#incense heritage

[shreejiagarbattiworks]

Explore the fascinating journey of incense in India, from its roots in ancient rituals to its modern-day significance. Indian incense sticks, crafted with sacred herbs like sandalwood and ashtagandha, have been cherished for their spiritual, medicinal, and aesthetic benefits. The evolution from traditional dhoop to handcrafted agarbatti reflects the ingenuity of Indian artisans. Today, incense continues to play a vital role in meditation, puja ceremonies, and creating serene ambiences worldwide. Discover how this fragrant tradition preserves cultural heritage while connecting generations across India and beyond.

[holygroundgone]

bed sharing is too stimulating, going on and on about his youthful high temperature and his scent, his unique scent, his male hormones

[omegaincense]

Mysuru Dasara 2024: A Royal Celebration of Dussehra Traditions in Karnataka

[cercandodiscrivere]

Cadere | emperor geta x reader.

word count | 2.7k

warnings | 18+, infidelity / cheating, dark themes (mentions of war, death and murder), murder plans as part of sex talk, prayers, porn with too much plot, unbeta'd.

synopsis | The last time you dared to beg the gods for favour, you pleaded to be given to a man over another.

It seems just like a cruel joke how your wish was granted now—a jest that only serves to make you beg once more.

gifs by @whereisyourpippinnow.

“Dea, quae thalamorum custos es et coniugii praesidium, domum meam ab hostibus defende, me tua virtute sustenta.”

The voice, a low and steady murmur, seeps into the room like a wisp of warm air: Lucilla's prayer is not so much a plea as a soft-spoken lament, her words coated in a quiet sorrow that seems to echo throught the marble walls.

The words she whispers are unfamiliar, not part of the litany you were taught at the temple. Each request is carefully considered and every word is chosen with intention.

The last time you pleaded to the gods with such desperation, it was to beg for them to alter the path your father had chosen—but no divine messenger appeared in his dreams. The gods had greater concerns than the unwanted marriage of a young girl.

You wondered if they watched when your father confirmed Tiberius Aemilius Marcellus’ desire to wed you. If they knew the torment of leaving the sanctuary of the home you had grown in.

If they noticed how, even if you still tried to tint your prayers with the same devotion, they always tasted as sour as vinegar on your tongue.

“Virum meum sanum et incolumem redde, ut cor meum eius reditu gaudeat.”

The voice brings you back to the present.

Lucilla may have been careful with her words, but she showed little regard for the dove that she had her servants sacrifice. A delicate creature, even with its feathers stained red: an offering to Juno, the guardian of the household and of women. A gesture to secure your husbands safe return from battle.

You had anticipated a prayer to Mars, a tradition before men embark on glorious battles (although Tiberius, if he could hear your thoughts, would remind you that the true glory comes only after the brutality of war).

Lucilla appeared to share a similar opinion. "Leave it to the men to pray for war" she said when you had asked her. "We women pray for our lovers' safe return".

Affection is the closest thing to the sentiment you feel for Tiberius: more unbridled feelings are reserved for poetry and drama, not arranged marriages. He is a kind and devoted man, as is expected. As a Legate for the army, he ensures your safety: as his whife, your heritage secures the continuation of his bloodline—and that is all.

“Why not pray to Victoria, then?”.

“Victorious or not, let them come home alive—for if a man dies at war, sad is his wife’s fate”.

And with that, you knelt and bowed your head, listening intently as the woman begun her pleading.

The room is now filled with a dense and overwhelming aroma of incense; the scent clings to your throat, suffocating the air. As the smoke rises in coiling tendrils, it wraps around you, casting flickering shadows that dance along the walls.

The night outside is eerily quiet, the sound of men's laughter echoing through the walls: tomorrow morning, when the Emperors will bid farwell to the soldiers and their purpose, there will be no mirth.

The Emperors.

Your family had once been part of Settimio Severo’s court, your father a cousin to the imposing ruler. You grew alongside his sons—a past far enough that seems almost like a dream. Once, you used to hide with Caracalla to infiltrate the adults’ cenae, trying to steal wine without being seen. You would watch Geta as he trained, a lanky child with a gaze too serious for his age.

It has been years since they watched you leave, the bright nuptial flammeum still pinned to your hair. Now, all that remains to fuel your fantasies are fading memories and the echoes of laughter from the banquet; a grand celebration held by a General seeking approval from his Emperors.

One where lieutenants indulged in sweetened wine, losing themselves in its intoxicating spices.

A gathering not meant for women to attend.

“Pacem et securitatem mihi largire, et ne sinas me in bracchia malignorum cadere, ut sub tua misericordia vivere possim”. Lucilla’s voice falters as she finishes the prayer, the room falling into an unsettling stillness.

In the distance, someone shouts while others laugh. A servant standing behind you moves, her tunic brushing against the floor.

Lucilla's eyes quickly glance in your direction before she speaks. “Will you walk with me in the gardens?”.

To catch one last glimpse of our husbands is the implicit proposition; and while in every other situation you would never deny a woman of such high status, there is nothing you desire less—because catching a glimpse of Tiberius would mean seeing his domine. Your heart would not dare.

“Your request is kind” you answer, hoping your voice comes out as somber as hers. “But I have a son to go back to”.

You regret the excuse almost as soon as it leaves your lips, for the saddened look Lucilla gives you almost makes you stay. Out of all the things you could have said to her as you left her alone in the darkness of her home—filled with Acacio's men but devoid of any comfort for her—somehow it feels as if you chose the most hurtful one.

A moment later, her lips curve upwards in what could be considered a smile; yet it appears more like a mask meant to please others than a genuine reaction.

“I understand”.

Still smiling, she orders a servant to inform your litter carriers to wait for you at the entrance.

_

You bid Lucilla farewell with a respectful bow, one that she does not seem to register. Escorted away by her ancillas, you assume she will not walk through the gardens now that you are gone.

Indifferent to men’s affairs, the moon casts a silver glow — and yet the night is still too dark, too overwhelming to bear alone.

You should reach the entrance: but as you stand in the peristylium, your feet refuse to move. In the middle of the open courtyard, ecircled by towering columns, you can’t help but feel trapped.

Beyond the opposite wall lies the raucous dining hall, the air filled with laughts and shouts.

There’s music. There’s the sound of plates clattering and glasses clinking, accompanied by the occasional splash of wine that some drunken guests might have spilled. There’s footsteps, right behind you.

Footsteps. Behind you.

"Leaving so soon, without greeting the guests?".

You spin around, your breath catching in your throat —and there he is, just a few steps behind you. Geta.

Bathed in the moon's ethereal glow, his features are sharper than you remembered. You had always envisioned him and his twin as shining gold: gold like their crowns, gold like their coins and their brooches and the divine blood that flows whithin their veins.

Under the silver light, he instead emerges from darkness like a haunting memory from your past.

"Domine" you say as you lower yourself into curtsy—for an Emperor who speaks is one who demands an answer.

Even with your head bowed down you can sense how the ceremonious response displeases him.

"Ah, so formal” he remarks, his tone still teasing. “No need”.

His hand gently lifts your chin, straightening you. “I recall a time when you would refuse to bow before me, just out of stubborness”. A small grin appears on his face—and for the second time tonight, you can't help but feel that something is off about the smiles on everyone's faces.

“You would throw tantrums, and father would force me to apologise on my knees” you agree.

I miss those moments, you almost say—but it would make you seem too desperate.

Geta laughs openly, his hand still resting on you. He’s getting closer; you can almost smell the sweetness of the wine on his breath.

“It’s too early to be leaving” he says. “We haven't seen each other in years. It would be a pity to waste such a rare occasion”.

It occurs to you that you’re entirely alone with him now, and for just a moment you wonder if wandering the house alone was the best idea: your instinct is to give the same excuse you gave Lucilla—the longing to be in his presence so overwhelming it almost scares you.

…and yet, he wants it too. You cannot refuse an Emperor's request.

“You are right. My servants can wait a bit longer; catching up with an old friend is more important. Let’s talk, then”.

Geta laughs once more, his nose almost touching yours as his fingers gently rest on your cheek.

“Who said anything about talking?”

His lips meet yours a moment after.

It’s an insistent kiss, one that will leave your lips raw and red.

Instinctually, you reach up and twine your fingers into his hair while his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you even closer. The resulti s that you fell trapped again—between his warm body and the chill of the marble column—and for a breathless moment, you lose yourself in the feeling.

It’s the sound of something hitting the floor, distant but still uncomfortably near, that has reality crash back like a cold wave.

You pull away abruptly, your heart racing. “Stop” go on go on go on.

Geta leans back just enough to give you space to speak.

"Tiberius is on the other sideof that wall" your voice is trembling—fear, excitement, shame. "A servant could walk this way at any moment. This is madness".

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, as if your words hold no significance. "You recall" he says instead, "you recall when your father would demand that you apologize on your knees". He moves closer, but instead of kissing you again or pushing you to the ground, Geta shocks you by dropping at your feet himself.

His intense gaze used to be a serious one—almost too mature for a young and careless man—but now it’s wild, deranged. "If he let you stay, I would have adored you. Worshiped every step you took".

