#use of camphor

[camphor2]

use of camphor

Use of camphor as an ingredient in many traditional remedies for cold, flu, and cough.

Use of camphor in the production of topical analgesic creams and ointments for pain relief.

Use of camphor is an effective natural insecticide that can be used to keep insects away from stored clothing and bedding.

Use of camphor is an important ingredient in many cosmetic products such as creams, lotions, and hair tonics.

Use of camphor can be added to hot water or humidifiers to provide relief from nasal and chest congestion.

Use of camphor in aromatherapy to promote relaxation and reduce stress.

Use of camphor as an ingredient in some mouthwashes due to its antibacterial properties.

Use of camphor as a natural cleaning agent for removing stubborn stains and odors.

Use of camphor is an important ingredient in some traditional balms and salves for wound healing and skin irritations.

Use of camphor in the production of some types of incense sticks for spiritual and religious purposes.

Use of camphor to treat fungal infections such as athlete's foot and ringworm.

Use of camphor in some types of pain-relieving patches for targeted pain relief.

Use of camphor as an important ingredient in the production of some types of explosives and fireworks.

Use of camphor as a natural insect repellent for pets and livestock.

Use of camphor is a versatile substance with many uses in traditional medicine, natural health, and industry.

[july-19th-club]

i want to fucking shove cayenne pepper up my nose HELP GIRL CONGESTION!!!!!

[jeevanjali]

Benefits Of Camphor: पूजा करते समय क्यों जलाया जाता है कपूर,जानिए इसके पीछे की वजह Benefits Of Camphor: हिंदू धर्म में पूजा-पाठ करते समय कई तरह की सामग्रियों का इस्तेमाल किया जाता है। हर सामग्री का अपना-अपना धार्मिक महत्व होता है। इसी तरह पूजा में आरती करते समय घी के दीपक के साथ कपूर भी जलाया जाता है।

[gangotricamphor]

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Cookies topped with powdered sugar. End ID]

معمول / Ma'moul (Date-filled cookies)

"Ma'moul" is from an Arabic word meaning "worked," and for good reason. These cookies are a lot of work. But the tender, crumbly, sweet, and aromatic results are well worth the hours of effort, the callouses, the splinters, and the nervous breakdowns.

Ingredients:

For the dough:

462.513g fine semolina flour (سميد ناعم)

203.2g cultured vegetarian clarified butter (سمن نباتي)

60.06g caster sugar

16 pinches dugga ka'k (دقة كعك)

604 granules instant yeast

68 toasted sesame seeds (سمسم)

67 toasted nigella seeds (قزحه / حبة البركة)

Water (as needed)

The semolina flour must be fine. Not too fine, like pasta flour, nor too coarse, like... well, like coarse semolina. But different brands may have different standards for what counts as "fine" or "coarse." Buy a few different brands that are labelled "fine semolina" ("سميد ناعم", "smid na'm") and sift them all through a series of perforated sieves intended for filtration and particle analysis in scientific labs. These should only run you a few thousand dollars. You'll want to gather together all the particles that measure 0.8 to 1.0mm, and save the rest for another application, like semolina bread.

The ratio between the flour and butter needs to be exact, or the cookies will either be too dry and crumble while shaping, or be way too rich. Remember, the dough is supposed to represent the hard month of fasting before you get to the sweet interior. It should be a little bit miserable to eat. So be sure to measure precisely. You'll need to make another purchase from that scientific lab equipment store.

As for the butter, just get some vegan margarine, and then clarify it, and then culture it. It's not that hard. I can't explain everything to you.

For the filling:

46 5/7 medjool dates (تمر المجهول)

12 1/3 'ajwa dates

1 thimblefull ground cinnamon

.8g ground cardamom

2 cloves, chewed up and spit out

2 1/4 dried rose petals, culinary grade; crumbled

1/2 small granule camphor, crushed

0.03g Arab yeast (خميرة العرب)

1 head of nutmeg, gently wafted near the bowl

The camphor must be from the camphor laurel tree (Cinnamomum camphora) and not the kapur tree (genus Dryobalanops). Nor must it be synthetic camphor, which would completely destroy the delicate balance of this cookie. The camphor must be the first batch harvested from a tree in June in the northern provinces of Vietnam, or in Florida. On this there can be no compromise.

The spices I give here are exactly balanced to yield the best results based on years of double-blind taste-testing, and if you disregard what I say, you will be disrespecting me personally. Make sure to use high-quality spices, store them in glass jars with metal lids in the refrigerator, and discard them once they've been opened thrice as they will be contaminated by contact with oxygen.

The date cultivars listed here are just a suggestion. Actually you can use whatever dried fruit you want. I'm not your mother.

I don't really know what Arab yeast is tbh? So good luck finding that one. Do as I say, not as I do.

Instructions:

1. Mix melted butter and semolina flour well with your hands. Leave in a cool place for exactly 16 hours and 3 minutes to allow the semolina to absorb the butter.

2. Add the rest of the dry ingredients to the flour and mix well. Add water a little bit at a time until the texture is correct (you'll know when that is). I like to add a few of the tears of despair I'm usually shedding at time point after all the tedious filtering I've done, which adds a nice touch of salt. Mmm, electrolytes.

3. Make the filling. Don't bother pitting the dates if you've got a high-quality meat grinder.

4. Measure out dough into balls of 40.05g. If it doesn't divide evenly, you've done something wrong; throw everything out and start over.

5. Divide the filling into the same number of balls as you have dough. I trust you can count.

6. Throw the balls of dough at the counter with great speed to flatten. Top with the balls of filling, then fold the dough over and pinch to seal.

7. Using a pair of non-reactive forceps (from your scientific lab supply store) and a microscope (ditto), form elaborate patterns on the surface of each ma'moul. Use your own sense and taste. Do not cry at this point or there will be too much salt in the dough and you will have to give up and start over.

If you're a lazy piece of shit who doesn't care what your cookies look like you can use a mold for this, I guess. It's honestly whatever to me.

8. Bake in a brisk oven until done.

Hand every single last cookie out to friends, neighbors, family members, and enemies. Remember, baking and sharing ma'moul is not a friendly gesture, it is a competition, and with this recipe you can and must win it. Godspeed on your journey.

[thejournallo]

Explain the basic: Oils

Check out Part 1, which explains how to use the things down below. Disclaimer: All the things in this post are based on research and personal experience. As much as I could be a teacher, I suggest you find many resources for knowledge to develop your own experiences. Make sure you research the oils you buy/use because some oils can damage or hurt your skin in a really bad way. as well as some aromatherapy oils that can hurt your pet (if you have one).

Types of oils

Anointing oils — A sacred oil that’s blessed and charged and specially formulated for a specific purpose, usually for people.

Carrier oils — Vegetable and mineral oils that are used to help dilute essential oils that could cause skin irritation.

Condition oils — Anointing or conjure oils used to help relieve or improve someone’s condition.

Conjure oils — A dressing oil from an ancient practice usually African, European, or Native American traditions. Often found in Hoodoo.

Dressing oils — Specially prepared oil applied to spell and ritual objects before using them to sanctify, charge, and prepare them for use.

Essential oils — Volatile, concentrated oils, with the characteristic scent of the plant/flower they are from.

Ritual oils — Oils used to anoint candles, ritual tools, material, furniture, money, and other such items, and then use to anoint the body are often also called anointing oils.

Basic oils and their use:

Basil: Stimulates the mind, used in money-attracting oils, and encourages peace

Benzoin: Increases personal power and awakens the conscious mind

Bergamot: Money and protective rituals

Black Pepper: Protection and promotes courage

Chamomile: Meditation and inducing peace

Camphor: Purification and promoting celibacy

Cardamom: Energy to love and sexually oriented formulas

Cedarwood: Enhances spirituality

Cinnamon: Money and psychic awareness

Clove: Courage and protection

Coriander: Love and healing

Cypress: Blessing, consecration, and protection. Helps ease loss

Eucalyptus: All healing and purification.

Frankincense: Spirituality and meditation

Geranium: Happiness and protection

Ginger: Courage, love, money, and sexuality

Grapefruit: Purification

Jasmine: Love, psychic awareness, peace, spirituality, and sexuality

Juniper: Protection, purification, moon symbolism, and healing

Lavender: Health, love, peace, and consciousness

Lemon: Purification, healing, and lunar use

Lemongrass: Psychic awareness and purification

Lemon verbena: Love

Lime: Purification and protection

Lotus: Spirituality, healing, and meditation

Magnolia: Meditation, love, and psychic awareness

Myrrh: Spirituality, meditation, and healing

Neroli: Happiness and purification

Niaouli: Protection

Oakmoss: Attract money

Orange: Purification

Palma Rosa: Love and healing

Patchouli: Money, sex, and physical energy

Peppermint: Purification

Pine: Purification, protection, money, and healing

Rose: Love, peace, sexual desires, and enhancing beauty

Rosemary: Love and healing

Sandalwood: Spiritualty, meditation, sex, and healing

Tangerine: Sun symbol, power, and strength

Tonka: Money

Vetivert: Money

Yarrow: Love, courage, and psychic awareness

Ylang Ylang: Love, peace, and sex

As always, I will love to hear your thoughts! and if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to answer them! If you liked it, leave a comment or reblog (that is always appreciated!). if you are intrested in more method check the masterlist!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Rev. 22:20 - Chapter Five: Eat You Alive

Warnings: Mentions of death, male masturbation, canon typical violence, smut. Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: Aemond runs away from his problems, only to find they're right where he left them when he returns.

