#dionysian oil

[pseudowho]

Sanguis et Vinum

Higuruma Hiromi's not afraid of blood.

Warnings: 18+, smut, period sex

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"Feeling good?" A dulcet whisper against your neck, hot and wine-rich. You moaned softly in affirmation, fogging your glass as you took another sip, the red wine velvety as it coated your tongue.

You straddled Hiromi's lap; he, perched at the edge of the sofa, massaged your lower back, belly and hips with warm oiled hands, your panties rolled down low, your tank-top curled up under your breasts. You couldn't help but rock and sway as his hands smoothed, liquid and malleable, over your body.

It was the heaviest day of your period, and you were feeling every minute of it. You offered Hiromi a sip of wine from your glass; he accepted gratefully, his hands never slowing around your belly and back.

Hiromi played you like an instrument, responsive to your sighs, the subtle press of your skin against his palms and fingers, the scented oil heady. He looked up at you in unabashed adoration, and felt his arousal bloom, a vine starting as a blush along his neck, creeping downwards.

"I love you, like this," Hiromi confessed against your collarbones, pressing a kiss there, staining the skin softly with wine. You smiled, eyes closed, and tangled your hand in the hair at the nape of his neck. Hiromi shuddered as you tugged it, sending prickles down his spine, the vine coiling as he felt his cock begin to harden beneath your lap.

Unable to resist, Hiromi nipped and licked at your chest, his tongue wine-stained and sanguine, and moved down towards your breasts. You wanted him so viscerally, your belly and clit thrumming with need and pain, creating an odd aching duality in the pit of your stomach.

Yet...no. It was too taboo. Gross. Embarrassing.

You sighed, murmuring, regretful; "Hiromi...you know I can't..." Hiromi made a noise of gentle disagreement, nipping the tank top between his teeth, pulling it down to expose one breast. You watched him, mesmerised, when he sucked your sore nipple into his mouth, lapping, licking.

You panted, involuntarily pressing Hiromi's mouth closer with a tug on his hair, and he felt his cock twitch, tasting you on the flat of his tongue.

"Hiromi," you breathed, warning, "I can't-- I want to, but--" Hiromi let go of your nipple with a wet pop, and you felt a twang of disappointment. He answered, nuzzling his aquiline nose lazily across your breast.

"You want to?" He pressed, hovering his opened mouth over your nipple again, holding your gaze. His tongue darting out to lick your nipple again made your pussy throb with need, your belly cramping, a deep and sultry ache.

"I'm no boy," he argued, "I'm not afraid of a little bit of blood," pressing you closer onto his lap by your lower back. You slipped down, your panties thicker with the presence of a pad, but nonetheless feeling his cock, hard and twitching, against your pussy. You felt a warm whoosh of blood seep out of you and onto your pad, and jumped a little as you felt it overflow, leaking through to leave a patch of sticky blood on Hiromi's groin.

You moved to stand, and Hiromi strapped you to him with corded forearms. He felt the damp spot of your blood seep through, sticky, and he shivered, his oiled hand now coming up to roll your other nipple between his fingers, his mouth still working to convince you, silver-tongued.

You felt lightheaded, your pussy so sensitive, the ache in your belly adding a delicious masochistic edge to the pleasure. Feeling you could be brought to orgasm by nipple play and dry humping alone, you weakly offered another retreat, and Hiromi chuckled against your breast.

He rutted up against your pussy, and you jolted, slopping wine down your arm. Taking the wine from you, placing it gently on a table, Hiromi licked languidly up your forearm, sipping the wine off you, leaving wet-mouthed nipping kisses on the inside of your wrist.

You felt drunk now, your pleasure positively Dionysian, and you nodded lightheadedly when Hiromi whispered against your neck; "Bedroom. Now. You need this."

Lifting you, still straddling his lap, Hiromi carried you to the bedroom, kicking the door open. The bedroom was barely lit, shadows dramatised by the flicker of candles. As he dropped you onto the bed, leaning over you, humping against your clothed pussy, you realised he must have fully intended to seduce you like this.