You do not respond to the delirious declaration, too dazed to do anything beside gasping for air.

“You look just as good as I remember” his voice is soft. “Charming. Sweet. Beautiful… a shame, to see you leave with a man so insignificant”.

As he speaks, his hand sneaks under your tunic, inching up and up and up as he stands.

“I… We can’t” you are not even sure if he hears you. Shame swirls in your loins, mixing with desire—and despite all reason, you don’t stop Geta as he pushes the layers of your skirt up to your hips.

He presses against you once more, his gaze never wavering from yours. He doesn't need permission; even he knows he already has it. He wants to hear you admit that you want him just as much as he wants you. He wishes for surrender.

You whisper his name, unsure if it's a scolding or a plea. He leans in closer, planting fiery kisses along your neck. His mouth sucks on your skin until you moan into the air above him, fingers tightening into ginger strands of his hair.

It’s too much.

It’s not nearly enough.

“Yes” you say. This time your voice is clear. “Take everything you want”.

“I will”.

With that as a last warning, he spears two fingers inside of you, finding you wet and wanting. You hold onto his shoulder tightly, your chest rising and falling with each breath as a loud moan escapes your lips, only encouraging him to continue.

You've shared nights with your husband before—but not like this, never like this.

"Please-" you gasp, trying to hold on to some sense of modesty while also giving in to the rough, demanding movement. His pace is fast and unrelenting, and the most careless of you eagerly surrenders to them in hopes of reaching release.

Geta's grin stretches across his face, victorious as if he has just won a fierce battle. “Oh, it would be a shame to leave you to that man”. His lips caress your ear. “But you won’t be with him for long”.

The worlds ring wrong, but you can't bring yourself to look away from him. You stand still, unable to move, overcome by ecstasy, destroyed by the intense passion that he effortlessly ignites within you.

“Battlefields are cruel. Soldiers get hurt” he continues, and his choice of topic is so strange that it snaps you back to reality. “It is not uncommon for a legate to lose his life in action”.

“What-” and it’s all you can get out before you're overcome with pleasure once again, completely helpless in its grip. You need more, need him, need something that will consume you entirely so you don't feel as dirty as you do in this moment.

Geta seems to understand. The fingers draw away; but before you can even register the loss, he aligns you with his cock and pushes inside.

You let out a sigh—in relief or shame or both—and his hand darts to your throat, not enough to cut off your air but just to silence your whine. The possessive way he grasps you only adds to your arousal.

“Yes, he won’t have you for much longer” he growls again. “I’ll make sure of that”. The confidence in his words is laced with lust: he exudes strength and control– yet, it seems that you have the power to unravel him just as much as he can unravel you.

The pace of his hips is bruising: almost too much to bear, but you can't get enough of it. He's claiming you as his own, branding you with every movement, inside and out.

“Tell me you are mine, just mine”.

“I am yours” you almost scream. “All yours, only yours”.

He lets out a rough groan, using the hand around your throat to grip your hair as he thrusts into you.

A thin layer of sweat has coated his forehead, furrowed brows and parted lips giving away his concentration. Whether it's the feeling of your burning flesh against his, or the whispered fantasies he keeps confessing to your skin, it has his body in a wreck of tension.

His lips leave your neck, chapped and red, his movements now erratic as he nears his impending orgasm.

He does not look at you when he comes: he rolls his eyes up at the dark sky, daring the Gods to judge him. You both dive into each other one last time, clawing, grasping, lost in fiery ecstasy that leaves you moaning beneath Geta as he empties himself inside you.

The act alone leaves you shaken, your back curved and legs trembling as you cry out at the top of your lungs. You hold onto his feverish and heated skin, so that when you come back to your senses the first sensation you feel is Geta—all over you, claiming you as his own.

He traces his fingers over your skin, and you feel completely undone. Spent.

As your heart rate slows and your breathing steadies, the sounds around you begin to resurface: the cacophony of laughter, gentle strumming of lyres, soldiers shouting at each other. You scan the peristylium, looking for any servants or guests meandering about.

“Hush, don’t worry” Geta says, redirecting your attention back to him.

He leans in closer, but instead of seeking another kiss, he simply rests his forehead against yours. “Soon, we won’t have to hide”.

He speaks of war again, and all the ways a man can perish: and as he does, a shadow creeps over his face, sinister and cold. You feel a chill run down your naked arms, this time not from shame.

Geta laughs and promises luxurious silks with precious jewels. He tells how perfect you will be by his side, in gold. How you will bear his heirs—and his alone.

The last time you dared to beg the gods for favour, you pleaded to be given to a man over another.

It seems just like a cruel joke how your wish was granted now—a jest that only serves to make you beg once more.

It’s true that you may never be as devoted as Lucilla is: and yet, as Geta pants beside you, her earlier words still echo in your mind.

Pacem et securitatem mihi largire [grant me peace and safety]

Et ne sinas me in bracchia malignorum cadere [and do not let me fall into the arms of the wicked ones].

[growthhyp]

The Garage Sale I

Jack, a towering figure of masculine power, his straight, tall body sculpted by rigorous bodybuilding routines. He stands confidently in a pair of skin-tight black shorts, showcasing his muscular physique. Above the waist, he dons a vibrant black tank top, the material stretching tautly across his broad chest and bulging biceps, emphasizing his strength. His attire is completed with a pair of white sneakers, the laces tightly bound to mirror the snug fit of his clothing. A silver necklace with a gothic cross rests against his collarbone, reflecting the sun's glow. In his right hand, he holds a cardboard sign that reads "Jack' Closet Sale" in bold, hand-drawn letters. Behind him looms an ancient-looking house with ivy climbing up the walls, hinting at a long lineage of secrets and mystical heritage. The setting is a quaint neighborhood with well-maintained lawns, adding a whimsical contrast to Jack's dominant presence. A sense of intrigue is cast over the scene as we realize that Jack, the owner of the house, hails from a lineage of witches. The vibrant garments displayed on a rack beside Jack suggest an eclectic taste that blends with the enigmatic aura of the house's history. The array of tight-fitting shirts, leather jackets, and dark pants speak to Jack's edgy, magical style. The sun shines brightly, casting sharp shadows that play across Jack's defined abs and the various fabrics of the clothes for sale, while a gentle breeze whispers through the air, stirring the leaves of a nearby tree. The scene is alive with a palpable energy, the juxtaposition of Jack's alpha demeanor and the whimsical, mysterious backdrop of the house inviting passersby to explore the secrets and treasures hidden within the garments. Little did the buyers know, these garments contains magic which the buyers will know once they tried to wear them.

A tender moment between two skinny young men, Anthony and Tony, whose love for each other is unmistakable. They stand in an intimate embrace, their bodies intertwined in a way that speaks of deep connection and comfort. The light from the sun casts a warm, soft glow upon their faces, highlighting the love in their eyes and the gentle smile that plays on their lips. Both are dressed casually yet stylishly, with Tony in a fitted t-shirt that emphasizes his lean frame and Mateo in a button-up shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing his slender neck. The contrast of their dark and light hair, Tony's in a short, spiky style and Mateo's in loose waves, adds a visual interest to their embrace. Their slender arms are wrapped around each other, and their long fingers are interlocked in a delicate yet strong grip.

As they walk, their eyes are drawn to the unusual spectacle of the garage sale. They see Jack, a colossal figure, his muscles rippling like waves of power beneath his clothes. The sight of him is so unexpected in this serene neighborhood that it feels like a mirage, a sudden jolt of the extraordinary amidst the ordinary. His biceps bulge in a way that seems almost supernatural, and the vibrancy of his black tank top draws their gaze like a beacon. The two lovers exchange a look of wonder, their curiosity piqued by the stark contrast between the seller and the delicate garments he's peddling. They whisper to each other, their voices low and filled with excitement, as they contemplate the story behind this mysterious man and his enigmatic wares.

They approach the rack of clothes, their eyes scanning over the fabrics, colors, and styles. The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint scent of incense, hinting at the arcane nature of the garments. The shirts and jackets seem to whisper secrets to them, promising an adventure beyond their wildest dreams. And then, as if by fate, Anthony's hand brushes against a piece of white spandex. His eyes widen in amazement as he tugs it out, revealing its form-fitting shape and sheen.

"Hey, Tony," Anthony says, his voice thick with excitement, "Check this out."

Tony looks over and sees the white spandex in Anthony's hand. His eyes light up with understanding, knowing the allure it holds for his partner. He chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, really?"

Jack, noticing their interest, steps closer. "That's a fine piece of clothing," he says, his deep voice resonating with a hint of amusement. "It's one of my favorites. It's got a bit of a… stretch to it."

Anthony blushes, the heat rising in his cheeks as he holds up the white spandex. "How much for this?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

Jack, with a knowing smile, says, "That'll be twenty bucks. It's a special piece, one of a kind."

Anthony nods, his heart racing as he hands over the cash. The transaction feels charged with more than just money changing hands; it's as if he's purchasing a ticket to a new world of pleasure and power dynamics. Tony takes the spandex from Jack, holding it up to his own body with a playful smirk.