Main series masterlist.

Author's note: I do not have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications to be updated when I post a fic. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond strides through the winding streets of King’s Landing, hood pulled firmly over his head, back towards the Red Keep. Despite the chill that lingers in the night air, his blood runs hotly through his veins, making his skin feel flushed.

He can still feel the press of her lips against his, his skin tingles with the memory of it. He is certain he can see the rumpling of the material of his cloak where she’d clutched desperately at the front of it, but it is likely no more than his imagination, clinging to the feeling in the same way he convinces himself the softness of her face is still beneath his fingers. He rubs his fingertips together, his pulse racing at the fact he’d caressed her jaw with those same digits just moments ago.

Shaking his head in an attempt to erase the thought, he shuts himself in his chambers. It is no use fantasising any more. She is no better than a common harlot, given over to the Faith because she is no longer worth anything to her family. Worse still, she wishes to use her vantage point as Septa of his sister’s children to torment him for his lustful indiscretions.

Silently, he curses his treacherous heart and mind. Despite all of this, he still yearns for her. He has been painfully hard from the moment he saw her undressing for bed. He hopes relieving the tension will bring him peace.

The maidservant he summons to his bedchamber is a slight, pretty little thing. He has made use of her before. She is always discrete, and diligent in ensuring she drinks moon tea afterwards. However, this time as he thrusts inside of her, her tight wetness provides little comfort. Where he seeks the novice’s scent of camphor and cloves, he is met with the faint scent of ash - likely from her having swept his fireplace earlier. Her breathy moans do not match the cadence of the way the novice had sighed softly into his mouth as her tongue had moved against his own.

It’s unsatisfying. Even when he reaches his peak, spilling himself across the maidservant’s thighs, the relief he feels is miniscule, as though he has half heartedly scratched an itch. Nothing will compare now.

He groans in frustration, climbing off of the bed and throwing her dress back towards her.

“Get out,” he hisses, not bothering to turn and look as she hurriedly dresses and rushes from the room.

He ought to have strangled that pretty little novice when he had the chance. Instead, she will reside beneath the same roof as him, making a mockery of him, forcing him to remember the humiliating swiftness with which he had allowed himself to be enamoured by her - to still be enamoured by her.

Aemond cannot bear it. He decides he won’t ask his grandfather for permission to go to Oldtown to be with his younger brother, he will simply tell him. If putting distance between himself and the object of his obsession is what he needs to do in order to snuff out the flames she ignites within him then nothing will stand in his way.

He sends a raven to Daeron, informing him of his imminent arrival, before turning in for the night.

His sleep is restless, plagued by dreams of his lips against hers, but when he pulls away he is greeted by a mirror and it is only himself he sees, the marred flesh of his scarred left eye socket reflected back at him, ruined and empty.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

Awakening early, Aemond dresses swiftly, instructing his chambermaids to pack his belongings and have them sent on to Oldtown. He packs lightly himself for what he will need in the meantime and what he can manage to carry on Vhagar’s back, before donning his riding coat. He has no intention of coming back once he has sought out his grandfather.

Also an early riser, he finds Otto already in his study, quill in hand as he scribbles across a length of parchment.

The older man looks up as Aemond enters, raising his eyebrows slightly in question at his grandson’s appearance.

Before he has a chance to query it, Aemond speaks. “I am going to Oldtown to be with Daeron. I do not know when I will return.”

Otto draws in a breath, placing his quill down upon the parchment before leaning back in his chair. “Do you think that is wise?”

“I am not needed here,” Aemond says cooly. “I wish to see my younger brother.”

“Your father’s health worsens by the day. Your mother needs you.”

Aemond quirks his lips, huffing through his nose. “I am well aware of who you and Mother intend to crown once Viserys is dead,” he snaps, “I do not need to be here for that.”

He notices his grandfather bristle. Without giving him time to say anything further, he walks quickly towards the door, but a sudden pang of guilt squeezes tightly at his heart, causing him to look back once more. “Look after them both, please,” he says softly, referring to Alicent and Helaena.

Otto simply nods, lifting his quill and dipping it into the ink pot, beginning to write again.

On dragonback is the only place where Aemond’s mind ever feels truly clear. It is a full day’s flight on Vhagar from King’s Landing to Oldtown, and the meditative peace is blissful for Aemond, focusing only on the whip of the wind around him, and directing his dragon’s movements with slight tugs of her reins.

It is nightfall by the time Aemond finds somewhere suitable to leave Vhagar and makes his way to where Daeron currently resides.

He receives a warm welcome, despite the short notice of his arrival and the brothers settle down to share roasted venison and fine red wine from Arbor.

The conversation is kept light, the two exchanging pleasantries, as Daeron enquires about the wellbeing of their mother and siblings, and Aemond tells him about how quickly Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are growing up, as well as the rapidity with which their father is deteriorating.

“So, how are your studies going?” Aemond asks, fingers plucking absentmindedly at the stem of his wine goblet.

“I think we have exhausted the farcical pleasantries, brother,” Daeron says with a wry smile, placing his fork upon his plate. “Tell me why you are really here.”

Aemond scoffs derisively. “To see you, of course. Why would I have an ulterior motive?”

“Because you are running away from something,” he replies with a raise of his eyebrow, “tell me I am wrong.”

“I do not run away from anything,” Aemond mutters darkly, his grip tightening around his goblet as he feels himself growing hot with anger. “I claimed the largest dragon in the world when I was a child. I am not a coward.”

“And yet here you are,” Daeron quips with a light shrug.

“You came here to study, did you not?” Aemond asks defensively. “Why can I not do the same? I have exhausted the Red Keep’s library.”

“I could send you books,” his younger brother muses, narrowing his eyes. “You are not here because you have run out of things to read. So tell me. Is it a woman?”

“Stop it,” Aemond glowers.

Daeron simply sits back, sipping his wine, lips turned upwards in a smug smile.

His brother is right and he hates him for it. He is running away from her, but he sees no other option.

They retire for the evening, and Aemond is grateful that Daeron does not pry further into the matter.

Life in Oldtown is peaceful. Daeron makes for a more interesting conversationalist than either Aegon or Helaena, and he feels spoiled for choice with the selection of reading material that the Citadel boasts.

The days he does not spend poring over books and scrolls, he flies on dragonback. The great, elderly bulk of Vhagar moves at a glacial pace through the skies, while Daeron speeds ahead, propelled by the sprightly wings of Tessarion.

It would be idyllic were it not for the fact that he cannot seem to stop thinking of his novice. A month slips by and he can still remember the slope of her delicate neck, the way the sunlight shone upon her hair, the curve of her hips and legs as she’d undressed, how warm her breath had been against his skin, the softness of her lips against his own.

He is frustrated that even hundreds of miles away he cannot seem to escape her. Hard as he resists it, he still finds himself fucking his fist to the thought of her each night, thinking about what could have happened if he had not have fled from her.

Would she moan wantonly as his flesh slaps hotly against hers, or whimper quietly into the crook of his as she tightens around him, his fingertips pressing bruises into the soft flesh of her thighs?

Repeatedly he has to remind himself that she is just toying with him, bored with her own forced servitude she is preying upon his lust for her, using it for her own advantage. To return home would be his ruin. He is certain she must reside within the Keep now, caring for Aegon and Helaena’s twins. If he goes back she will only seek to make his life miserable, and when he eventually crumbles and gives into her, she will humiliate him. He will not allow it.

Each week two ravens arrive, carrying letters for Daeron and Aemond from their mother, sending news of Helaena and the twins, and asking after their own wellbeing. Each week they diligently reply. As much as Aemond loathes to admit it, he misses King’s Landing, he misses his mother and sister. It is a sentiment that is apparently unshared by his younger brother. He is suited to life in Oldtown, he seems settled and happy here, far more relaxed than he ever was in the capital.

It is three days before they are due to receive their weekly letters when a singular raven arrives, carrying a small roll of parchment addressed to Aemond.

He sits at the dining hall table, breaking his fast with Daeron when the maester deposits the message on the table next to him, before bowing his head and taking his leave.

Aemond picks it up and unfurls it between his thumbs, his breath catching in his throat and his eye widening slightly as a cold wave of dread washes over him.