Eyes hooded, drinking in the erotic shadow-puppetry your moving bodies made against the wall, you allowed Hiromi's hips to chase you up the bed until your aching body settled against plush pillows, and perfectly crisp white sheets.

As if reading your mind, Hiromi rested his nose against yours, nuzzling slowly; "We're going to make artwork tonight, darling."

"Hiromi, you...are you sure?" You drank Hiromi in as he knelt back, raising his arms to yank his t-shirt over his head. You gulped as he stripped his pyjamas, his pink-tipped cock bobbing out to rest against your clothed pussy. Hiromi gripped his cock, pumping it as he reached under you, pulling off your panties in one swift tug. You moved to close your legs and Hiromi made a sharp noise of reproach.

"Oh no you don't," he ordered, eyes zeroing in on your pussy, bloodstained, thrumming with anticipation, "you're...so beautiful."

You saw his pupils dilate more, already blown, his eyes beetle-black and glinting in the candlelight. Kneeling between your legs, forcing your knees apart with his own, Hiromi continued to stroke himself from ball to tip, before slipping two fingers between your bloodied pussy lips.

In the dark, the blood looked black, its gore reduced to shades of grey. With the flicker of candlelight, the frame-rate of movement in the room seemed to shift, and Hiromi and you sink into a black and white cinematic masterpiece.

His fingers dipped into your fluttering hole, coaxing you to rock your hips upwards as he stroked the front of your plush walls. You shuddered, mewling, so sensitive as he thrusted two fingers into you with tender, soft strokes. Hiromi brought his thumb upwards, pressing against your clit, alternating the pressure until you moaned and squirmed beneath him. Your belly ached, desperate to feel Hiromi deeper, to feel his fingers soothe you.

"Please...Hiro--" you begged, pressing your pussy up against his hand, your moan ragged as you felt his fingertips brush your desperately sore cervix. Hiromi felt a trickle of pre-cum down his fist as his knees weakened at the glassy-smooth surface of your dimpled cervix on his fingertips.

Hiromi gulped, shuddering as he threatened to spill into his own fist, "We'll start gently," he pressed, maintaining your gaze as he released his cock, stroking your cervix with deft fingertips and lowering his mouth to your pussy, "because you're hurting...and when I fuck you, I want you softer than feathers."

You moved involuntarily away from his mouth, conditioned to be disgusted by your own bleeding, and Hiromi growled in displeasure, his freed arm cuffing round your thigh to yank your pussy back towards him. With a quirked lip, and a playful look of warning, Hiromi nuzzled between your swollen lips, drawing your clit into his mouth as his fingers continued to thrust gently inside you, so deep that he soothed the cramps in your belly.

Your vision popped with pleasure, and you twisted against the sheets, pressing your face into fluffy pillows, crying out in ecstasy. Hiromi rutted his cock between his belly and the sheets, edging himself, his mouth coppery with blood, mixing in a bitter bouquet with the tannins still on his tongue.

He had dreamt of making love to you through your blood and pain for so long, that what was once a fleeting curiosity had become a kink, eagerly awaiting fulfilment. Feeling your thighs flex around his head, feeling the clenching of your swollen pussy against his fingers, tasting the salty tang of blood and wine, had his head reeling, and he thrust into his own wet patch between his belly and the bed, his hips stopping and stuttering to take himself to the edge and back again.

"I'm gonna-- fuck, 'Romi-- gonna cum--" you cried, your hand tangled in inky black hair, humping his mouth and nose. The elastic band in your belly stretched, stretched, stretched...and released with a twang as you arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, your body hot with incomparable pleasure.

Hiromi groaned into you, fingertips grazing your cervix so your orgasm spread all the way from clit to sore, cramping belly. He felt blood seep out around his hand, spreading into the sheets beneath you. Still, he continued, easing his caresses as he brought you down from your high.