"I'll wear it for you tonight," he says, his voice low and seductive, sending a thrill through both of them. The fabric seems to glow with promise, stretching tautly between Tony's fingers.

===

The sun dips below the horizon, and the neighborhood grows quiet. The only sounds are the distant laughter of children and the occasional car passing by. Inside the house, the curtains are drawn, and the lights are dimmed, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. The air is filled with the scent of their dinner, a romantic meal they've prepared together.

Anthony lies on the bed, his skin pale and almost translucent against the white sheets. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, his anticipation building as he imagines Tony wearing the white spandex. He runs his fingers over his own flat stomach, tracing the lines of his ribs and the contours of his lean frame. The black briefs he wears cling to his hips, showcasing the excitement of what's to come.

The sound of the shower running fills the house, the water pounding against the tiles echoing through the walls like a heartbeat. Tony stands in the steamy bathroom, lathering his slender body with soap. He's lost in thought, a smug smile playing on his lips as he visualizes the evening's events unfolding. He runs the bar of soap along his flat chest, his hands gliding over his flat stomach and down his narrow waist. The warm water cascades over him, highlighting his skinny body and the sharp angles of his bones.

As the shower comes to an end, Tony steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and grabbing the white spandex from the counter. He slides it over his legs, the fabric clinging to his skin with surprising ease. Despite being a bit large, it seems to hug him in all the right places, showcasing his toned thighs and the outline of his manhood. He pulls it up over his hips, feeling a strange heat radiating through his body. The spandex fits snugly around his waist, the elastic digging in slightly, as if the garment itself is alive and eager to become one with him.

Walking into the bedroom, Tony lets the towel drop to the floor. The sight of him in the spandex sends a jolt through Anthony, his eyes widening with desire. "Damn, Tony, that looks… incredible on you," he murmurs, his voice husky with arousal. The room seems to pulse with energy as Tony struts towards the bed, the spandex accentuating every step.

"You look… amazing," breathes out Anthony, his voice thick with desire. The compliment hangs in the air, a palpable force that makes Tony's confidence swell. He knows he's not the most muscular or the most traditionally attractive man, but in this moment, he feels like a Greek god.

Tony approaches the bed with a predatory grace that's new to him, the white spandex shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The fabric seems to pulsate with every step he takes, the room's shadows dancing along with his movements. The scent of their dinner has been replaced by the intoxicating aroma of pheromones and excitement.

Tony, feeling an unusual surge of horniness from the magical spandex's influence, Tony leans in and captures Anthony's mouth in a passionate kiss. The suddenness of it takes his breath away, but he eagerly returns the favor, their tongues dancing together as if they've been waiting for this moment forever. The spandex seems to pulse with energy, the material seeming to tighten around Tony's body, fueling his desire.

The kiss is demanding, almost aggressive, as Tony's hands move to grip the sides of the headboard. He pulls himself closer to his lover, his lean body pressing against the firmness of the bed. The fabric of the spandex whispers against their skin, a seductive sound that seems to echo their passionate intentions. The room feels electrified, the air thick with the scent of lust and the promise of something more.

Anthony, feeling the sudden change in Tony's demeanor, gasps as his partner's hands begin to roam over his body, the touch growing more insistent, more powerful. Tony's grip on the headboard tightens to pin down his lover, his fingers digging into the wooden frame.

With a fiery hunger in his eyes, Tony reaches down and frees his cock from the confines of the spandex. It stands tall and proud, the veins pulsing with a magical vigor that matches the rhythm of his racing heart. He lines it up with Anthony's quivering hole, the tip of his erection glistening with pre-cum. The room seems to hold its breath as the two men lock eyes, the tension palpable as they hover on the brink of something incredible.

Anthony feels Tony's hardness press against him. He moans, the sound deep and needy, his own cock responding in kind. The anticipation is exquisite, a delicious ache that makes him squirm with pleasure.

As Tony's hips begin to move, his cock sliding along the cleft of Anthony's ass, the spandex seems to come alive, the material tightening and releasing with each thrust. The sensation is unlike anything Tony has ever experienced, the fabric almost seeming to breathe with him, to move in sync with his body.

With a growl, Tony's hand comes down on Anthony's plump, round cheek, the sound echoing through the room. The slap resonates with power, leaving a red handprint that seems to glow against the pale skin. The shock of pain sends a jolt through both of them, but instead of recoiling, it only seems to heighten their arousal. The spandex stretches and clings to Tony's body, the fabric moving with him like a living thing, as if it's urging him on, feeding off the energy of their desire.

Tony's cock feels like it's swelling, growing larger and more substantial with every thrust. He's never felt anything like this before.

Anthony gasps as Tony's hand squeezes his hip, his fingers digging into the flesh. The spandex around Tony's waist is stretching, the fabric straining against his suddenly growing frame. His abs are becoming more defined, the lines between each one deepening and becoming more pronounced. His chest is expanding, the muscles swelling.

The transformation is subtle at first, but it's as if the very essence of the magical garment is seeping into Tony's skin, reconfiguring him into something more than human. His arm, the one holding onto the headboard, bulges with newfound strength, the veins popping out as if they're about to burst through the skin. His shoulder widens, the muscles growing taut and powerful.

Anthony feels it, too, the bed shaking beneath them as Tony's body changes. He watches in awe as Tony's back, once a canvas of lean muscles and smooth skin, begins to expand, each vertebrae becoming more pronounced, the muscles swelling and rippling with every thrust, tracing the contours of his newfound power.

The white spandex, stretches and morphs with Tony's legs, bulging with each flex and release of his newfound muscularity. The fabric clings to his calves and thighs like a second skin, the material seemingly alive and responsive to his every movement. Each pump of his legs is now a display of unbridled strength, the spandex tightening around his quads as they bulge and release like pistons.

Anthony's eyes are wide with a mix of fear and excitement, watching as Tony's body continues to change. The man he loves is becoming something else, something more powerful and primal. The spandex, once a mere piece of clothing, now seems to be the vessel for an ancient power, molding Tony into a creature of pure, sexuality. Tony's hips rock into him with an intensity that's almost violent, the fabric of the spandex whispering with each powerful thrust, the sound sending shivers down their spines.

As Tony's body changes, so does his mind. Images of female beauty flood his thoughts, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he feels a strange arousal thinking of a young woman appearing in his mind. Her breasts bounce slightly with each step she takes, and he feels his cock throb with a hunger that's foreign to him. The spandex seems to pulse with a dark energy, feeding on his confusion and amplifying his desires.

The room seems to spin around them, the air thick with the scent of magic and the heady aroma of lust. Tony's eyes glaze over, no longer focused on the man beneath him but on the phantom female figures that dance in his mind's eye. He can almost feel the softness of breasts, the wetness of a pussy, the heat of a woman's embrace. His hips continue to thrust, driven by the power of the magic within the spandex, his body moving almost involuntarily as he chases the illusions in his thoughts.

With a final, powerful thrust, Tony's body goes rigid, and he roars out his climax, his cock pulsing with the power of the magical spandex. The fabric seems to glow brighter, the aura surrounding it pulsating with every spurt of cum. The intensity of the moment overwhelms them both, and their orgasms crash together like waves upon the shore, leaving them gasping and trembling in the aftermath.

Exhausted by the sheer power of their lovemaking, their bodies entwined in a mess of sweat and passion, they slowly come down from their peak. The room returns to a gentle stillness, the only sound their heavy breathing and the distant whispers of the night.

Tony lies there, his body now a monument to power and desire, the spandex clinging to him like a second skin. His newfound muscles, bulging and defined, cast strange shadows on the wall as he catches his breath. The fabric whispers as it settles against him, seemingly satisfied with the transformation it has wrought. His mind swims with the images of feminine beauty that have taken over his thoughts, a stark contrast to the man he's always been.

Anthony sleeps soundly, oblivious to the turmoil within his partner. His slender body, so fragile in comparison to the new titan beside him, rises and falls with each breath he takes. The soft curve of his hip is a gentle reminder of the love they've shared, a stark contrast to the newfound aggression and power that now courses through Tony's veins.

[lesorciercanadien]

My Current Inventory of Magic Tools

Here's a list of tools I use in my spiritual practice that can inspire others that are on this path! While some are heritage pieces that cost a lot of money up-front due to craftsmanship, the every-day tools are pretty inexpensive. For example, most candles can be found at the dollar store, and incense can be personalized to your taste. For my practice, I use cedar incense, since it is known as a cleansing plant in the Christian tradition, and many Acadian and Québécois households used cedar on Palm Sunday before palms became widely available.

Most of the heritage pieces, for anyone wanting to participate, I strongly encourage investing a few extra dollars to get good quality items! It will last you years of magical practice, and you can use them with pride.