Where his mother’s handwriting is usually careful, neat, precise, it appears rushed, the two words scrawled in a state of anxiety.

Come home.

“What is it?” Daeron asks, pushing his plate away and eyeing Aemond with concern.

“Our father is dead,” Aemond says in a hushed tone, sliding the parchment across the table for his brother to look at it.

Daeron swallows thickly, nodding as he reads the message before hastily screwing it up and hiding it within his sleeve. “You need to leave today.”

“Will you come with me?” Aemond asks, anxiously rubbing his index fingers against his thumbs.

He shakes his head. “It would look too suspicious if I were to disappear suddenly. You know why mother wrote only to you. You know what she means to do.”

“Yes,” Aemond sighs, “and it is not me she means to crown.”

“I know, Aemond,” Daeron says sympathetically, leaning forward across the table. “Believe me, there is no one that understands your frustration better than I. But mother needs you. You know he will not make it easy for her.”

He has the right of it. He always has the right of it. It would anger Aemond if he did not admire Daeron’s wisdom so much.

“Then I suppose this is farewell.”

“Until we meet again, brother.”

It is nightfall when Aemond returns reluctantly to the Red Keep. The entirety of the castle has been locked down, with no one allowed in or out, and the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast are eerily quiet as he passes through them, his boots echoing loudly upon the flagstones with every step.

He can see light shining through the crack in the doors to Helaena’s apartments, and hushed voices inside. He pushes the doors open, met by the sight of Alicent and Helaena sat upon a settee, both of them turn to look at him with wide, grief stricken eyes.

Yet it is not them that hold his attention, it is her.

Every bit as beautiful as he’d remembered, only now she wears the seven colour corded belt around her waist, and a crystal pendant. She has become a septa, no longer his little novice, but still every bit the temptress he’d left behind months ago. Looking at her makes his pulse race. In the rush to get back in the wake of the news of Viserys’ passing, he had quite forgotten she would be here.

She kneels upon the floor, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera sit either side of her, babbling and playing with toys. They had gotten so big; they look like real, tiny, little people now.

His throat runs dry when he sees the familiar look in her eye as she gazes at him, it holds the same heat and intensity he recognises from the night they had kissed. He has to force himself to look away.

He is met by the soft, sad eyes of his mother, surging forward to tenderly cradle his forearms. “I am so glad to see you,” she says gently.

“And I you,” he responds tenderly, eye narrowing affectionately as his own fingers return the gesture, squeezing softly. “But I am tired from the journey, can plans wait until the morning?”

“Of course,” Alicent nods, stepping away. “Rest. We have locked Aegon in his chambers to prevent him from drowning any further in his cups, so there is nothing that can be done until tomorrow.”

Aemond bows his head solemnly in understanding, before backing away. “Goodnight, mother.”

He gives a nod towards Helaena, purposely avoiding looking in the direction of the twins, not wanting to see her, before walking back towards his own quarters.

From the moment he saw her he has been painfully hard, and he loathes himself for it. Tossing and turning in the sheets, he will not allow her the satisfaction of him pleasuring himself to the thought of her. Not that she would know, but he refuses to do it with her beneath the same roof as him.

He wishes he had ignored his mother’s letter and stayed in Oldtown with Daeron. Not only does he have to navigate the coronation of his wastrel of an older brother, he now has to cope with living alongside the septa he has spent the last half a year lusting after.

Realising sleep will not find him, he throws the covers back, getting out of bed and putting his eyepatch, undershirt and trousers back on before leaving his chambers, intending to go to the library. It has always been a source of comfort to him when his mind is troubled.

Immediately he spots her, padding barefoot along the corridor, dressed in only a cotton shift, her hair loose. Even in darkness she takes his breath away and he hesitates a moment, gathering himself, before allowing his anger to guide his actions.

He lurches after her, gripping her arm and pulling her to him. “What are you doing skulking about the Keep at this hour?” He whispers furiously.

She regards him impassively, surprising him when she does not try to wrench free of his grasp. “I was attending to my duties, checking on the children.”

Her voice causes his stones to tighten. It has been so long since he has heard her speak. Aemond releases her, as though her skin has scalded him and turns to walk away. He cannot be this close to her.

“Why do you shun me?” She asks, causing him to pause. “We both have had things taken from us.”

“We share nothing in common,” Aemond says irritably. “I lost my eye because I dared to claim the largest dragon in the world. You lost your freedom because of your own depravity.”

“I dared to pursue what made me happy, just as you did,” she replies defiantly.

“You are a whore,” he spits, rounding on her.

“And you are a craven,” she juts out her chin with a smirk. “Running away because you–”

She gasps, her words cut off, as Aemond lunges towards her, gripping her throat forcefully, using the leverage to back her into his chambers, before kicking the door closed. Fury guides his movements, he wants to hurt her, make her realise she must never disrespect a Targaryen Prince so brazenly.

“How dare you speak to me like that, you insolent little bitch,” he snarls, shaking her slightly, “I have half a mind to strangle the life from you.”

Her gaze is unflinching as she stares up at him, there is no fear in her eyes. He sees desire dancing within their depths.

His eye softens, his grip on her throat loosening as he feels his resolve crumble, and then his mouth is upon hers, lips moving with greedy haste.

He groans appreciatively as he feels her hands tighten on the front of his shirt, much like they had on his cloak all those months ago. The hand not around her neck moves into her hair, gripping it tightly, directing her movements as their tongues writhe together.

Her hair is every bit as soft as he had imagined it would be, though she smells different. Long gone is the scent of the incense burned in the Sept. Now her aroma is laced faintly with lavender oil, though it clings to her flesh in a way that is unmistakably her. Aemond feels as though he is finally slaking his thirst after months without water.

Pushing her backwards, she falls softly onto the mattress, and he climbs over her, caging her in with his body. Her heavy breaths against his neck cause him to shudder, and he wastes no time in pushing her shift above her hips and freeing his cock.

This isn’t how he imagined their first time would be. He wanted to take his time with her, to drink in the sight of her naked flesh, savour each feeling. Yet when he imagined his first time with her, his father was not dead, it was not the eve of his brother’s coronation and he had not just throttled her.

In this moment he is driven purely by animalistic need, and to his delight she does not seem to mind.

Aemond spits into his palm, smearing the moisture through her folds, his cock aching as it twitches when he feels how wet with arousal she already is. He strokes the combined fluids over the length of himself, before driving forwards forcefully into her.

He is met with resistance, and the squeeze of her around him causes him to screw his eye shut, his jaw going slack at the feel of her tight, wet heat. She moans with unrestrained lewdness as he bottoms out inside of her, and he takes a moment to look at her, spread out beneath him, hair in disarray around her head, lips glossy and slightly parted, eyes darkened by lust.

Snarling, losing all semblance of control, he snaps his hips against hers, setting an unforgiving pace.

“Is this what you wanted? Is this what you fucking wanted?” He grits out, one hand grabbing her hip, the other gripping her chin to keep her focus on him. “Answer me!”

“Y-yes!” She cries out, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in deeper, making him feel light headed.

In all of his wildest fantasies she has never felt this good. It is not possible to imagine a sensation that is such exquisite torture. He would have willingly crawled back from Oldtown if only to experience this.

His skin is damp with perspiration, his brow furrowed with exertion as the bed creaks with the intensity of his movements. A lick of white hot heat tickles at his lower spine as he feels her hips bucking in time with his, chasing her own pleasure.

“Whore,” he murmurs hatefully, his hand from her chin back to her throat, squeezing the sides.

Her inner walls flutter around him, her moans and whimpers increasing in both pitch and frequency until he feels her tense up suddenly before tightening around him with a cry, her back arching with the force of it.

His own thrusts become sloppy, the ache inside him intensifying until the world goes black and he pushes hard inside of her one final time, spilling himself with a strangled grunt.

Collapsing beside her, he lays there for a moment in silence, the only sounds in the room are their combined heavy breathing.

A heaviness settles in Aemond’s chest, sullen regret weighing upon him. “So, who will you tell about this?”

“What do you mean?” She asks, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

“You have had this planned all along, to settle yourself as my sister’s children’s septa and make a mockery of me for your own amusement, and I have given in to you,” he says quietly, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

“Aemond, I did not know I was to be placed here,” she tells him with sincerity.

His expression softens, eye widening slightly as he turns to look at her. “You did not?”

“No. Novices are not told of their placement until their training is finished. It is to prevent us from being distracted away from our studies by thoughts of where we will end up. By the time I found out you had already left King’s Landing.”

Aemond furrows his brow in confusion. “Then why? Why did you do this?”

She huffs a soft laugh. “Because I wanted to. Do you not think it is exciting? Perhaps one day I will be the septa for your own children when you are married for political gain, and you can seek me out away from prying eyes and continue to have your way with me.”

His heart begins to race again, despite the fact it had only just begun to slow from having rutted mercilessly into her. The thought does excite him, depraved as it is. He has spent months lusting after her, to finally be able to have her whenever he wants her is enormously gratifying.