You trembled, one hand rested on your belly, the other arm flung above your head, your skin still fizzing with divine joy. Hiromi withdrew his fingers from you, your pussy clenching, reluctant to let him go. Wiping his fingers on the sheets, you vaguely heard the opening and closing of a drawer, your eyes flicking open as you heard a familiar buzz sound through the dark room.

You moved to sit up, and Hiromi moved over you instantly, caging you in, pinning your arms above your head. His weeping cock rested on your belly. With the light behind him, you could barely see his face, his eyes flinty in the dark.

"You're obviously not soft enough for me to fuck, yet," he hummed, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, "if you're still trying to sit up." You felt the thick round tip of the wand buzzing against your thigh, sliding agonisingly slowly down to your core.

As the vibrator slipped between your folds, pressing firmly against your clit, you almost screamed with the overstimulation, and Hiromi moaned, teeth pressed to your collarbones as you convulsed. You sobbed with pleasure, feeling the cramps in your belly build, feeling blood seep out of you.

Hiromi lowered his mouth to your breasts again, rolling your nipple with a shudder against his tongue, pulling back so it pinched between his lips, before licking it in again. You felt a drip of pre-cum run down your waist, so wordless with pleasure, that you were totally unable to tell Hiromi you were about to cum again.

You came with a pained sob, your thighs trembling with exertion, and pleasure stabbed through you, dragging you along through a second orgasm. Hiromi cooed, talking you through it, his lips moving against your nipple.

"Good girl, good girl...almost there...just one more...gorgeous." You whimpered, his body hot on yours, still pinned down. He rolled the vibrator in circles, wide, to slow, to wide again, over your clit, making your pleasure vague and distant, then sharp and sweet, and back again.

As Hiromi edged you away from your second orgasm and towards a third, you felt your body become floppy, loose, pliable, as if made of rubber, heavy on these soft pillows. Hiromi ghosted the tip of the vibrator down against your clenching hole, and you cried out, greedily wishing to claim your pleasure back.

"Shhh...trust me. I wouldn't leave you like this," Hiromi hushed, his voice low and sandy against your ear, "hold my hand." Hiromi released your wrists just enough for you to grip his long-fingered hand between his own, and he stayed nose-to-nose with you, as he sunk the wand into your pussy until the vibrations rumbled against your cervix and deep into your womb.

You came with a gasp, your orgasm ruinous and so sudden, that just the lingering flesh-memory of the wand against your clit sent you over the edge. You juddered, whimpering Hiromi's name like a prayer, blinded by pleasure. After what felt like an eternity, Hiromi slipped the wand from you, switching it off and discarding it onto the sheets as he stroked your hands in his, kissing your neck and mumbling soft reassurances into you.

You were warm, fluid and malleable as warm water by the time Hiromi settled between your legs, stroking his wet cockhead between your puffy lips. Hiromi thrummed with anticipation, shoulders clenched, his abs twitching with the exertion of holding back for so long.

"I...I'll be gentle, I'll be so gentle, I promise," he insisted, begging, taking your lazy smile as consent, before sinking into you, bottoming out with a twitching groan. Hiromi laid over you, desperate to be closer, holding your thighs up to clasp his hips.

You let him move you this way, totally pliable in his grasp, Hiromi's rhythmic, rocking hips casting shadows like ocean waves against the wall. You watched the shadows, feeling his cock move deeply within you, feeling the kiss of his cockhead against your plush walls like a balm, soothing you, sedating you.

Hiromi watched you, your candlelit profile, the happy glow on your face, your willingness to be helped by him, lighting a fire within him, and his delayed orgasm crept up his spine with urgency. You felt Hiromi's thrusts hesitate, his hand clasped in yours threatening to untangle, to move to your tender, spent clit again.

Certain that your completion could be achieved through the intimacy of him cumming inside you alone, you held his hand tight, and rocked your hips up to him, replacing the movements lost by his hesitation. Hiromi gasped, given permission to finish, and rolled his hips to meet yours, feeling himself overwhelmed by an innate desire to fill your belly with his seed.