La ceinture fléchée - the woven sash

A symbol of identity to the Métis living on the Canadian plains, the historical Huron-Wendat people, and historically worn by French voyageurs and fur traders and their indigenous partners in trade, these sashes were strapped around the waist. These were mostly useful in keeping the woollen coats closed, store belted tools, help with the strain of carrying heavy pelts, and prevent hernias and back strain on long canoe expeditions. The long strands on the end could also be used as impromptu sewing thread. These sashes would reach about 15cm to 25cm and its length easily passes 2 metres. These sashes were traded among indigenous groups for furs, and later, by the Hudson's Bay Company in the 19th century. It became a part of the traditional Québecois peasant clothing at least since 1776. As the sash travelled upriver to the plains and beyond, Métis groups adopted the sashes, elaborated on its craftsmanship, and truly made it one of their most recognized symbols. Depending on where the sash is woven, the colours can change. For example, for Québec, they preferred a blue colour scheme, for Montréal, red, and for those woven in between Ottawa and the Red River, black was more prominent. Hand-woven sashes can take up to 500 hours to complete. (1)

The one pictured above I bought from Etchiboy, a Métis artisan. The sash I bought was inspired from the Assomption sash motif, one of the oldest known woven patterns from the 18th century. I wear it on my woodland wanderings, for rituals, and cultural days. I especially wear it in winter to keep my coat closed. I chose to adopt the sash into my practice after lots of research. It is an item of rich history between the French and their indigenous allies, and a consequence of the fur trade in our country. I encourage anyone who's interested to buy from artisans who hand-weave them! There are machine-woven ones nowadays that might be less expensive, but nothing beats the quality of good wool and good weaving. With the richness of variety in the weaving patterns depending on the region they're from, why not have a sash that harkens back to the history of your region?

The walking stick or 'le gourdin'

In Québécois folktales, the stick, known as 'the gourdin', was most seen as a gift from a woodland fairy (like a guardian of all trees, or a mistress of the birds) to the intrepid hero Ti-Jean. This magical stick could thwack all his adversaries with the simple command of "tappe, gourdin!" (slap, stick!), among other fabulous deeds (2) This stick was a tool of protection on long journeys fraught with peril. So, what better companion to the Canadien witch than a walking stick? I use mine for every excursion, and have added to it some talismans of a wolf, owl and skull to keep evil spirits at bay. There's also a portable rosary around the stick, and the Ste. Anne of Beaupré religious medal. Historically, she was often a saint prayed to by voyageurs before they undertook the long and perilous journey to the fur trading posts, usually near present-day Montreal. (3)

The pocket knife

The pocket knife is a multi-talented tool of our trade! It can carve folksy figurines, cut wooden branches for weaving, harvest plants, cut curses, and keep les feux-follets (willow-the-wisps) at bay. Folklore has it that if you're out camping in the woods, fold you knife so that it creates a 90-degree angle, and stick it into the bark of a tree bordering your campsite. In the morning, if the blade is bloody, chances are it was the feux follet being intrigued by the space between the blade and the tree, and cutting its throat, thereby being free from its doomed roaming. (4) It is also a well-known tool in case you need to free a loup-garou (werewolf) from its curse by cutting it on its white spot on the forehead where he previously received communion as a kid. (5) By extension, it is a vital tool to break curses. Of course, don't make anyone bleed with the knife. That goes without saying. Treat the knife well, keep it sharp.

The rosary

Yes, my path has Catholic tools in it. Of course! Quebecois and Acadians of my ancestry were Catholic people primarily. It is a versatile tool in my practice, used for shellwork as well as meditative prayer. For those who are interested in praying the Rosary traditionally, I'll create a separate post. For shellwork purposes, I usually say a round of "Hail Mary" ten times before starting a spell for the ultimate protective shield. There is also known folk uses for the rosary in Acadian and Québécois communities. For example, to fidget with the rosary without intent or purpose brings about the Devil. (6) The rosary can also be used as a tool to find lost items. Simply toss the rosary over your shoulder, and the crucifix will point in the direction of the lost item. If you want good weather on your wedding day, hang up your rosary on your laundry cord the day before. (7). Rosaries nowadays even come in decade forms as portable rings for your pocket, and some are actual rings you can wear on your finger. I got a few rosaries myself. One for special rituals (I never toss that one over my shoulder!), and cheaper, more portable options for the tossing spell.

Holy medals

I amassed quite a collection of holy medals for individual saints. Other notable ones are those for the souls in Purgatory (worn on All Souls Day), the Holy Spirit at (worn on Pentecost or when I do divination), Jesus the Shepherd (it's comforting), Stella Maris (patron saint of Acadians). I have a few of the same for more frequented purposes, for example, I keep a Saint Luke medal on my artist's pencil case, since he is the patron saint of artists. Traditionally in Acadian communities, it was known that when your day was going awfully, and your bread dough just wouldn't rise, you just needed to boil some holy medals in water to turn your luck around (8). They are quite inexpensive, so it's fast and easy to grow a collection in a short period of time. Many catholic retailers sell them.

Divination tools : the playing cards, dice and coin

My divination tools can be found in anyone's cupboard and drawers. The trusty playing cards deck nowadays comes in such amazing variety of art, the one I picked for myself was the Bicycle Aviary Playing Cards. It has such a lovely folk art vibe to them! The way to divine them comes from sources of card-playing and superstitions from history and folktales from folklorist Marius Barbeau, and people over centuries carrying around the cards for entertainment and perhaps a glimpse into their futures. One guide on reading the cards: Fifty-Four Devils: The Art & Folklore of Fortune-Telling with Playing Cards by Cory Thomas Hutcheson. Dice can also be used in the same manner if you're doing a numerology-based divination. The coin can be used as a simple yes or no divination by playing 'heads or tails'. The coin can be a beautiful commemorative coin like mine, or a simple 'cenne noire' (blackened penny), or whatever currency you have on hand.

The sewing kit and fibre arts

I wanted to add this iconic cookie tin into the folk witch's repertoire, because we all had grandmothers who had this tin lying around with their tools to mend and sew anything. In my practice, and in my hobbies, I make clothing and I embroider. I can use this tin to house my relevant supplies to have some sacred time darning old socks, creating spiritual garments by hand, or embroidering pretty things. You can also draw sigils on the rim's inner side for blessing your items inside! There's also other uses for some of these tools in your home! For example, my great-great grandmother used to use her thimble to create the holes in her croxignoles, these woven doughnut style rings from the Magdalen Islands.

Musical spoons

Musical spoons, sometimes made of wood to be used for musical purposes, as shown here, or made from every-day metal spoons held together for the same effect, are an iconic instrument in French-Canadian folk music. I would recommend learning how to play them rhythmically and to use that as a grounding tool. I just find these way more authentic than a drum. Not to mention rhythmic foot tapping and step dances are frequently used in our folk music to set up a beat.

Woven Cloths

These beautiful cloths or 'serviettes' were woven by my mother on a giant hand-loom, often employed by local farmer's guilds in Québec. Les Cercles des Fermières du Québec sometimes has craft fairs where they sell these among other hand-crafted items. In folklore, the cloth was present when Ti-Jean needed to create a magical feast on the fly, create a magical tent for shelter, or carry around all his tools for his journey. These cloths however were almost always given by a fay creature, so best be cautious in eating food from it. Nowadays, it can be used as altar cloths, protective shields for your tools, or to apply healing energy to an ailment you carry. (9) I use mine to do my card readings, wrap special items. If you are lucky enough to find a 'catalogne', which is a heavy blanket woven on those big looms from scraps of old t-shirts, cottons and the like, that's like, a massive cloth you can have over your bed and its folkloric properties can be used for protection and good dreams. It is also the best weighted blanket for anxiety, tried and tested by me! Mine was woven by my grandmother.

Cited sources

Wikipedia "Ceinture Fléchée" consulted on Jan 21 2025/ 2. Barbeau 1st series/ 3. Podruchny / 4. Butler/ 5. Maillet / 6. Dupont 83. / 7. Dupont 122. / 8. Dupont 83. / 9. Barbeau 2nd series

Bibliography

Barbeau, Marius, « Contes populaires canadiens », The Journal of American Folkore, vol. 29, no 111, janvier-mars 1916, 154 p.

Barbeau, C.-Marius. “Contes Populaire Canadiens. Seconde Série.” The journal of American Folklore 30, no. 115 (Jan-Mar., 1917): 27-36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/534454. 

 Butler, Gary R. Histoire et traditions orales des Franco-Acadiens de Terre-Neuve. Québec 1995. p. 156

Dupont, Jean-Claude. Heritage d’Acadie. Collection Connaissance, éditions Lemeac. 1977. 

Maillet, Antonine. Rabelais et les traditions populaires en Acadie. Les presses de l’université Laval, Quebec. 1980. 

Podruchny, Carolyn. Making the Voyageur World: Traveler’s and Traders in the North American Fur Trade. University of Toronto Press. 2006.  

[rightwheretheyleftme]

How the ‘Avatar Legends’ retcon fails Kya

Let me show you 2 moments from TLOK:

season 2, episode 9

season 2, episode 13

Both of those moments deliver the same joke: Kya doesn’t know how to meditate and when she attempts it, she ends up clumsily messing it up. In the first instance, it’s even a visual joke: Check how Jinora and Meelo, 2 characters who know how to meditate, have one stick of incense placed in front of them while Kya is awkwardly holding 2 sticks.

