil (jojoba, almond, vegetable, sunflower etc.)

10-20 total drops of lemon balm, tea tree, witch hazel and lavender

0.5 - 1 tablespoon moon water

1 tablespoon of dried lavender and lemon peel (optional)

1 tablespoon vitamin E oil (optional)

Venus-Inspired Salt Scrub

1 cup sea salt

1/4 cup of almond oil

1 - 1.5 tablespoons castor oil

10-20 total of drops of the following essential oils: rose, lavender, cedar wood and ylang-ylang or a attraction/love oil

1 tablespoon of dried rose petals

1 tablespoon vitamin E oil

As always, adapt the recipes as needed for what you have and to your own practice <3

[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

[bullet-prooflove]

Scar Tissue: Beau Simpson x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @b-bradshaw @crimeshowjunkie @inkandarsenic @caffeinatedwoman

Companion piece to:

Nine Months - Beau comes home from his deployment to a surprise revelation.

Beau has his face buried in the pillow, his teeth biting down on the fabric as your hands smooth over his back, fingers digging into the knot in his right shoulder. It’s scar tissue from Syria, his doctor tells him. Every so often it stiffens, reducing the movement in his arm. He usually goes to chiropractor but he’s been cooped up on an aircraft carrier for the past few months and he needs the relief.

“I know.” You whisper reassuringly as your thumb presses even harder into the scar tissue. “I know it hurts but it’ll be over in a minute.”

He grunts his response as the muscle tightens before it gives way under you’re ministrations. The relief floods his senses, his body relaxing into the mattress.

“Better?” You ask and he shifts, his cheek pressing into the pillow as he nods his head. You lean over him, your lips lightly brushing over his temple before you clamber off him. He watches as you stride into the bathroom, that silk, floral kimono fluttering as you walk. You rinse the lavender oil off your hands before drying it with a hand towel he doesn’t recognise.

There’s been a few new changes to the house while he’s been away.  A dark wood antique desk has appeared in the living room, tucked underneath the window that looks out into the backyard, an ergonomic chair goes with it. When he put his clothes away he noticed office attire in the wardrobe. Power dresses, blazers and high heels.  It’s how he knows you’re serious about retiring from the military, that this isn’t just a knee jerk reaction to a deployment that was far too long for either one of you.

“Was the deployment the tipping point?” He asks you as you step back into the bedroom, rubbing lotion into your hands. “Or was it something else?”

You lean against the doorframe, toying with your wedding ring as Beau shifts into a sitting position against the headboard, the sheets pooling around his hips.

“I don’t have a choice.” You say finally. “My time with Victim’s Support is coming to an end and I found out my next posting is Naples.”

The air rushes out of Beau’s lungs, his chest constricts because a posting isn’t like a deployment. It’s longer, a hell of a lot longer. Three years to be exact. He can’t imagine going that long without you, seeing you in intervals, a couple of weeks at a time. He understands now, that you’re sacrificing your career for the marriage, that you’re giving up one of the most important things in your life so the two of you can be together.

It’s an echo back to that first time he was deployed to Germany. You’d had a choice of posting and you’d picked San Diego so you could be together but he was already shipping out.

“I had lunch with Mic last month when he came up from Washington.” You say quietly, your attention still focused on your wedding ring. “His firm is opening a new branch here in San Diego, they’ve offered me a job and I’m going to take it.”

“Is that what you want?” He asks you, his voice a little rough and you swallow hard against the emotion in your chest, your eyes stinging.

“I don’t see us surviving any other way.” You say softly, your gaze flicking up to meet his. “I can’t go three years without you Beau, no matter how much I may like Italy.”

“And you do like Italy…” He says with a mirthless smile as he stares down at his own wedding ring. “Ally… I don’t know if I can retire.”

You try to hide the hurt but he sees it, he sees everything when it comes to you.

“I understand Beau.” You say, your voice completely devoid of emotion. “You’ve got to do what’s best for you.”

Love Beau? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[the-most-humble-blog]

USED SERVITOR BLOWOUT SALE FESTIVAL🎈🥳🎉:

Remember: Serve the Emperor, or Serve as Parts. Either way, YOU SERVE.

EVERYTHING MUST GO (INCLUDING YOUR HUMANITY)

Welcome to the biggest clearance event in the Imperium, motherfuckers! Need cheap labor? Need a servitor with that "lightly used, only screamed for the first 40 days" kinda vibe? Well, step right up! We got everything from half-brainwashed factory workers to lobotomized aristocrats who forgot to pay their tithe.

Because in the grim darkness of the far future, one thing is certain: you can be a worker, you can be a soldier, or you can be stock.

💀 SHOP SMART, SHOP SERVITOR 💀

🔹 Genetic Mishaps? We got those! Crooked nobles who thought they were untouchable, now wired into conveyor belts, drooling coolant, shitting oil, and making sure your las-rifles come off the assembly line on time.

🔹 Failed Tech-Priest Acolytes? Fuck yeah! Ask too many questions, and you could end up as a walking soft-serve machine with a detachable cock-replaceable nozzle.

🔹 Battlefield Salvage? Some dumbass Guardsman who took one too many rounds to the brain and didn’t have the decency to fully die? Now he’s the designated ammo carrier. His eyes are gone, his soul is in whatever counts as an afterlife, but goddamn if he isn’t still loading shells into the Basilisk.

🔹 Discounted Heretics! That’s right, folks! Thought crime isn’t just punishable by death—it’s punishable by a lifetime of tireless, lobotomized, piss-and-rot servitude! Remember that loudmouth who started questioning the Ecclesiarchy? Yeah, she’s a self-powered fuckin’ janitor now. And she doesn’t even know it.

💀 INJUSTICE? NAH, THIS IS JUST HOW SHIT WORKS. 💀

Look, the Imperium doesn’t have time for due process, ethics, or your bitching. You get caught, you get sentenced, and if you’re lucky, you just get shot in the face. If not? Well…

You will be stripped. Of name, rank, and thought.

You will be wired. Into machines, into assembly lines, into grotesque walking infrastructure.

You will be useful. Until your body fucking quits.

And then? Your carcass gets recycled into another batch of "freshly mindwiped workforce," because wastefulness is heresy.

💀 TRAGEDY? MAYBE. COMEUPPANCE? ABSOLUTELY. 💀

🔹 That planetary governor who let a Hive World rot in famine? He’s a servitor now, shoveling the same shit his people had to eat.

🔹 That spoiled noble who thought she was above the law? Yeah, she’s bolted into an automated pleasure engine, servicing the same underhivers she once spat on.

🔹 That inquisitor who purged an entire city "just to be sure"? Hope he enjoys his new eternity as a fleshlight-dispensing bio-recycler.

🔹 That rich fuck who hoarded resources, letting a whole sector starve? Don’t worry. His nutrient paste tastes real good, because it’s made out of him.

Because in the glorious Imperium of Man, even the worst scum eventually finds a purpose. Even if that purpose is being a half-melting, piss-leaking, cybernetic flesh-husk on sale for 5 thrones.

🔥 EVERYTHING MUST GO (INCLUDING YOUR SOUL) 🔥

REBLOG if you’d rather be shot than end up in a servitor assembly line.

💬 COMMENT which Warhammer faction you think deserves to be on the clearance rack.

🚀 FOLLOW for more grimdark truths straight from the corpse-laden frontlines.