"--perfect, so perfect, thank-- thank you-- fuck, I can't last--" Hiromi's hips stalled with a sandy gasp, feeling the ecstatic rush of his cum through his cock, buckling into you as his face crumpled with pleasure, moaning short sharp moans into your neck. You rolled your hips lazily up around him, the warm balm of his seed in your belly like a lotion, deep and soothing.

Lying in your arms as you trailed your fingertips down his back, Hiromi pressed one long, grateful kiss to your temple, before kneeling back, uttering a husky whine as he pulled out of you. Watching the slow drip of bloodstained cum drip out of you made his cock twitch weakly, another spurt of cum dripping out onto the stained sheets.

"Just...wait here," Hiromi insisted, standing on shaking legs. You lay back, cushioned on clouds, humming to yourself in your delicious afterglow. You heard the patter of the shower, and allowed Hiromi to return and grip your hands, leading you, eyes closed, until you felt the sweet embrace of water down your curves.

Hiromi had pre-prepared, and he pressed a hot flannel to your belly, urging you to hold it there while he cleaned you both with a soft sponge. The water beneath you ran pink. You delighted in the massage of Hiromi's clever fingers across your scalp.

A few minutes later, warm and sated, aching and floating above your own body, you stepped to the bedroom with Hiromi. His hand hovered over the light switch, a curious grin on his face. You caught his eye hesitantly, able to see the white sheets only in shades of black and grey.

A flick, and the room basked in light. You pressed a hand to your mouth, the bedsheets rumpled and decorated with blossoming petals of vibrant red, smears and fingerprints, all evidence of your lovemaking. Hiromi sidled up behind you, resting a chin on your shoulder, nuzzling into your temple.

"Art," he whispered, "we've made art."

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Hiromi coming up for air:

[hyperions-fate]

The real tragedy of modernity is having your wine and olive oil kept in bottles, rather than in clay amphorae lavishly decorated with scenes of Dionysian sacrifices and dying Trojans.

[witchofthesouls]

The Dionysian Effect

We need more religious festivals and symbolism of the Thirteen incorporated into TFP since they were deities and I want more lore, so here’s a peak of the Megatronus Prime sex cult with Soundwave being devout follower

(Heads up: drug-induced sex):

The first sparklings on Cybertron descended by a union of Megatronus and Solus. The Prime of Chaos took the Prime of Creation upon the aftermath of the Thirteen’s triumph against the Unmaker. He filled her divine frame with his holy essence. For Thirteen days and Thirteen nights they were joined and that passion internally crafted a Forge when Life took root in her spark and made it possible to bring newsparks into the world.

Primus blessed their union by allowing all Cybertronians similar equipment to mimic the First Conjunx.

It mattered not if her other brothers had laid with her as well, nor if Solus' final Gift was the Well of Allsparks. To this day, all newsparks emerge from their carrier's frame with only their base instincts to guide them, full of wants and fears, soft-plated and blind, mewling and crying.

By that union, Megatronus and Solus left them their greatest legacy: to ignite life between their mortal frames and sacred sparks outside of the Well.

___________

The Marks of the blended insignias of Megatronus and Solus wavered in the very air, flashing liquid gold and bright blue, and all he could taste the thick, syrupy sweetness on his glossa. The strange vines undulating across his frame, between his legs, and within his throat as he clung onto the stuck pair of hips, overloading into the tight valve.

The wall suddenly gave away into nothingness, and he quickly wrestled the other squirming frame to the ground, wrenching arms and deploying data-cables to pin them down. Seeking out the warm, wet valve again, rocking into the clenching mesh as he silently mouthed the Litany of Solus into heated neck-cables, inhaling the sudden release of ozone, burnt circuitry, and lubricant. The stranger wailed beneath him, hips attempting to move but she -a data-cable had found a secondary valve and made it its home -could only twitch, vents expelling immense heat as the wild field immediately snapped and synched into his own.