These jokes take on a deeper meaning when you read how the showrunners first conceived the character of Kya:

The Legend of Korra show bible

They envisioned Kya as someone who didn’t know her father very well- therefore, she doesn’t really know his culture or how to practice it.

Then in 2022, we got this retcon:

[…] she did internalize some of his [Aang’s] lessons about philosophy, meditation, and balance, holding them close to her heart for her whole life. Now, as the Air Nation's growth strains its leadership's time and energy, Kya has stepped up to help teach those same lessons her father taught her, both at Air Temple Island and out of her Dragon Flats-based clinic.

If you have encountered any K*taang account in the wild, you know that this semi-canon paragraph has been wildly celebrated. Now, out of nowhere, Kya knows meditation so well that she can teach classes about it! Hooray!

Bryke, stop bullshitting us. You established twice over that Kya doesn’t know how to meditate, you can’t erase what you portrayed in your show and try to convince us that she was a meditation expert all along. It’s clear that the showrunners don’t care about the Kya as a character, they see her as a tool to clear the mistake that they made when they wrote TLOK!Aang as a neglectful father.

Anyways, here is the full information that we get about Kya in Avatar Legends and I’d like to remark my favorite quotes:

“When disaster strikes, she can quickly switch between healing the injured and taking on attackers without missing a beat.”

“She does have some lingering pain, though, from her father favoring Tenzin, the Airbender, over his other children.”

“When she's in the city, the waterbending master Kya runs a free clinic out of a converted tenement in the middle of Dragon Flats. The clinic provides physical and mental healthcare, preventative to emergency, to a neighborhood that most needs it and can least afford it.” (emphasis mine)

“Katara broke boundaries as the first woman known to modern history to receive formal training as a master of both waterbending combat and waterbending medicine. Her daughter Kya was part of the first generation of young Waterbenders to learn both disciplines side by side.”

“Kya grew up frustrated that the world saw her as just a Waterbender, and not another child of Air Nomad heritage. Yes, she is an expert Waterbender, and she gladly accepted the traditions and culture of her mother... but she has always felt an affinity with Air Nomad culture. Her father taught Tenzin about Air Nomad culture far more than he taught either her or her brother Bumi […]” (empashis mine)

I love Kya so much. I wish the writers did as well.

[coven-of-genesis]

Beginner in witchcraft tips? Like where should I start?

Beginner witchcraft tips

Part one : where & how do I start

1. Research and Respect Open Practices

• What Are Open Practices?

Open practices are spiritual or magical systems that do not require initiation, cultural heritage, or permission to engage in. Examples include eclectic witchcraft, kitchen witchcraft, green witchcraft, hedge witchcraft, and secular witchcraft.

• Avoiding Cultural Appropriation:

Practices like smudging (specific to Indigenous cultures), Hoodoo, and Voodoo are closed practices unless you are properly initiated or invited. Instead, use general terms like “smoke cleansing” with herbs like rosemary or lavender.

2. Build a Foundation of Knowledge

• History and Ethics of Witchcraft

Study the historical persecution of witches, modern witchcraft movements like Wicca, and the ethical principles (e.g., Wiccan Rede, the Threefold Law, or personal moral codes).

• Learn the Basics of Magic:

• Correspondences: Study how herbs, crystals, colors, and moon phases align with magical intentions.

• Intentions: Understand that intention is the core of magical practice. Clarity and focus are vital.

3. Start with Simple Tools and Techniques

• Common Tools:

You don’t need expensive or elaborate items to begin. Everyday objects like candles, notebooks, or kitchen herbs work just as well as specialized tools.

• Candles for fire energy (tea lights are excellent for beginners).

• Herbs like rosemary (cleansing and protection), basil (prosperity), and chamomile (calming).

• Salt for purification.

• Crystals like clear quartz (amplification), amethyst (calm), or rose quartz (love).

• DIY Approach:

Craft your own tools or collect items from nature (leaves, stones, feathers) for more personal meaning.

4. Create a Sacred Space

• Physical Space:

Choose a small area for your altar or sacred space. This can be a shelf, a table, or even a portable box. Include items like:

• A candle for focus and light.

• Representations of the elements (e.g., a bowl of water, stones, a feather).

• Personal objects that bring comfort or inspiration.

• Energetic Space:

Use cleansing techniques to clear your space, such as sprinkling salt, using sound (bells or clapping), or wafting incense.

5. Practice Energy Work

• Grounding:

This helps connect you to the earth and stabilize your energy. A simple method:

• Sit or stand barefoot. Imagine roots growing from your feet deep into the ground. Visualize excess energy flowing down these roots into the earth.

• Centering:

Gather scattered energy into your core. Visualize a glowing ball of light in your chest or belly, representing your personal power.

• Shielding:

Protect your energy by visualizing a protective bubble or shield of light around you.

6. Explore Divination

• Tarot or Oracle Cards:

• Start by pulling a single card daily to learn its meaning and connect with your intuition.

• Many decks come with guidebooks to help beginners.

• Pendulums:

Use a pendulum for yes/no questions. Practice by asking simple, clear questions and observing the swing (e.g., clockwise for yes, counterclockwise for no).

• Scrying:

Try gazing into a bowl of water, a mirror, or a candle flame to receive intuitive insights.

7. Learn Magical Timing

• Lunar Phases:

• New Moon: Set intentions and start new projects.

• Waxing Moon: Build energy and take action.

• Full Moon: Amplify power, perform gratitude rituals.

• Waning Moon: Release and banish unwanted energies.

• Days of the Week:

• Example: Thursday is associated with abundance and success.

• Seasons and Sabbats:

Research the Wheel of the Year (e.g., Yule, Beltane) and celebrate the seasons in ways that resonate with you.

8. Work With Nature and the Elements

• Earth: Grow plants, use crystals, or walk barefoot outside.

• Air: Burn incense, write affirmations, or meditate on your breath.

• Fire: Light candles, work with fire-safe herbs, or set intentions during sunsets.

• Water: Take ritual baths, work with moon water, or meditate near a body of water.

9. Keep a Grimoire or Book of Shadows

• Document your spells, rituals, and experiences.

• Include correspondences (e.g., herbs, colors, moon phases), affirmations, and journal entries about your practice.

• This will help you reflect on your progress and refine your methods over time.

10. Develop Your Own Path

• Personalize Your Practice:

Use what resonates with you and leave out what doesn’t. Witchcraft is a flexible and personal journey.

• Be Patient:

Progress takes time. Focus on consistency rather than perfection.

• Stay Open-Minded:

Connect with other practitioners to exchange ideas, but always critically evaluate what you incorporate into your practice.

[tylermileslockett]

Hellenic Polytheism or Hellenismos is the traditional, polytheistic (multiple gods) religious belief system of Ancient Greece. Modern people who believe in pre-Christian and polytheistic belief systems often refer to themselves as pagans. Let’s look at some of the general practices of typical Hellenic worship.

         Hellenic Polytheists use altars or shrines to worship specific Gods within the Greek Pantheon. For example, an altar for Apollo may contain an image or sculpture bust of the god, as well as a side table, called a trapezōmata, which holds offerings of incense and flowers or food and drink such as wine, honey, milk, or olive oil. Another tripod incense holder was called a Thymiateria.

Before engaging in a ceremony, the practitioner will employ purification methods with lustral water (ritually cleansed). They may recite hymns or prayers in honor of the god, using the Homeric hymns for example. The practitioner may use a divination practice to seek guidance or gain insight from a god through methods like casting lots, reading signs from nature, oracle prophecies, and dream interpretations. In their ceremonies, ancient Greeks would perform rites in respect to their Ta Patria, (ancestral homeland heritage), and they would take pride in their reverence with Hos Kallista, or the highest level of beauty.

         Hellenic Polytheism follows annual calendar festivals commemorating Gods or famous mythological events such as the Panathenaia in Athens (commemorating Athena), the Anthesteria and City Dionysia; (festivals celebrating Dionysus) The Olympics (a physical competition in honor of Zeus) and the Thargelia, (dedicated to Apollo and Artemis), and the Thesmophoria, (a festival exclusive to women in honor of Demeter), among many others. 