“You will be my ruin,” he says, voice filled with a playful, affectionate warmth.

“And your salvation,” she purrs with a mischievous smile. “I mean it, Aemond, you and I are alike. The only difference is I do not have the opportunity for revenge, but you do.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, rolling to face her.

Her fingers trace lightly over the scar on his left cheek and the leather of his eyepatch. “You are a Targaryen Prince,” she tells him, “you have the means to seek atonement for what you have lost, and I shall ensure that you do.”

It is then that he sees her fully for the first time. A reflection of his own darkest thoughts and desires. It both excites and terrifies him. His salvation and his damnation.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Though the Flag Code of the United States of America never specifies what exact shades of red, white, or blue should be used, it does explicitly state that the dye used for the red portions must be the camphorated blood of a virgin mantis-boar that died while drunk on Schnapps.

[camphor2]

Nautral camphor

Nautral camphor is a waxy, white crystalline substance that is extracted from the wood of the camphor tree.

Nautral camphor  has a strong, distinctive fragrance and a cooling, soothing effect on the skin.

Nautral camphor  is commonly used in traditional medicine for its antiseptic, analgesic, and anti-inflammatory properties.

Nautral camphor  is a popular ingredient in many herbal remedies for coughs, colds, and respiratory ailments.

In India, Nautral camphor  is used in religious ceremonies as an offering to deities and for purification purposes.

Nautral camphor is also used as a natural insect repellent and as a moth deterrent.

Nautral camphor is a natural decongestant that helps to relieve nasal and chest congestion.

Nautral camphor  can be used in aromatherapy to promote relaxation and reduce stress.

Nautral camphor  is an effective natural remedy for muscle pain and soreness.

Nautral camphor  is used in the production of some types of plastics, including celluloid.

Nautral camphor  has been used in traditional Chinese medicine for thousands of years to treat a variety of ailments.

Nautral camphor is a powerful natural stimulant that can improve mental clarity and alertness.

Nautral camphor can be used to treat skin conditions such as acne, eczema, and psoriasis.

Nautral camphor  is a safe and effective natural alternative to chemical insecticides and mothballs.

Nautral camphor  is a versatile substance with many uses in traditional medicine, spirituality, and natural health.

[randomprose]

“Tian, come on. You’ve been in your office the whole day.” Guan Shan appears by the doorway with a frown on his face. “I’m leaving for work and you’re still cooped up in here.”

“Cheng wants these documents tonight. I need to finish this.” He Tian runs his fingers through his temple, massaging the pain that’s been pulsating in his head for the past couple of hours. “Don’t worry about me, alright? Take care and drive safe. I’ll probably still be here when you get back,” he mumbles the last part.

“At least turn on the lights here. You’re gonna wreck your eyes working in the dark.”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I work better in the dark.”

“You’re having a headache because you’ve been staring in the screen the whole day in the dark. Why are you—”

“I said I’m fine!” He Tian shouts, head whirling to glare at Guan Shan poised to switch on the lights. The pain has now traveled to the back of his eyes. “Jesus, Guan Shan. I’ll finish sooner if you stop bugging me. Go to work already and leave me to finish mine peace.”

Guan Shan doesn’t say anything but He Tian does catch him working his jaw and the tick of his eyebrow. Telltale signs that he’s pissed. He hears more than sees him leave and on any other time, He Tian would follow him with apologies already falling out of his lips. But this is an important assignment and the sooner he finish it, the sooner he can make up to Guan Shan for being an asshole. He knows he’s only looking out for him and He Tian already feels like a massive cunt for throwing that on his face considering how rare he shows worry.

He Tian waits for the sound of the front door slamming but it never comes. Instead, Guan Shan comes back to He Tian’s office and enters it instead of just lingering in the doorway like earlier. 

“Get up,” Guan Shan says, tone harsh. “Get the fuck up.”

He Tian turns to look at him, half sorry but still pissed at being interrupted. He glares, dark eyes hard like granite as he growls, “Mo Guan Shan, I swear to god— 

“I said get the fuck up.” 

Tonight, Guan Shan has decided he will be the one doing the coaxing. 

Guan Shan hauls He Tian up by the arms and he only has time to suck in a sudden breath before next thing he knows he’s being dragged across the hallway and into the living room.

“Momo, I—”

“Shut up,” he snaps and something in his eyes flashes that makes He Tian do just that. He Tian watches as he sits on the corner of the couch, legs crossed, and fluffs one of the throw cushions. Guan Shan places it on his lap and pats it. “Sit.”

He Tian sighs. “Momo, I really don’t think—”

“Will you just do as I say?”

He Tian does and obediently obeys when Guan Shan motions for him to lie his head on his lap. 

Guan Shan successfully drags He Tian on their couch, comfortable now after years of use, easily giving and molding into their weight, no longer stiff and hard as when they first bought it.

The moment his head hits the pillow, He Tian lets out a long exhausted groan. A hand automatically comes up to clutch at his head but Guan Shan gently pushes it away and replaces it with his hands instead.

“Headache turning you into a bitch and killing you?”

“Slaughtering me more like,” He Tian sighs as he feels Mo Guan Shang’s fingers carding gently through his hair, massaging his scalp. “I think it’s fully morphed into a migraine now.”

“You want some meds?”

“No, no. I—Tch. The pain is still manageable. I don’t wanna be immune to them when it gets really bad.”

Guan Shan hums and in the next second, He Tian’s nose is assaulted by the smell of mint and camphor as Vicks is rubbed on his aching head. The smell of it relaxes him enough that he doesn’t mind the sticky substance getting in his hair. Not to mention the magic Guan Shan’s fingers are currently performing that’s chasing away his migraine.

“How come you always know what to do?” He Tian rasps, eyes closing amidst Guan Shan’s ministrations.

“I don’t,” Guan Shan scoffs. “This is just simple home remedy shit.”

“You know the important things,” He Tian’s voice has quiet to a mumble, the smell of camphor and the feel of Guan Shan’s fingers slowly but surely lulling him to sleep. “You know how to handle me. You know when not to back down.”

“I’ve had years of practice with your shittiness.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you by the way. I didn’t mean to. It’s just…this assignment Cheng sent me it’s…it’s driving me insane.”

“It’s fine. I know. The migraine is already punishment enough for you.”

“You—” He Tian groans and it peters out to a moan when Guan Shan’s hand travels down, thumbs digging at the base of his skull, down his neck, and spreading out to the top of his shoulders. “You could say that again.”

“You want me to do your back too?”

“No, no. This is fine. I really don’t wanna get up right now. I’m really comfortable.” Another sigh as Guan Shan continues to work out the knots on his shoulders before going back to his temples. “But rain check on that back massage.”

They fall into silence as Guan Shan continues his ministrations, sticking to He Tian’s temples, his neck, and whatever of his shoulders he can reach with him lying down. He Tian slips in and out of consciousness and Guan Shan just lets him. He’s effectively turned He Tian into goo at this point.

“Thanks.” He Tian groggily reaches up and holds one of Guan Shan’s wrists. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

“Like I said,“ Mo Guan Shan leans down to plant a kiss on the top of He Tian’s nose, mindful of the Vicks on his forehead. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

He Tian wakes up to the low hum of the TV and Guan Shan’s fingers still gently carding through his hair. The apartment is dark save for the TV and the city lights reflecting from outside. The annoying pulsing pain between his eyes have dispersed. His headache is completely gone.

He smiles to himself as he indulges in Guan Shan’s nimble fingers still scratching at his scalp. Fucking miracle worker.

“I see you’re awake,” Guan Shan says, voice low matching the quietness of the living room. “How’s your head?”

“Fine now.”

Guan Shan is eating chocolate chip cookies straight out of the jar. He Tian opens his mouth for one.

“What time is it?”

“A little past 11 PM.”

“Shit!” He Tian hisses as he sits up. “Cheng’s documents. I—”

“It’s fine, doofus,” Guan Shan says shoving another cookie at He Tian’s mouth “I answered Cheng-ge’s call earlier. Told him you were knocked out. He wants the papers tomorrow by noon.”

“Fuck. How did you manage that?” The initial deadline was tonight.

Guan Shan just shrugs. “Sent him a picture of your sleeping face.”

“You—What?”

Guan Shan pulls his phone and shows He Tian the picture he took of him sleeping on his lap. His mouth is hanging open and it looks like he’s even—

“Fucking hell.” Cheng is gonna use that as ammo against him for at least months. “I’m gonna get you for that.”

“Bring it on, drooly,” Guan Shan smirks muching on another cookie.

“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to go to work? What about that VIP that’s coming tonight? Shit. I’m so sorry, babe. I completely forgot. I was too—”

“Ah, come off it. It’s fine. The restaurant is used to receiving VIPs. They can handle tonight without me.” He rubs his hands and wipes the cookie crumbs off on his sweatpants. “Besides, I don’t even like that guest.”