Soundwave groaned at the hot charge clawing down his frame and the last vestiges of sanity and repressed code broke, his denta sank into the neck-cables and began to rut into the pliant, wanting valve.

When Megatronus claimed Solus, it was not on a bejeweled altar of an exalted temple under perfumed incense and controlled words of high-caste priests. Closeted away from the outside world and its taint of filth and savagery.

No, he claimed her in the dirt on Primus' scorched and blood-soaked ground, directly on their Creator’s very alt-mode in the very wilds.

Their frames were the temple. Their energon and fluids were the anointing oils. Their sparks were the hymns.

Soundwave was a dutiful spark; even with his visor blackened and neural net seared from the raw code-related ecstasy and drug-induced mania, his vows were upheld even when the dark caverns and stained grounds that he pledged upon were long gone, ravaged by warfare and Cybertron's demise.

And on this strange, organic planet in the middle of absolute nowhere, here lied an artifact of his chosen God and his Conjunx, so they shall consecrate the hidden cave with nothing but themselves and claim it the old way.

[thegodwhocums]

Dionysian artworks by Joe Tilson

demeter; 1990 oil on burlap on wood relief, diptych

alchera: notes for country works: wiltshire and tuscany 1970-74; 1976 colour silk screen print

Troy Town; 1974 oil on wood

Boughton green; 1974 oil on wood

BOUGHTON GREEN (sketch); 1973 pastels, watercolor and pencil on paper

stele for dionysos; 1981 mixed media wood relief held within a hinged wooden box

dionysos karpios, a; 1988 oil on canvas and wood relief

[gemsofgreece]

The pros: I went to a Dionysian originated traditional carnival for the first time since childhood

The cons: almost had a heart attack (I mean it literally) and I had a mild panic attack from the collective noise of the bells and the oil cans like jeez I was so ready to love this

[paranatellonta]

Summer Salad

I made the mistake of leaving the window open while I was tossing the pasta salad. The scent of fresh herbs engulfed me, and before I knew it, a tall creature had crept into my home, body and face both hidden in large flaps of loose clothing in every possible shade of brown. Ignoring—or perhaps not hearing—my protests, the figure stalked towards the kitchen counter and dug its long claws into the pot. It lifted its hands and let the slick goodness of fusilli and salad leaves run between its fingers, allowed it to fall down its arms and to the floor tiles with a wet splat. Outside, a storm was brewing, sending cherry tomatoes and mozzarella balls into a juggling act as wild as the whirling thoughts in my head. Somehow, olives crunched between the creature’s teeth like crisp bug shells. Soundtracking itself with Dionysian groans, it emptied the pot of pasta salad, and then continued to lick every last drop of oil off its wrists, its elbows, its shoulders.

It was still hot. A moist 25°C stuck my shirt to my back. But everywhere, autumn was creeping in on the green of nature—even in my pot of pasta salad.

—

[Image description: Close-up of a colourful pasta salad in a metal pot. The salad includes lettuce, basil, olives, tomato pieces, and mozzarella.]

[thethingything]

so 🍬's suddenly gotten really into the kind of food where the rest of the system can constantly make comments like "ah I see we're having a bootleg roman breakfast" about it.

I show up in the front and am greeted by my boyfriend lounging on the bed dipping bread in olive oil before eating a pear in a way that could most accurately be described as "slutty", "feral", or perhaps "dionysian"

[labelleizzy]

Cooking.

Here is one recipe that I almost always have the ingredients for in my pantry and freezer.

Chili.

(I am a meat eater so bear that in mind. )

This makes like 8-12 servings depending on how hungry I am on a given day.

Here's the ingredients:

In the freezer: 1 lb of ground meat of your choice. Hamburger is good, they had a sale on bison recently at my grocery store, I have some venison from the specialty shop, as a treat for someday.

In the pantry: big can of diced tomatoes. This one's 1 lb 12 oz.