Want to own my Illustrated Greek myth book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my kickstarter for my book "lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in October.You can also sign up for my free email newsletter. please check my LINKTREE:

[japaneseaesthetics]

A Massive (45 lbs) Japanese Silver Incense Burner, Meiji Period. Heritage Auctions

[sailorgoon13]

Sebastian Sallow

Basics:

Full Name: Sebastian Sallow

Nickname: Seb, Sebby, or whatever clever name Ominis comes up with

Gender: Male

Date of Birth: 18 November, 1874

Heritage: Scottish

Blood Status: Pure Blood

Wand: Yew, Dragon Heartstring, 11", Slightly Yielding

Appearance:

Hair Color: Chestnut Brown

Eye Color: Rich Dark Brown

Skin Tone: Fair

Height: 5'11"

Body Type: Athletic and lean. Agile

Style: White button-down shirt and green tie. Suit jacket, in shades of dark green or silver. When not at Hogwarts he wears something practical and relaxed. He isn't one for fashion, just as long as he looks like he tried then it is an accomplishment

Features: Freckles!! His hair falls effortlessly over his forehead in waves. The natural, slightly unkempt style of his hair reflects Sebastian's casual confidence and rebellious spirit

Personality:

Traits: Charismatic, Determined, Optimistic, Fearless, Protective, Complex

Likes: Knowledge, Dueling, Quidditch, Forbidden Magic

Dislikes: Failure, Authority, Uncertainty, Injustice, Goblins

Hobbies: Crossed Wands, Quidditch, Breaking into the Restricted Section

Fears: Anne dying, Being sent to Azkaban, Ominis and Y/N hating him

Family and Friends:

Father: Unknown

Died when he and Anne were young

Was a Professor

Mother: Unknown

Died when they were young

Was a Professor, as well

Siblings: Anne Sallow (Twin)

Was always Sebastian's best friend

When she became cursed, it hurt Sebastian more than it hurt her

Friends: Ominis Gaunt, Y/N

Magic:

Special Abilities: Mastery of Unforgivable Curses, skilled duelist,

Boggart: Solomon

Patronus: Beagle

Polyjuice: It would have a deep, ebony color with swirling wisps of silver or green and would look like a syrup or a molasses. Smell smoky incense and the faintest trace of something sweet and floral. There is a sharp tang of bitterness with a lingering sweetness, like the taste of ripe blackberries.

Amortentia: Old books, Smoke from a campfire, Salty sea air and Cedar

Backstory:

Sebastian and his twin sister Anne grew up in the Scottish countryside, under the guidance of their parents who were esteemed professors. From a young age, their parents instilled in them the value of knowledge, curiosity, and the pursuit of truth. Sebastian admired his parents deeply, wanting to have their optimism, open-mindedness, and boundless eagerness for learning.

Tragedy struck when a lamp in their cellar, tainted with an undetectable toxin, claimed the lives of their beloved parents. Orphaned, Sebastian and Anne were taken in by their uncle Solomon Sallow, who lived in the secluded village of Feldcroft. However, their relationship with their uncle was strained; Solomon, a stern and unforgiving man who was also an ex-Auror had clashed with Sebastian's refusal to accept Anne's situation.

During this time, Sebastian found peace in the companionship of his friend, Ominis Gaunt, who he met in their first year at Hogwarts. Along with Anne, the trio would often retreat to the hidden sanctuary of the Undercroft, where they practiced spells and played Gobstones, shielded from the prying eyes of the world above. Ominis, like Sebastian, harbored secrets and shadows of his own, forging a bond of trust that endured more than most.

As Anne's condition worsened, Sebastian's desperation drove him to the forbidden arts of the Dark Arts, seeking a cure that eluded even the most skilled healers. When Solomon intervened, tensions reached a boiling point, resulting in a fateful confrontation that shattered their already fragile family.

Despite the turmoil, Sebastian found comfort in his friendships, including one with a fellow student, MC. Their bond, forged in the pain of their fifth year, provided Sebastian with a glimmer of hope in the darkness that threatened to consume him.

Amidst the chaos and upheaval of his adolescence, Sebastian found refuge on the Quidditch pitch, channeling his inner turmoil and anguish into the fierce competition of the game. Joining the Slytherin Quidditch team as both a Beater and Keeper, he found fleeting moments of freedom and purpose in the rush of wind and the thunder of the Quaffle.

Academics:

Best Subject: DADA

Favorite Subject: DADA

Favorite Professor: Hecat

Worst Subject: Astronomy

Least Favorite Subject: Divination

Least Favorite Professor: Onai

Student Life:

Despite his penchant for rule-breaking and his involvement in dark magic, Sebastian was a dedicated and studious student. He excelled in his classes, particularly DADA and Potions

His rebellious nature often landed him in hot water with the faculty. His frequent detentions for sneaking into the library's Restricted Section became a badge of honor

To find a distraction from all of his inner turmoil, he joined the Quidditch team and found it to be a good way to release his emotions

**All screenshots are mine, collage is mine but pictures used were found on Pinterest**

Template: @hazyange1s

[blueiscoool]

'Exquisite' 1,700-Year-Old Lamp Bearing Temple Symbols Discovered in Jerusalem

"The exquisite artistic workmanship of the lamp, which was found complete, makes it outstanding and extremely rare."

A rare ceramic oil lamp dated to the late Roman period that bears images of items used in the Second Temple was discovered in Jerusalem, the Israel Antiquities Authority announced on Thursday.

"After the Roman emperor Hadrian suppressed the Bar Kochba rebellion in 135 CE, Jews were expelled from the city. The Mount of Olives lamp is one of the few material traces of a Jewish presence around Jerusalem in the 3rd-5th centuries CE," said Michael Chernin, excavation director on behalf of the Antiquities Authority.

The Antiquities Authority explained that the lamp was a "unique find" and that, judging by the soot marks on its nozzle, it was used about 1,700 years ago.

The Temple symbols that decorate the lamp include a depiction of the menorah used in the Second Temple, an incense shovel, and lulav (date palm branch used in Jewish ritual).

"The exquisite artistic workmanship of the lamp, which was found complete, makes it outstanding and extremely rare,” said Chernin.

Chernin also explained that the symbols on the lamp, which connected them to the Temple, were "particularly surprising" because there has been "very little evidence of the existence of a Jewish settlement in and around Jerusalem from this period."

Israel Antiquities Authority research archaeologist Benjamin Storchan said the lamp belongs to "the 'Beit Nattif' type, named after a production workshop identified in the 1930s near Bet Shemesh."

'Exceedingly rare' find

He explained that "oil lamps with menorah decorations are exceedingly rare, and only a few similar Beit Nattif-type lamps can be found in the National Treasures archive. The choice of symbols on the lamp is not accidental. This is a fascinating testimony connecting everyday objects and faiths among ancient Jerusalem’s inhabitants. It seems that the lamp belonged to a Jew, who purchased it because of its religious affiliation and memorial to the Temple.”

"It is evident that the lamp maker dedicated a great deal of time and effort to its decoration," Storchan added.

He then continued to elaborate on how the lamp was made, saying the maker "delicately and intricately carved limestone molds using drills and chisels."

"The molds were made in two parts (upper and lower). To create the lamp, the potter pressed the clay into the molds and then pressed them together. Finally, the vessel was fired, and it could be used. This method of producing lamps in molds allowed for refined designs, as well as the addition of delicate and intricate decorations," Storchan continued.

Heritage Minister Rabbi Amichai Eliyahu remarked on the correlation between the time of the finding and the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah.

"This unique oil lamp, which in an exciting manner bears the symbols of the Temple, connects the lights of the past with the Hannukah holiday of today and expresses the deep and long-standing connection of the nation of Israel to its heritage and to the Temple’s memory.”

Rabbi Eliyahu also stated that the lamp would be revealed to the public for the first time during Hannukah "alongside stone molds used to make ceramic lamps."

[whencyclopedia]

Korean Pottery

The pottery of ancient Korea stretches back to prehistory when simple brown wares were made and decorated with geometrical incisions. Potters would benefit from the ideas and techniques of their Chinese counterparts and go on to produce their own highly sought-after works, including grey stoneware, celadons or greenware, buncheong ware and white porcelain. Ceramics are innovative in design and range from impossibly intricate incense burners to the sublime simplicity and elegance of the maebyeong vase. Korean Pottery decoration typically employs plants, flowers, and wildlife, and reflects the country's religious heritage with Buddhist motifs and minimalist Confucian designs taking precedence.

Prehistoric Pottery

Early Korean pottery from the Neolithic period, especially in the form of brown bowls with either a flat or pointed base, both with incised decoration, show a cultural link with communities in the Liaoning province and Liaodong peninsula of China. The most common decoration of this period is zigzag or comb-like incisions which have given the name to a type of pottery: comb wares (chulmun). Some vessels have square spiral incisions while others have raised decorations achieved by pinching the clay.

Korean Bronze Age pottery tends to be undecorated, walls are thicker, and there is a greater variety of shapes - typically steamers, bowls with pedestals, and jars with handles. When there is decoration, it covers less of the vessel and takes either the form of the incised motifs of the previous period or applied clay bands. Burnished wares are either black (long-necked jars) or red (small bulbous jars). These are, once again, indicative of contact with China.

Iron Age pottery is of a grey type with paddle and incised decoration, especially close hatching. A typical form of this period is the round-bottomed jar which has a small foot and distinctive small handles on the neck in the form of horns. Another interesting shape is the square cup set on a pedestal which is then lacquered black. It is clear that potters are becoming more skilled and more ambitious in their designs, setting the groundwork for the finer vessels to come in the Three Kingdoms period.

Continue reading...

[unabashegirl]

Vicious 1 || Harry Styles x Mafia

After his father's death, Harry Styles must take control of the family mafia while dealing with his unpredictable brother, Silas. He meets Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, and learns about their arranged marriage.

Author's note: Hi everyone, I need your help. I’m $1,000 short on my medical tuition, and the deadline is January 13. With 2,800 followers, even $1 from some of you could make a huge difference. If you’ve enjoyed my writing, please consider donating or sharing. I'M DESPERATE. PLEASE HELP ME! HELP ME HELP MY MOM! I don't know what else I can do. 