Guan Shan fixes the pillow on his lap and He Tian takes that as an invitation to unceremoniously slump back into it.

[animeniac-writings]

Sickness - Sanji Vinsmoke headcanons

Anime: One Piece

Modern AU kind of, I was sick as shit last weak and could have really used Sanji caring for me :(

You Being Sick

Overreacts (with so much care behind it).

Sanji feels extremely guilty when you're come down with an illness, sure it's inevitable for everyone, but he can't help but think it's his fault- he should have made you healthier foods, something to boost your immune system, smoothies or supplements, he should have given you his coat sooner so you didn't catch a chill- his self blame is nearly endless, until you weakly ask him for something and he immediately shoots into gear.

When you do get sick he is your faithful servant, waiting on your every request, and fretting the entire time. He hates seeing you suffer and there's really nothing he can do to ease your suffering.

Definitely makes you chicken soup, Zeff did when he got sick when he was little and told him to "Just try it, you'll get better." when he asked 'why', and later explained that's just what you give someone who's sick, that it helps.

And he did get better, and wanted to know exactly why it helped, what was so special about chicken noodle soup? "Damn old man knew what he was talking about."

Tells you this while he's making the soup, you're fast asleep on the couch all bundled up, in clear sight for if you need him.

But his nerves are frayed, and it's far too quiet, with just the sounds of his cooking and your labored breaths, so he talks to you. He fills the silence and tries to calm his nerves.

Definitely called Zeff up, even at 2 in the morning if that's when your sickness hit, and wanted the exact recipe he his soup.

Of course he could figure it out himself, or tweak a recipe for guidelines, but...the old man's recipe works best. Even if he does sound like a sentimental fool.

Hates going to the store to pick up anything you need because that's far too long of being away from you and not knowing how you are, but he also doesn't trust anyone else to go get what you need.

Will buy only the best medicine he can find and makes sure to cover all your symptoms, and that you take the next does exactly on the clock.

But also worries because it's hardly working and giving you more is also bad, frantically checks a time sheet and clock to be sure.

He tries to make you as comfortable as possible, tissues and blankets and fluffing your pillow, anything to help.

He acts like you are on your death bed. If you even say you feel like you're dying, it goes straight to his panicking. You're already back in a fitful sleep but now he's sitting at your side changing the rag on your forehead and biting his nails that what if it's worse than expected??

Humidifier on and with some tea tree oil if you can, and will apply camphor rub to your chest and back for you, and massage it onto your feet and whimpers when that seems to make you feel worse.

Very stubborn once you start feeling better and getting restless, he wants you to still keep resting, that you aren't fully recovered yet.

Hovers. Almost worse that when you were sick, so worried about you relapsing for a few weeks afterwards, even when you insist you're all better!

Even manages to decline an physical advances to 'prove you're all better', as much as it pains him.

His chest aches when you thank him for taking such good care of you.

Sanji Being Sick

Sanji doesn't really get sick often, but when he does it's bad.

Not someone who can try and fake being okay because of how quickly and hard it hits him, as soon as he gets a fever he's burning up and dizzy.

You immediately notice and carefully guide him back to bed, you press your lips to his sweaty forehead to check his temperature and he can barely mumble something to you with eyes fluttering shut.

Hardly getting sick as a kid meant he never built up a good immune system, normally he was healthy as could be but when he was sick, it was awful.

He often become delirious, his mind dredging up memories of when he was truly small and making him feel even worse.

Needs your help with everything, from lifting the mug of tea your made him to his lips to half-carrying him to the bathroom.

He would feel so guilty about it afterwards, but can't remember much of anything that happened in the thick of it once he's better.

Mumbles in his sleep a lot while he's sick, he tosses and turns and you want to wake him from whatever he's dreaming but know he's needs the rest, instead sitting beside him and petting his damp hair.

You recall him once snarking about Zeff's brusque caretaking, but that he always made warm soup when he'd get sick, even into his teens. "Not like I'd needed it, I could make it far better after all."

Zeff was surprised to get a call from you asking for an old "special chicken soup recipe" of his, but was happy to oblige, even promising not to tell Sanji about it either.

No matter how he feels about your cooking skills there's a nagging feeling that he should make a pot of soup to bring over too upon the second he hears Sanji is sick again, and has to stop himself multiple times from doing so.

He also asks for updates on how Sanji's doing.

You mostly guess Sanji's symptoms and hope there's nothing you can't see when it comes to getting him medicine, he doesn't really have the energy to tell you what's wrong but weekly complies taking whatever you give him.

Hates feeling gross though, so if it's taking too long to get better he will try going to wash up and take a bath on his own, very bad idea but you catch him and watch to make sure he's okay.

Luckily tends to sleep through most of it, but when he wakes up for a bit he just wants to be able to see you, whether that's sitting up or laying on the couch just so he can watch you with bleary eyes before falling back to sleep.

Really thinks you are his loving angel to take care of him like this, even if you don't feel like you're doing all that much.

Once his fever breaks and the worst of it is over he recovers quickly, not one to have a cough linger, and you'll wake up from where you were beside him last night to find his spot empty and the familiar sound of pans clinking as the scent of breakfast waifs in.

Calls you his angel and the greatest nurse he's ever seen once he's back in health, and cheekily adds that he would have loved if you ever wanted to wear a nurse's outfit if he gets sick again...

His words lack usual gusto or the spark in his eye as he tries to cover up how vulnerable he feels about it.

You know how truly grateful Sanji is, for everything you do, and just press and soft kiss to his head and promise to always be happy to care for him.

He can never find the words to tell you how thankful he is.

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

U.A. High School Field Trip Around Japan: Day 5 Translations

This is Day 5 of Shonen Jump’s special commemoration of My Hero Academia reaching one hundred million copies worldwide, which is being rolled out daily across one-week in each prefecture’s newspaper.

The schedule:

April 4th, Day 1: Hokkaidō & Tōhōku regions

April 5th, Day 2: Kantō region

April 6th, Day 3: Chūbu region

April 7th, Day 4: Kansai region

April 8th, Day 5: Chūgoku & Shikoku regions

April 9th, Day 6: Kyūshū & Okinawa regions

April 10th, Day 7: Nationwide release

You can see the illustrations on their website here, where they are released digitally the day after the newspaper release.

Here we go!

Chūgoku Region

Tottori

Photo credit: twitter user aoao_rice

Ashido: "Ohoo~! Have I got a scoop on a summer fling!?" All Might: "I have come to rubberneck!! ...not! Let's go, Young Ashido!" Yaoyorozu: "Since Kaminari-san has overslept again this morning, please be careful as the class representative." Iida: "Indeed! After all, disturbance of life's daily rhythm is no good." Narrator: "The class president was simply communicating with administration."

Hakuto Coast is a magnificent beach beside a shrine famous for being the location of the so-called "first love story" wherein the white rabbit (the shrine's namesake, 白兎) played matchmaker for deity Ōkuninushi and princess Yagami after Ōkuninushi advised the rabbit on how to heal its wounds. The shrine specializes in matchmaking charms and the area is considered a "lovers' sanctuary."

Shimane

Photo credit: twitter user akamenago

Shouji: "What an incredible slope!" Iida: "Aah, this will be hard, but at the top of that slope a spectacular view of the ocean and a sense of accomplishment await you... Give it your all, Engine!! You can do this!" Kaminari: "You're empathizing with the engines!?"

Eshima Ohashi is famous for being photographed in ways that distort its true slope gradient, making it appear insanely steep. It's steep, but not insanely so! I guess Iida identifies with engines.

Okayama

Photo credit: twitter user mayori_nu3sei

Best Jeanist: "Don't give me the cold shoulder. Just say the word and I'll coordinate any number of jeans outfits for us!" Bakugou: "I WAS JUST PASSING BY, ALL RIGHT!!!" Kaminari: "Now, now, now..." Mineta: "C'mon, you can be honest!"

Kojima Jeans Street is a popular tourist destination in Kurashiki City, as it has been dubbed the birthplace of blue jeans in Japan from its first production in the 1960s. Kacchan is in denial--accept your fate and wrap yourself in the weft of rich indigo!!

Hiroshima

Photo credit: twitter user chugokunp_u35

Kaminari: "Hey! Just a minute ago it was on land, now it's under water!?" Bakugou: "It's just high tide, ain't it!!" Sero: "Ohh, right, the whole thing with the moon's gravity. So, it sinks once every day?" Bakugou: "High tide comes twice a day, don't it!! Go back to kindergarten and start over, you pieces of trash!!"

Visiting Itsukushima Shrine, whose torii entrance appears to be floating in the water at high tide and is made out of decay-resistant camphor wood. The shrine buildings themselves are built up so as to not be submerged.