Also in the pantry, various canned beans. I picked up one of black beans and one of mixed salad beans because I like the different colors. One medium onion, that you dice to about half inch squares. Tomato paste if you like a thick chili.

This to me is the bare minimum, I do usually add garlic, I do often add half a beer or the tail end of a bottle of wine if I have one lying around. I can spice it as my mood suits: peppers, 🌶️ 🫑, heavy on cumin and rosemary or not. Often I have the tail end of a jar of salsa, I did today. I decided between finishing the jar of tomatillo salsa or dumping the pesto into the pot, decided I can add pesto later if I want to.

One great thing about how I make chili is I don't even have to defrost the meat all the way. I dice my onion, defrost the meat enough to get it out of the packet, and into the pot. Couple splashes of vegetable oil if it's a low fat meat. Start it browning, use the spatula to chunk the frozen meat into littler pieces.

Add the diced onions halfway through, continue breaking the meat up until it's most of the way brown at least and only a little bit pink. Salt into the pot, a small handful over the meat and onion, mix thoroughly and keep breaking up the hamburger with your spatula.

Leftover cooked veggies 🥦🫛🍆🥕go in great at this point if you have some and want to.

The last of the jar of minced garlic 🧄, both cans of beans 🫘 with their water, the diced tomatoes 🍅, and half a cup of wine 🍷 because we didn't finish the bottle last night. I'm a Dionysian, you don't have to put any wine or beer 🍺 in at all, I just... It's like a tribute.

Moving on.

You could add leftover hummus to thicken this or tomato paste.

This fills my large stockpot pretty well. And then I let it simmer at medium low heat for long enough to cook down a little.

And, because I have ADHD, it's best not to let myself sit down and tumble for a while, or if I do sit down I should set alarms so that I remember to go stir the pot and scrape the bottom so I don't cook the food to the bottom of the pot 😇

I like to eat it as is, or sometimes with cheese or rice and if I'm feeling fancy I'll try and make up a cornbread. Haven't tried it yet with Mac&cheese but it's probably gonna be good.

I should probably say here that my husband would want me to eat this with a salad 🥗.

Yes, dear. 🥰

This meal brought to you by having one of those days where I couldn't figure out what to eat and then it had been 4 hours since I ate, so I grabbed my emergency potato chip stash, and once my brain was refueled, I got to work making something I can almost make in my sleep.

I'll be filling several take out tubs with the leftovers from tonight. It gets better the longer it sits, freezes well, stays pretty good in the fridge for several days and maybe up to 2 weeks?

Feed yourself and Future Self will thank you. Feed your friends and loved ones.

[ovanilinavo]

Oh my god okay so I walked for like an hour into town in the cold and found this cute tea house but their food is phenomenal I got a panini with goat cheese and roasted pears and truffle oil and arugula and on the side I had a cup of creamy mushroom soup and then I got a cup of this buttery delicious oolong tea and then while I was eating eyes closed feeling like I could die my partner sent me these really slutty awesome Snapchat pics so I’m just feeling so spoiled and dionysian

[musicarenagh]

Sonic Surge: JUNKYARD REBEL's 'Summer Storm' Unleashed In the tempest that is "Summer Storm" by JUNKYARD REBEL, Chris Basener conjures a maelstrom where Vivaldi waltzes with voltage, threading needle-thin lightning through dark clouds of throbbing metal. The guitar screams are not mere riffs but primal cries of joy and desolation intertwined—apocalyptic horsemen galloping across strings stretched taut as horizon lines. https://open.spotify.com/track/7y0GEqh2dnUwvZYmugmFeK?si=faed7736221740aa Each chord strikes like thundercrack; each silence weighs heavy as the breath between heartbeats in love's first blush or last whisper. This single booms—a symphony squeezed into a bottle thrown from an electric shore to clash against our eager ears with reckless abandon! [caption id="attachment_55806" align="alignnone" width="2000"] Sonic Surge: JUNKYARD REBEL's 'Summer Storm' Unleashed[/caption] Basener’s deft fingers braid classical delicacy with raw metallic sinew creating more than melody—they forge mythology! Such juxtapositions bleed beyond audial realms spilling phosphorescent oil on water puddles beneath moonlit industrial wastelands. https://youtu.be/l89x_y9_kDg To listen is to be engulfed by crescendos both anciently serene and desperately wild—an echo chamber containing whispers of Dionysian rites conducted under neon skies. Yet for all its explosive energy, it demands recognition not just as sound but fierce artistry puncturing the night itself. Play loud? Oh no—play monumental! Thus speaks “Summer Storm,” less song than spellbinding seismic event reshaping landscapes at will! Follow JUNKYARD REBEL on Website, Facebook, Instagram and TikTok.