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vicious masterlist

The air inside St. Anthony's Cathedral hung heavy with the scent of incense, a somber melody playing on the organ as mourners dressed in black filed into the pews. The grandeur of the cathedral seemed to amplify the gravity of the occasion—the funeral of the late mob boss, Arthur Francis Styles. The flickering candles cast shadows on the marble pillars, echoing the secrets and sins concealed within the heart of the city.

Amidst the sea of black-clad mourners, a solitary figure stood out—one of sons of the deceased, Harry. His sharp gaze, inherited from his father, scanned the room with a mix of grief and determination. The weight of his heritage rested upon broad shoulders, and the tailored suit he wore could not conceal the burden of responsibility that had been abruptly thrust upon him.

The funeral was a spectacle of contradictions. The cathedral, a symbol of divine sanctity, now played host to the final farewell of a man whose life had been entwined with shadows and whispered alliances. Harry’s eyes swept across the assembly, recognizing familiar faces, each harboring a tale of loyalty or betrayal. As he approached the casket to pay his respects, the gravity of his new role settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

Arthur Styles’ passing had left a void, a vacuum that would inevitably draw power struggles and rivalries. Harry, the heir apparent, found himself at the epicenter of this storm. The funeral served not only as a farewell to his father but as the beginning of a new chapter—a chapter stained with blood, loyalty, and the unspoken code of the Mafia.

As Harry stood in the dimly lit cathedral, he felt the weight of his father's legacy press upon him, and the whispers of the past seemed to echo through the hallowed halls. The mournful hymns played on, but the symphony of the streets would soon drown them out, revealing the true nature of the shadows that lurked within the city's underbelly. The funeral was over, but the legacy of Arthur Styles would live on, casting a long, ominous shadow over Harry’s uncertain future.

Harry observed as his father's supposed friends and family offered their condolences, each reverently kissing the ring that adorned his father's lifeless hand. It was the very same ring around which they had sworn allegiance and loyalty, seeking resolution to their problems.

The wooden bench in front of him felt the weight of a pair of hands settling on its back. The distinctive ring on the third finger of those hands revealed the identity of the person without Harry needing to turn his head.

"Harry," Anthony started, his voice a subdued murmur blending with the somber atmosphere. "I never thought this day would arrive." Anthony, the younger brother of Harry's father, continued, "He appeared to have the capability of outliving all of us."

Harry nodded subtly but chose to keep his silence. His mind was a tumultuous sea of thoughts, and his head felt burdened, almost oppressively heavy. He was acutely aware that the path ahead would be arduous. His father had been grooming him for leadership since he could articulate words. Yet, Harry never anticipated ascending to power without his father by his side.

"Taking the reins of the English Mafia won't be a stroll in the park. Your father maintained a delicate balance, and stepping into his role makes you a target." His uncled warned.

Harry nodded solemnly, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. "I know. But someone always must lead."

Anthony's gaze bore into Harry's, a grave understanding passing between them. "You're right. But brace yourself—old alliances may crumble, and new foes will emerge. The English Mafia is a beast, and maintaining control is a constant struggle."

Harry surveyed the mourners, his gaze lingering on the faces of those present, contemplating the intricate challenges that loomed, he spoke, "I worry the most about the Italians and the Russians. Dad always said that dealing with them required finesse, and I'm not sure we've earned enough goodwill in those circles." The gravity of the situation hung in the air as he acknowledged the potential pitfalls that awaited them in the unpredictable world of the English Mafia.

"You can anticipate the maneuvers of the Italians and Russians, and they don't reside under your roof. Your brother, on the other hand..." A shadow fell over Anthony's countenance. "He's a wildcard, Harry. Young, impressionable, his allegiance might sway. Keep a vigilant eye on him, especially when you make your move. Not everyone in the family will readily embrace the change.”

A furrow deepened on Harry's brow. "You think Silas might turn against us?"

Anthony's response was as measured as the somber atmosphere around them. "In our world, blood doesn't guarantee loyalty. Silas has his own battles, and he might choose a different path."

Harry tightened his jaw, the mere thought of his younger brother betraying him causing his blood to simmer with anger. After their mother's passing, Harry had essentially taken on the role of raising Silas. Harry had played more of a father figure to Silas than Arthur ever did. Their father had shown minimal concern for Harry, the firstborn, which made Silas seem like nothing more than a contingency, a spare kept in reserve in case of some unforeseen tragedy.

Anthony leaned in, his gaze piercing. "I believe you will rule righteously, Harry. But be prepared for anything. The English Mafia is a game where pieces move without warning, and the stakes are higher than you can fathom." With that, he offered a reassuring pat on the back, bidding Harry farewell.

Harry bided his time, waiting patiently for the crowd to disperse, before rising from his seat. Straightening his suit blazer and fixing his tie, he approached the casket at the cathedral's end—the final resting place of his father. The familiarity of the suit caught Harry's eye, a garment he had seen his father wear countless times. A small blood stain near the boot of the pants, a detail his mother had frequently lamented, marked the attire. Suppressing a smile, Harry noted the irony that his father had been laid to rest in the suit his mother detested.

Leaning down, Harry whispered into his father's ear, "Omnes sumus peccatores," before deftly sliding the ring off his father's finger.

Chapter 2

[kc-writes-sometimes]

Crown and Kin | Chapter Five

Ao3 Account | Masterlist

Chapter Five: Caraxes

Word Count: 2,539

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Summary: Daella takes a pivotal step in embracing her new identity as a Targaryen, grappling with the weight of her heritage and the expectations that come with it. As she and Daemon venture beyond the throne room, Daella is introduced to a side of her lineage that is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Through a life-changing experience, she begins to understand the true meaning of what it is to be part of a family bound by fire and blood.

Themes & Warnings: 18+, Character Death, Rape/Non Con, Future Smut, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Incest, Angst, Dad Daemon Targaryen, Bastards and Brothels, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Team Black Centric, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance

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Daella Targaryen

Daella clung tightly to Daemon’s side as they stepped out of the throne room, the grand doors closing behind them with a soft thud. The air outside felt lighter, though the weight of her uncle’s proclamation still clung to her, settling like a strange new garment. The bustling life of the Red Keep continued just beyond the walls, but for her, it felt as if the world had stopped spinning. She was still Daella, but she wasn’t just Daella anymore. The name she had carried—the one whispered in the dark corners of brothels and hidden alleyways—no longer fit. Now, she bore the name of Targaryen—a name that belonged to legends, kings, and dragons. It clung to her as heavily as the scent of incense in the throne room, lingering, impossible to shake.

She glanced down at her hands, fingers twisting the sleeves of her dress, her mind racing in circles. Did this change her? She didn’t feel any different. But the world would see her differently now. Would Rose still look at her the same way? What would the women in the brothel think of her now that she was no longer one of them? Would Harwin still let her braid his hair?

"Are you alright?" Daemon’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. His tone was soft, filled with concern, a gentle thread of warmth woven through the sharpness she had come to associate with him. He crouched down in front of her, his eyes—so much like hers—searching her face.

"I think so," she whispered, though the words felt hollow. Her heart raced, but she didn’t know how to explain the strange weight settling in her chest. “There were… a lot of people, and they just stared.”

He chuckled softly, brushing the hair from her face in a tender gesture. "You’ll have to get used to that, sweet girl. There will always be eyes on you now." His hand lingered against her cheek, a silent reassurance in the simple touch.

Daella nodded, though the thought sent a ripple of unease through her. Her stomach tightened. Always? She had never wanted people to notice her before. She was safe in the shadows, safe in being invisible. Now, it felt like the entire world was watching. “Are we going back now?” she asked, eager to retreat to some semblance of normalcy, though she knew deep down that normal no longer existed.

"Not yet," Daemon said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His lips curled into a smile that made her think of secrets and adventures. "I have a surprise for you."

She blinked, surprised, her fingers reaching up to touch the chain around her neck—the silver necklace he had given her just before the audience with the King. The weight of the gift still felt strange against her skin, unfamiliar, though beautiful. “But you’ve already given me one…” she trailed off, confused but curious.

His smile deepened, eyes alight with a warmth she was still getting used to. “Ah, but this surprise is even better,” he said, placing his hands gently on her shoulders as he turned her toward the corridor that led away from the throne room.

Curiosity sparked in her chest, momentarily easing the tension. She followed him without question, her small steps quickening to keep up with his longer stride. The stone floors beneath them grew colder as they descended, the grand corridors becoming less polished, less royal, as they moved toward the gates of the Keep. The sounds of the court—whispers, footsteps, and the distant clang of armor—faded behind them, replaced by the soft echo of their own movement.

Just as they neared the entrance, a young maid stepped out from the shadows, a pair of Daella’s black shoes in her hands. She took them quickly, slipping them on while glancing up at Daemon, who watched with an amused smirk. He had known all along.

They stepped outside into the late afternoon light, the warmth of the sun a sharp contrast to the cool stone of the Keep. Daella’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell on a magnificent black stallion waiting just beyond the gates, its coat shimmering like polished obsidian in the fading daylight. Its sheer size and beauty were awe-inspiring.