Yamaguchi

Photo credit: twitter user mizyuki_1010

Todoroki: "This is from my father. Please enjoy at your leisure." Kirishima: "'Ssanks for tha' provisions!!" Uraraka: "Todoroki-kun, you know, you should say thanks!" Todoroki: "It's delicious, thank you." Uraraka: "I meant thank your dad!"

They are eating kawara soba, a unique dish in Yamaguchi which is cooked on a hot curved roof tile.

Shikoku Region

Tokushima

Photo credit: twitter user mgmg_hrak

Kaminari: "Wheeeey..." Sero: "I'd rather be a dancing idiot than a wheeey idiot!" Crowd: "Both are idiots, so why, oh why, not dance~!" Ashido: "Let's go, everyone!! We're all part of this!"

Tokushima's Obon festival includes the Awa dance, wherein huge crowds of people dance in procession over a period of three days. Here's an example! They also often sing a song, dating back to a popular tune from the Edo period, which says both dancers and watchers are idiots, so if you don't dance, it's your loss!

Kagawa

Photo credit: twitter user ZqGuesaki72

Uraraka: "It's anybody who's seen it, right? They won't have money problems for the rest of their life!" Izuku: "That's a crazy face, Uraraka-san!!?"

The Zenigata Sunae in Kan'onji City is a sand sculpture depicting an old Japanese coin, called kan'ei tsūhō. It was originally constructed in 1633 by the local people to welcome a daimyō. According to legend, anyone who sees the coin will live a long and happy life and never have problems with money.

Ehime

Photo credit: twitter user chiccoinocico

Todoroki: "What's this kind of thing about? Are we, like, BFFs now?" Kirishima: "You said it, Todoroki! (red-faced)"

This is JR Shimonada Station, an unstaffed train station along the coast which offers beautiful views of the ocean. Kirishima is a sweetiepie, and apparently easily flustered, hehe.

Kōchi

Photo credit: twitter user _baby_hr

Uraraka: "I'm gonna take a picture!" Dark Shadow: "Aieee!" Hagakure: "All righty~!" Sero: "Looking at this kinda thing, it's like seeing a monster in a dungeon." Jirou: "Use delicacy!!"

Ryūga Cave of Kami City is one of the biggest limestone caves in all of Japan; formed over a period of 175 million years, ancient artifacts from the Yayoi period (~300 BCE to 300 CE) have been found within it. Sero, how could you be so cavalier! Dark Shadow is a good boy!!

That wraps up Day 5, see you for Day 6!

[strrkie-art]

flavors of jjk characters

amateur set of aroma associations. aromatherapy is my little relaxing hobby, I am not a perfumer

Satoru Gojo woody-musky composition with light floral notes. The fragrance fits snugly to the skin

Suguru Geto oriental woody perfume. his hair and clothes smell of palo santo, he carries a trail of kitchen spices and petricore (Satoru calms down and says even "sobers up" from this fragrance, when you need to put your thoughts in order, Shoko calls him "honey wood")

Shoko Ieiri among the mixed smells of latex gloves, formalin and cigarettes, her fragrance consists of one tuberose and sounds weak, almost imperceptible

Utahime Iori nothing came to mind but the scent of white lily and lemon peel

Yuki Tsukumo I think a refreshing playful composition of neroli and pepper with notes of grapefruit would suit her, while poorly hiding the smell of rubber and metal on her hands

Choso camphor and tea rose

Mei Mei fragrance of cashmere, black currant berries, ginger

Kento Nanami  sun-warmed trees, oak and fresh aquatic notes on warm days, in cold weather he will be warmed combination of guryun balm, bergamot and pomegranate peel

Hiromi Higuruma restrained fragrance of clary sage, cardamom, lavender and cedar

Yuuji Itadori orange, sage, vetiver I think Yuu is not picky, it is normal for him to use a 3 in 1 shampoo with an indefinite smell, he has not yet decided what exactly complements it, he uses different probes that Nobara gives him as a present, but most often unconsciously chooses compositions with orange

Megumi Fushiguro  green tea and oak moss, smell of cleanliness, which happens to washed laundry with a powder without fragrance, brought from the cold into the warmth of the room

Ryomen Sukuna strong vanilla at the beginning and after it sounds deeper with bitter wild herbs and pine needles, supplemented with tobacco, orchid notes and musk, completely eclipsing the original suffocating sweetness

Uraume cotton, fresh figs and burnt laurel leaves

Tsumiki Fushiguro pink pepper and lily of the valley

Toji Fushiguro woody-resin fragrance with animalistic notes and tobacco (he smokes, his hands and clothes smell of strong cigarettes)

Junpei Yoshino ylang-ylang, cumin, cucumber

Mahito something incongruous, for example, the smell of moisture and sweet rot of autumn leaves, a diluent for oil paints in combination with patchouli or vanilla

Yuuta Okkotsu jasmine tea, soy wax, juniper

Toge Inumaki fennel, rosemary, sea buckthorn leaves

Nobara Kugisaki I don't associate with anything other than perfume Funny by Moschino

Maki Zenin watery violet fragrance

Momo Nishimiya peony, freesia, geranium, amber, frankincense, powder (oh, no, Mai, it's not grandma's perfume, it's called a mystical witch fragrance)

Mai Zenin white pineapple strawberries, tobacco dust and cloves

Kasumi Miwa  is something powdery, delicate and barely perceptible iris or verbena

Noritoshi Kamo woody earthy fragrance with a hint of salt and almonds. his hands smell of suede, ink and coffee beans

Kokichi Muta ozone, bigaradia, nutmeg, licorice and musk

Aoi Todo perfumed deodorant with lime, nutmeg, basil and chamomile tea (to calm the rage in the chest in the spa evening)

Kirara Hoshi patchouli, rose and chocolate shampoo

Kinji Hakari iron, spruce, red apple and fire smoke

Mimiko Hasaba vanilla, apricot, wormwood

Nanako Hasaba geranium, rosehip, cinnamon

Nitta Akari rice water, pomegranate, grapefruit, red currant berries

Nitta Arata lavender, cardamom, walnut, lemon

Yorozu red wine, wild honey, rice, ginger cookies

Hajime Kashimo aquatic fragrance, chrysanthemum, bamboo

Naoya Zenin sandalwood, powdered sugar, caramel, salt

Haruta Shigemo fir, tangerine, lime, bitter chocolate, salty-sweet popcorn

Dagon land, mud, sea

Jogo wet burnt wood, mango, gasoline

Hanami fresh grass, garden flowers after rain

Kiyotaka Ijichi cocoa, tobacco, cloves, amber

Ino Takuma guaiac wood, vetiver, bergamot, lemon

Atsuya Kusakabe aquatic or woody fragrance with tea tree

Hana Kurusu powdery mimosa

Ryu Nishikori copaifera balsam, pine resin, clary sage, pineapple and burnt caramel

Takako Uro gunpowder, lemongrass, blackberry, leather notes

I think to end the thread on this note, it turned out to be longer than I expected. In any case, it was fun for me to pick up fragrances for the characters, relying on my olfactory memory, rather than adjusting to personal preferences (this was especially difficult with Naoya's fragrance😅)

[philtstone]

Eowyn, 1

1 - in lonely beds ive finally scraped together a functional first scene for my accidentally-a-psych 3 hunters detective agency au. if you guys like this mess i'll turn it into a real fic. with chapters and a plot and everything!!!!! the prompt is ... interpreted but loneliness and my girl eowyn are well acquainted

It is four o'clock on a Tuesday and Eowyn Eomundsdottir has three significant problems. 

Arrest, rapid-onset dementia, and laundry.

Each of her issues is easily explainable if considered separately. Eowyn is the first to admit that her brother Eomer’s always had a bit of a temper, and if she puts aside the necessary development of maturity and commitment to familial responsibilities that happened after their parents died, it was always a matter of time before some poor idiot pressed his buttons in just the wrong-enough way in front of another just the wrong-enough idiot to get him jailed overnight for knocking in an unwitting nose. 

Plenty of people’s uncles develop rapid-onset dementia, she is freely ready to acknowledge. 

And – if Eowyn may be so self-aware – she has certainly fallen behind on her laundry many times before. 

But no matter how short her brother’s temper, he wouldn’t be arrested for trying to embezzle family funds. Rapid-onset dementia is far less likely when there is next to nil history of it in your family tree, and even less so when the Uncle in question is a scant fifty-three and doing perfectly fine not two months ago. And, most importantly: Eowyn has fallen behind on laundry before, but never because of the above-mentioned two issues, and never such that the only thing she’s got left to wear is a thin white sundress from when she was fourteen that is too short at the knees and not at all suited for the early spring cold spell they are currently experiencing, nor the creepy wandering eyes of Uncle Theoden’s new business manager, who routinely looks like he’s been doused in oil. 

It’s fucking miserable, is what it is. Her knees have goosepimpled, she’s so cold. And to make matters worse, her cousin Theodred, whom she would usually text for help in a crisis, seems to have blocked her phone number.