[normiefashion1922]

Whyyy has every attempt I’ve made at controlling anything been in vain and completely unfulfilling and unsustainable??

Like I could NEVER track my cycle or follow through with vitamin D, dandelion tea, fenugreek tea, intermittent fasting, black coffee, dopamine fasting, SSRI’s, swimming, quitting podcasts, magnesium, seeings friends in the day time, vegetarianism, daily probiotics, 40 vegetable prebiotic weeks, hating my parents, bloodwork, psychoanalysis, running i can only do one thing at a time and after a while I don’t even realise I’ve stopped

Honestly….. what is wrong with me…. Am I seriously that Dionysian?

I feel like I lack awareness in just simple activities,

The only things I have actually followed through with are quitting weed, waking up early, going to bed before 12, quitting seed oils, quitting news/pornography/gore, quitting various drugs and alternative milks, walking every day

I really don’t know what to do. Wouldn’t it just be so rewarding to do these simple tasks and be so so happy…? The rest of my life is basically perfect

[wild-magick-child]

Welcome to The Pendle Witches

I am Lyrod the Bizarre, 13th Gen Hereditary Witch of the Pendle Line.

I'm what you would call an Incarnated Elemental, specifically a Lake Faery. My family has practiced Witchcraft for at least 4 centuries that we know of. My siblings and I learned the Craft from family members, especially our grandmother, who still practiced when we were children. We are the 13th generation of our line.

I thought it would be fun to structure this like a DND Character Sheet!

(picture by me: my best Glamour shot! LOL)

Profession: Professional Witch; Tarot Reader; Author/Blogger; Philosopher

Discipline: Mirror Magick

Title: Hereditary Witch; Enchanter

Skill Tree:

Hereditary Magick

Hearthcraft (Kitchencraft, Cottagecraft, Greencraft)

Art Magick

Mirror Magick

Old World Traditional Witchcraft (remnants)

Southern Folk Magick

Natural/Elemental Magick

Celtic Faeriecraft

Thrifty Witchery

Cartomancy (Tarot/Playing Cards)

Farmer's Almanac as a Guide

Hereditary Hearthcraft

Kitchen Witchery (Food Magick, Broom Magick, Salt Rites, Sugar Spells, etc)

Green Witchery (Gardening, Herbalism, Crystal Magick)

Purification Rites

Mirror Magick (Glamour Magick, Beauty Magick, Scrying, Mind Control)

Iron Horseshoe Wards

House Spells

Magickal Oils

Money Bowls

Magickal Crafting

Needlework

Candle-making

Soapmaking

Depictumajik (Art Magick)

Sigilcraft

Paint Magick (Acrylic, Watercolor, Oil, Pastel)

Drawing Magick (Pen, Pencil, Charcoal, Colored Pencils)

Moon Paint Water

Storm Paint Water

Pen & Paper Magick

Magickal Crafting

Weather Magick

Stormcasting

Lunar Phases

Sabbat Celebrations

Working with the Seasons

Rain Water, Storm Water, Moon Water, etc.