"Where are we going?" she asked, glancing up at him, a mixture of excitement and confusion bubbling inside her.

"You’ll see," he replied cryptically, lifting her onto the horse with practiced ease. His arm wrapped securely around her waist as he mounted behind her, and she felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he guided the horse forward. The city of King’s Landing stretched out before them, vast and alive, a bustling sea of movement and sound.

From this vantage, everything looked different—grander, as if the world had suddenly grown larger. The streets below were crowded with people going about their lives, and for the first time, Daella saw how small her old world had been. The brothel, the narrow alleys of Flea Bottom, the faces she knew so well—they seemed distant now, like a memory from another life. And yet, the ache in her chest remained.

Was Rose working now? Did she miss her? Or was she relieved to be free from the burden of caring for her? The thought stung, but she couldn’t help it. So much had changed so quickly, and she didn’t know where she belonged anymore.

As if sensing her thoughts, Daemon spoke softly, his voice like a gentle tether pulling her back from the edge of her uncertainty. "If you want to see her," he said, his tone understanding, "I won’t stop you."

Daella looked up at him, surprised by the offer. His face was softer than she had expected, his eyes full of warmth and understanding. The sharpness she had seen in him so often, the edge that others feared, was nowhere to be found. "Thank you," she whispered, though the sadness she hadn’t meant to show slipped into her voice. Everything had changed so quickly, and she didn’t know where she fit anymore. A Targaryen in name, perhaps, but the name couldn’t erase the life she had. It couldn’t erase Flea Bottom.

The horse came to a halt, and she blinked against the sunlight to see a massive domed building rising before them. Its towering pillars stretched toward the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. She recognized it from stories—this was the Dragonpit.

Before she could ask where they were, a deep, distant roar rumbled through the air, vibrating in her chest. She gasped, turning to Daemon with wide eyes. “Is that—?”

His grin widened, and he dismounted gracefully, lifting her down with a gentleness that belied his reputation. Her feet touched the cold stone, and the air here felt different—cooler, thicker, filled with the scent of smoke. Her heart raced in her chest, excitement and fear mixing in equal measure.

Two men approached from the shadows, their faces stern, spears held high. Their eyes flickered briefly to her, curiosity glinting in their gaze, but their focus quickly returned to Daemon.

"Caraxes ziry iprattan ñuha dārilaros, daor sōvegon sir," one of them said, his voice firm but respectful.

"Iksi mērī kesīr naejot ūndegon zirȳla," Daemon replied smoothly, his tone relaxed.

Their exchange rolled through the air like music, the words foreign yet beautiful. Daella didn’t understand them yet, but she wanted to.

"Stay close," Daemon instructed, his voice gentle but firm.

She nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, and together they walked into the Dragonpit. The air grew cooler as they descended deeper into the cavernous space, the smell of ash and smoke thickening with each step. Chains clinked somewhere in the distance, and low, rumbling growls reverberated through the stone walls, sending shivers down her spine.

As they ventured deeper, the shadows thickened, and the flickering lanterns cast long, eerie shadows along the walls. Her heart pounded in her chest, the anticipation building with each step. And then, finally, they stepped into a vast chamber.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Caraxes.

Daella froze, unable to move, her breath catching in her throat. Caraxes was enormous—far larger than she had imagined. His long, serpentine body coiled like a crimson river, his scales gleaming faintly in the dim light. His golden eyes, half-lidded, tracked their movements with a slow, deliberate gaze. Smoke drifted lazily from his nostrils, curling into the cold air.

His gaze fixed on her, sharp and intelligent, and she felt a tremor in her legs. It wasn’t hostility she sensed, but curiosity—an intense, almost predatory focus that made her heart race. Daemon stepped forward confidently, turning to give her an encouraging smile.

"Come on," he said, his tone encouraging, though the weight of his gaze remained steady on her. “He won’t hurt you.”

Her feet felt like they were stuck to the stone floor. Every instinct in her said to run, to hide. She had never seen anything so enormous, so ancient, and alive with power. The heat coming off Caraxes radiated in waves, and the smoky scent of dragon breath was thick in the air. Her breath caught in her throat as the reality of it all sank in. This was not a story from some dusty old book. This was real. She was standing in front of a dragon.

But then she looked at Daemon, standing just a few paces ahead of her, his expression patient and full of pride. He wasn’t afraid. This was where he belonged, with dragons and legends. And she… she wanted to belong here too. She swallowed the lump of fear lodged in her throat and forced her feet to move, one step, then another.

Each step brought her closer to the massive creature before her. The heat coming off him would feel unbearable for most, but to Daella, it felt like a comforting blanket. The rumbling in Caraxes’s chest was low, like a distant storm, his nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. She hesitated just out of reach, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

“Hold out your hand,” Daemon instructed, his voice gentler now, coaxing. He crouched down beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Let him see you.”

Her fingers trembled as she slowly lifted her hand. It felt like time was slowing, the world narrowing down to just this moment. Caraxes’s massive head lowered, his golden eyes locked on her outstretched fingers. His breath, thick and warm, washed over her as he sniffed curiously.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might pull away, lose interest in this small, trembling girl standing before him. But then, with a sudden playful snort, he released a puff of smoke directly into her face, her hair flicking backward with the sudden burst of air as the dark cloud coiled around her, blurring her vision for a moment.

Daella blinked in surprise, momentarily stunned. And then, without warning, a laugh bubbled up from her chest—a bright, startled sound that echoed through the chamber. The tension broke like a snapped thread, and she found herself giggling, wiping the smoke from her face as her father chuckled beside her.

“He likes you,” Daemon said, his voice warm with pride. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

Caraxes lowered his head further, resting his massive snout on the ground just inches from her hand. Tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the warm, rough surface of his scales. They felt like armor, firm and ridged beneath her fingertips, but there was a surprising softness in the heat that radiated from him. He was alive, more than just a legend, more than just a beast. He was a creature of fire and fury, but also of curiosity and perhaps, in his own way, kindness.

Daella glanced up at Daemon, who was watching her closely, his expression softened in a way she hadn’t seen before. There was pride in his eyes, but also something deeper—something tender, as if this moment meant as much to him as it did to her.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” Daemon asked, his voice quiet now, almost reverent.

She shook her head, still too overwhelmed to speak.

“This,” he gestured to Caraxes, who rumbled softly beside them, “this is what it means to be a Targaryen. They say we are closer to gods than men, but we are more than that—more than just a name, more than kings and queens. We are bonded to creatures that are fire made flesh, tied to them in a way no one else can understand.”

He placed a hand on her back, gently guiding her closer to Caraxes. The dragon’s golden eyes flickered between them, watchful and knowing. “Caraxes is my partner, my equal. He is not just a beast I command—he is my other half. And one day, you will have that too.”

The weight of his words settled over her, heavy and profound. She could feel it now, the pull of something ancient and powerful stirring within her. Her hand lingered on Caraxes’s warm scales, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath beneath her fingertips. She didn’t fully understand what it meant yet, but something in her was awakening. A sense of belonging, of purpose, that she hadn’t known she had.

“Will I…?” she began hesitantly, glancing up at him. “Will I have a dragon too?”

Daemon smiled, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the chamber. “Yes, sweet girl. One day, you will. I’m sure of it.”

A thrill ran through her at his words, a mix of excitement and disbelief. Her? With a dragon? The thought seemed impossible, too grand to be real. But then, standing here, beside Caraxes, with Daemon’s hand resting protectively on her shoulder, it felt… right.

They stayed like that for a while, just the three of them—Daella, her father, and Caraxes—standing in the quiet stillness of the Dragonpit. The tension and fear she had felt before melted away, replaced by something warmer, something more certain. She didn’t feel out of place here. She didn’t feel like a stranger in someone else’s world.

As they turned to leave, Daella cast one last glance back at Caraxes. His eyes were closed now, his body relaxed, though the faint clink of chains reminded her that even dragons were not entirely free. But there was a softness to him that she hadn’t expected, a gentleness beneath all the fire and fury. He wasn’t just Daemon’s dragon. He was something more, something deeper.

And she knew she would have that too, one day.

As they emerged from the cool shadows of the Dragonpit into the warmth of the setting sun, the world felt different. Larger. More alive. Daemon lifted her onto the black stallion once more, and as they rode through the streets of King’s Landing, she felt a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt since this journey began. The eyes of the city still followed them, but they didn’t weigh her down as heavily as before.

She was Daella Targaryen, daughter of the Rogue Prince.

She was fire and blood.

And one day, she would fly—and may the gods help anyone who tried to stop her.

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[adamsuniverse1144]

cryptic transmasc season is coming:

lots of deep purple flannels and purple eyes, lots of grays and velvet, thick combat boots with spider charms, apple cider beer, scruff that’s grown out a bit because it’s a little brisk, dragons breath incense, clothes shopping season at Spirit Halloween, peach cobbler and eating like kings on Native Heritage Day, tank tops and being scolded for wearing tank tops in 40 degree weather, voices feel deeper in the cold, the man flu, black fades more into the background now

cryptic transmasc season is coming.