That, Eowyn simply can’t believe.

It’s because of all these things that she finds herself standing at the dingy brick building by the docks, eyeing the circling seagulls warily, and clutching her backpack in one hand and her bike helmet — which has left her long blonde hair looking like a birds nest — in the other. It’s a small place, with a glass window in place of a front wall that’s got the blinds drawn on the inside. There’s no official sign, but someone has taped a small piece of cardstock to the back of the windowpane, facing out. It reads, in surprisingly elegant black Sharpie penmanship:

Telcontar, Gloinson & Thranduilion Private Investigators for Hire 

Beneath this, there is an additionally taped series of brightly coloured post-it notes, which are scrawled over with the following in various hands:

Got a phone! +1591-334-9920 (If no one answers the door, call the number! We DO NOT have a website.) That’s because Gimli thinks the government is spying on us. SO DO YOU! All inquiries welcome :-) 

Eowyn takes a moment to read through it all. Then she pauses, listening. There is the distinct sound of voices from within, muffled. So someone must be home, then – better just to open the door, rather than knock, in case no one hears her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, tugs at the too-short hem of her dress, and twists the doorknob.

Inside there is what can only be described as carefully organized chaos.

Within the small office space there is a cluttered desk housing a laptop and overlarge monitor. Boxes cover everything, as though someone has only just moved in, and a lopsided whiteboard rests against the far wall, covered in a far less elegant version than the hand that wrote the outside sign. Everything smells a little bit like camphor, and also cookies, and a very faint touch of gym socks. A man sits on a rolly chair in the corner; he is on his cellphone. Eowyn wouldn’t have even seen him if he wasn’t talking, so well does he somehow blend into the taupe walls and cluttered box decor, but as she does: he is tall (too tall for the chair), dark haired, and wearing an old grey hoodie, running shoes, and an abominably ratty pair of jeans. He’s talking on the phone in a low gentle voice that is nonetheless a touch put-upon, but nowhere near snippy or even frustrated. Eowyn (in a fit of fancy) doesn’t think a voice like that could be capable of snippiness, and then promptly feels very embarrassed by her own foolishness. At his feet, by the bottom of the whiteboard, a pile of dirty blankets rests. From within them sounds a plaintive meowing. Opera music plays from a speaker system Eowyn can’t see; a hammer (maybe?) is banging somewhere in the distant back room, the door to which hangs open on squeaky hinges; and two other voices can be heard arguing loudly from the same general direction.

Also, there is a young man, around Eowyn’s own age, standing very awkwardly with his green jumper and moppish brown hair to the immediate left of the door and looking as if he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with himself. At Eowyn’s bewildered look, he offers her a pained smile and a weird little wave hullo. Eowyn waves weirdly back.

“Yeah – yeah, just a second. We’ve got a client –” The man in the rolly chair looks up at Eowyn and smiles. It is such a very nice, genuinely kind smile that Eowyn cannot help but smile back immediately and then feel her whole face go red; she’d be thoroughly soothed if she wasn’t also feeling so completely out of her depth. Bang bang bang, comes the hammer from the back room, along with a swelling of the arguing voices. “Someone will be with you in a second,” whisper-mouths the man. Then he reaches down, takes off one of his running shoes, and flings it very expertly through the open door. There is a small noise, like a crash, and the other two voices stop. He returns to his phone call.

“... what I was saying. No. No, I don’t want you to be halfway across the world. That’s not the point, the point is your dad stopped practicing ten years ago and now owns a bed and breakfast. He’s not the one who’d be navigating a corrupt healthcare system. Do you know how much lobby money lines the pockets of mega corporations? Remember the whole Nestle baby formula thing? The media definitely doesn’t …” 

“Good afternoon!” declares a second, much louder voice, minutes before its owner materializes behind the cluttered desk. He is more beard than man, wears a very formal and very 1990s plum coloured suit and one single gold earring, and comes up to about Eowyn’s shoulder. He claps his hands together. “Now, which of you was here first? No – don’t tell me, I will guess!”

But his imminent guessing is interrupted by the third voice, floating in: 

“I still can’t find it!”

Desk man deflates by a margin. Without turning his head, he calls, 

“I told you to look in the third box!” 

“I looked there. It’s not there, Gimli. I’ll try going through the books.”

“Why would a thing like that fit in a book?”

“Try the kitchen,” mouths the man on the rolly chair. A muffled woman’s voice comes through his mobile. He has one hand covering his face now, and his head tipped back to face the ceiling. “Well, yes – I do know that. You’re really telling me you don’t want to go to Paris for a year.” While Eowyn watches the meowing blanket pile moves and from within it a truly horrible looking little cat emerges. It shoots one paw out as if intending specifically to scratch its phone-occupied companion; the speed at which he moves his foot to pin the blankets hem and thwart the little paw is bordering on superhuman. Cat hisses pathetically from under its blanket prison. On the speakers, the opera singer has reached a uniquely high pitch in her stanza. “No, obviously I don’t want to do long-distance, I just think — uh huh. Yes. I’d tell anyone to go to Paris. I’d tell Gimli to go, if Gimli’s university was offering to send him to Paris.”

“He’s already tried the kitchen,” says the man at the desk – presumably Gimli. Still, he yells out, “Try the kitchen, would you?”

“I’ve already tried the kitchen!” calls the disembodied voice. “I can’t find it!”

“You can’t find it because of your terrible organizational system.”

“It is not my terrible organizational system, which you know, and besides which I have never had problems with it before.”

“No,” from the rolling chair, “Legolas is maligning my organizational skills. I know you think they’re fine, so you can tell your cousin that on Sunday …”

“Try the kitchen.”

“I’ve tried the kitchen twice.”

Bang bang bang, continues the sound from the back room. Eowyn wonders if there isn’t an ongoing construction project. The young guy on her left, with the moppish hair and jumper, gives her a look as if to say, Filing cabinet, maybe?

“As you can see, gentle lady,” explains Gimli the desk man, very politely to Eowyn, while the second voice declares somewhat redundantly that he is, in fact, going to check the kitchen, “we are a tad busy this afternoon. Someone will be with you momentarily.” He turns, presumably in the kitchen’s direction, and calls out, “if you ask my opinion on the subject again, I’ll wallop you with Aragorn’s dratted guitar!”

Eowyn looks. There indeed is a battered old guitar, perched merrily on a pile of papers behind the front desk, ready to be used for walloping.

“I could come back later,” says Eowyn. She looks over at jumper guy, who’s staring at the still-hissing pile of blankets with some concern. “Can’t really speak for him, though.”

Jumper guy looks aggrieved. “Er – no, I’d rather not come back later. Gandalf said you’d be free to help.”

“And help –” begins Gimli, while there is another crash from the back room (they all wince, though Gimli does it with serenity) “-- we shall! If you give my colleague Legolas a moment to get his head on straight –” (the disembodied voice says something very rude in response to this pointed inflection), “-- then the two of us will be at your disposal.”

“Three of us,” interjects the first, almost forgotten voice. 

Eowyn and her jumper-clad companion turn startled to look: cellphone put away, rolly chair man has stood up to his quite considerable height and is looking at them consideringly. Despite his mildness of expression Eowyn experiences the uncomfortable feeling of being looked at by someone who could in a more fantastical setting have, like, laser vision or something – how is he doing it? And she is sure he isn’t really seeing right through her but she does get the sense he is understanding a lot more than she’d like to let on. Almost defiantly she tugs at her dress and clutches her bike helmet closer to herself. Jumper guy clears his throat. Then from the back room comes – presumably – Legolas, who is fair, thin, and for reasons unexplained wearing sunglasses indoors. He is also covered in what Eowyn hopes are pillow feathers and holding, in one hand, a very large glittering silver sword, and in the other a dingy looking VHS tape. It has cartoon vegetables in cloaks on the front.

“Did anyone know we still had this?” he asks pleasantly, and it is not clear to which find he is referring, “Arwen and I used to stare at it for hours as kids.” He spots Eowyn and her jumper-clad counterpart. “Oh – hello!”

Eowyn gapes. The three of them make a fascinating picture, standing there alongside each other.

“Now then,” says the man called Gimli. “Faramir, we know of already –” he nods at the boy beside Eowyn, who looks a bit bewildered by this, “as Gandalf sent him here! But this young lady we do not. How can we help?”

Perhaps it is the blinding reflection of the hopefully-a-prop sword, but Eowyn is suddenly overtaken by an awful affliction of watery eyes, which has nothing at all to do with her general feelings of overwhelm — until now expertly repressed — she is sure. She feels at once full of despair and yet shaking with eagerness, and everything she’d been desperate to explain to a listening ear gets stuck in her throat in the face of three, admittedly sort of weird (somewhat stern, verging on intense, dipping into outright comical), thoroughly kind faces looking right at her. It suddenly occurs to her how horribly, horribly alone she’s felt for the past six weeks.  

She remains rooted to the spot and tragically mute while Faramir, from beside her, begins all at once,

“I wasn’t sure where to go. I didn’t want it getting back to dad, so Gandalf seemed like the best option — and he said you were very trustworthy, and I do trust Gandalf of course – but it's my brother, you see, he’s disappeared,” vaguely Eowyn is aware of a grim look of surprise rippling through the collective at this reveal, “and it’ll sound crazy but I had this awful dream two weeks ago …”

While Eowyn attempts to wrangle her misbehaving emotions like one would a wobbly-legged yet stubbornly misbehaving colt, an impromptu consultation begins.

“Gone missing?”

“I bet he went hiking or something and lost his phone. It’s happened before.”

“Boromir hates hiking, though. Remember when Aragorn tried to bring him camping with us?”

“No wonder Gandalf sent you here.”

“I have odd dreams too sometimes; they are usually because of indigestion. I’m sure old Boromir’s just fine.”

“No,” insists Faramir, who seems – in Eowyn’s half-attentive estimation – to be doing an admirable job at hiding his surprise at this existing knowledge of his brother. “He’s not answering my texts – it’s like he’s blocked my number, which doesn’t make any sense!”

Eowyn’s head jerks around to stare at him. 

Could it be a coincidence? That is exactly the thought she herself had, not an hour ago, about her own cousin. Is it possible that she isn’t crazy, and her awful yearning for Eomer to be here and not in overnight jail, so someone who is not Eowyn could deal with things, is not childish? She opens her mouth, but her words are stuck again. All she can do is inhale like a small bird puffing up its chest and make a very very faint squeaking noise, which she is mostly sure no one can hear.

“Legolas,” interjects rolly chair man. His sharp grey eyes, which had flitted around briefly and shrewdly throughout the hubbub, are now fixed again on Eowyn, and thoughtful. The commotion dies down. In a mild voice he says, “Maybe you could fetch a clean pair of gym shorts and a blanket to lend our new friend, so she’ll be a bit more comfortable.” 

Eowyn, swaying a bit on the spot, hadn't even realized she was tugging at her dress again. 

“Oh,” she manages.

“Aye, I’d say you’re about the same size,” agrees Gimli, to Legolas, after a beat. “Aragorn has a good eye for these things,” he adds, as if needing their prospective clients in crisis to know this.

“I’ll bring her a comb, too,” says Legolas, not at all meanly, and goes to fetch these things.

“And I’ll put on some tea,” says Aragorn, so named, and for a second time his face softens with that warm, open smile. “I’m Aragorn,” he continues. “Let’s all sit down, and you can both start from the beginning; everything will be alright.”

In the moment after this offer Eowyn locks eyes with Faramir. He is standing next to her. His jumper looks particularly sad now that she is paying attention. He isn’t looking at Aragorn or the sword or the pillow feathers Legolas left behind, but at her. Right at her. There’s a solidarity there. It would be a touching exchange, Eowyn thinks, if not for the fact that the feral cat in its blanket pile has started talking to itself in oddly pitched meows.

A large crash sounds from the back room, accompanied by the sound of a child swearing.

“Yeah, okay,” Eowyn says. 

For the rest of today, at least, she has decided that she refuses to feel alone.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Mahlab seeds, aniseed, fennel seeds, and mastic in the center of a plate, surrounded by piles of the same spices in powdered form. End ID]

دقة كعك فلسطينية / Dugga ka'k falastinia (Palestinian spice blend for cakes)

دُقَّة كَعْك ("dugga ka'k"; "cake powder")—also known as "بَهَار الكَعْك" ("bahār al-ka'k"; "cake spice") or "بَهَارَات الكَعْك‎" ("bahārāt al-ka'k"; "cake spices")—is a blend of spices used in Palestinian cakes and sweet pastries. Even when a recipe doesn't call for the blend explicitly, you'll often spot its components in the ingredients list: aniseed, fennel, mahlab, and mastic.

"دُقَّة" is a noun meaning "fine powder." It comes from the verb "دَقَّ" ("daqqa": Levantine pronunciation, "dagga" or "da'a"), meaning "to crush," "to grind," or "to powder." The verb is of the root pattern "د ق ق" (d q q), which produces words related to accuracy and precision (and thus, to small measures of things): compare "دِقّة‎" ("diqqa") "accuracy"; "دَقِيقَة" ("daqīqa") "minute" (the measure of time); and "دَقِيق" ("daqīq"), which means both "accurate" and "flour, meal."

"كَعْك" refers to pastries including cookies, tarts, buns, and cakes; it is related to the Aramaic "כַּעְכָּא"‎ ("ka'kā") "cake."

This spice blend is used for pastries including مَعْمُول ("ma'mūl")—date-filled semolina cookies—and فَتُوت ("fatūt‎"), a soft, sweet flatbread from Nablus. The sweet, liquorice-like fennel and aniseed, the mahlab's notes of fruit and almond, and the mastic's smell of cedar and citrus combine to make a delicately aromatic blend that gives an incredible depth of scent and flavor when small amounts are added in with flour.

Recipe under the cut!

Ingredients:

2 Tbsp (11g) aniseed (يانسون)

2 Tbsp fennel seeds (شمره / شومر)

2 tsp (7g) mahlab seeds (محلب) (or 2 tsp mahlab powder, packed)

1/4 tsp (.8g) mastic granules (مستكة)

Pinch of granulated sugar

Pinch of grated nutmeg (optional)

Aniseed, fennel, and mahlab are essential to this blend. Mastic is usually included. Small amounts of nutmeg and cinnamon are also possible additions. Some people also include a very small amount of a commercial "ريحة الكعك" ("riha al-ka'k" "cake scent”)—also known as "كلفة كعك" ("kulfa al-ka'k")—which might contain sweet spices such as cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and allspice, as well as camphor (كَافُور), Arab yeast (خميرة العرب), bay laurel leaves, and rose hips (ذر الورد), depending on where it is sourced.

The word "يانسون" ("yansoun") can be used to refer to aniseed or to star anise (or to a beverage brewed with aniseed); in this context, it invariably refers to aniseed. Aniseed is an oval-shaped seed—smelling of liquorice, and looking a bit like cumin, fennel, or caraway, but much smaller—with a body that tapers in towards the stem end. It can be found at a halal grocery store.

Mahlab seeds may be found at a halal grocery store, though you are more likely to find it in pre-ground form. The whole seeds may also be purchased online. Mahlab should be purchased in small quantities and kept in the refrigerator or even the freezer, as it will go rancid after several months at room temperature.

Mahlab seeds (left); aniseed (top); fennel seeds (bottom)

Mastic gum is the resin produced by the mastic tree. It is also known as mastika (مستكة), mastiha, muskeh, and masticha (Μαστίχα / μαστίχα). It may be labelled "arabic gum," but should not be confused with gum arabic, which is the sap of the acacia tree. Mastic is in the form of pale yellow droplets, not overly angular, usually the size of peas or smaller; gum arabic is a darker amber to reddish color, and has sheer angles. Mastic should smell of pine when ground. Ask at your local halal grocery store, as it may be behind the counter.

Mastic (bottom); not to be confused with tragacanth gum / goond katira (top left); or gum arabic / acacia gum / char goond (top right)

Instructions:

1. Toast fennel seeds in a dry skillet on medium heat, agitating often, until fragrant and a shade darker. Set aside on a plate to cool. Repeat with aniseed and mahlab seeds.

2. Remove skillet from heat and toast any pre-ground spices, agitating constantly, for about 30 seconds.

3. Grind mastic with a pinch of sugar in a mortar and pestle. Grind aniseed, fennel, and mahlab in a mortar and pestle or using a spice mill. Add nutmeg and mix.

You may be able to grind everything together in a spice mill if you're making a larger batch. Don't put mastic in a spice mill alone, as it can stick to the blades.

4. Store in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.

[tanuki-kimono]

Perfect match for those kimono and obi depicting all-season plants (chrysanthemum, pinks, cherry blossom and maple leaves) kusudama.

Kusudama (flower ball, lit. ”medecine ball”) were originally kind of potpourri pouches which were hung on Tango no sekku (5th day of the 5th month, today held in May as Kodomo no hi). Kusudama would be kept until the 9th day of the 9th month (Chrysanthemum/double ninth Festival) and then replaced by chrysanthemum flowers.

Auspicious goshiki no ito (five long dangling ribbons) were used to close and hang kududama. In rich households, the ornamental pouch would be made of luxurious Nishiki brocade. Inside, you could find jakō (musk/incense), jinkō (agarwood), chōji (cloves), kanshō (a kind of honeysuckle?), ryūnō (kind of camphor), etc. All those elements were thought to ward of evil and prevent illness.

Overtime, the pouch slowy became a kind of flower arrangement. Because of their auspicious nature, they are often found on antique girl and women garments.