What I post: Traditional Witchcraft Knowledge; Thought-provoking Posts, Spiritual Messages, Alchemy Knowledge, Wizard Knowledge, Dionysian Phallic Worship, Furry Stuff. (My main blog is on my Ko-fi, which is linked)

What I Sell (via Ko-fi): Spells; eBoS; Crystal Elixirs; Ritual Soaps; Spell Candles; Curiosities & Oddities

Ko-fi Link (Shop + Tip Jar):

Witchcraft Resources:

[maenads-bacchantes]

Mary Cassatt, “Bacchante”, 1872, 24 x 19 15/16 in, oil on canvas, PAFA

Taken from PAFA website:

“Painted for exhibition at the Esposizione di belle arti in Milan, this early work shows the influence of the young Mary Cassatt's extended European tour between 1871 and 1874. After a year and a half spent back in Philadelphia, Cassatt returned to Europe, visiting Rome, Madrid, Seville, Antwerp, and Parma. The choice of subject matter - a celebrant in Dionysian rituals swept up in religious mysteries - testifies to Cassatt's interest in classical culture. More significantly, the painting reveals the influence of the High Renaissance Northern Italian painter Correggio, whose works Cassatt had been commissioned to copy by the Archdiocese of Pittsburgh. The bacchante's pose echoes a figure of the Madonna by Correggio and was painted in his native region. Yet, for all its Italian references, the painting also evokes the warm tonality of Spanish Baroque painting, which Cassatt and other young artists - such as her Philadelphia compatriot Thomas Eakins two years earlier, not to mention many of her eventual French colleagues - were also discovering in large numbers during the second half of the nineteenth century. Cassatt moved to Paris in 1874, where she proceeded to abandon academic exercises such as this work in favor of scenes of modern life.”

My thoughts:

The woman in this painting reminds me more of a baroque gypsy than a bacchante or maenad, the grape-leaf crown being the only classical iconography in the painting. However the color palette is gorgeous and she seems deeply entranced in her music-making.

[skookumsupine]

Years ago, [Xanthius] experienced an intense bout of insomnia. From early October 2013 until late February 2018, he found it impossible to get more than two hours of sleep consecutively. Each night, he would lay twisted in his bed, finding every new way he lay just as forced and uncomfortable as the last. He felt like he had forgotten the precise contortion needed to slip through the cracks of the waking world and fall asleep, like he was a mass of protruding limbs trying to fit through a square hole.

Waves of fear and regret crashed down on him in towering sets with no break between poundings long enough to catch his breath. Eventually, gradually, his nocturnal anxieties became a more or less normal part of his everyday routine. He would lay on his back some short summer nights and watch the light fade out of the western window until it rolled back in with the morning in the Eastern corner of his room. It was oddly peaceful and utterly unbearable.

Then, when he was completely desensitized to his own cortisol, he found a way to let himself be carried away by the rip currents in his mind and be swept under into oblivion. He discovered how not to try to not try too hard to sleep. Life in general took a turn for the better after this. He felt in his bones that the seasons of his life had taken a sharp turn towards sweeter times.

His record in all those years had been about 72 hours awake consecutively. Any amount of time beyond this and his body would hard reset on its own. This morning as he watched the brazen sun spill into his room, he realized he was approaching hour one hundred and sixty. He realized bitterly that his seasons were changing again.

Floaters and black dots swam giddily around the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths, trying to detach his mind. After a few cycles he could feel the fuzzy hood of sleep slip over him. Then the bird slurred its song again “Chooka Wiillaa Widowww!” and his chance at sleep was ripped away from him, again. Rage boiled over in his guts. He coiled like a drunken snake and launched himself to his feet with sudden furious energy. Glaring out of the window by his bed, he focused on the lumpy brown bird swaying in the wind with the branches of the Chickasaw Plum, like a bloated tick swaying on the back of a panting dog. The Nightjar slouched slovenly in its nest. His vision narrowed into a tunnel as narrow as the barrel of a gun. The black floaters in his peripheral vision swarmed and multiplied. Their edges took on the technicolor sheen of a bubble on an oil slick. A fat vein popped out on his neck and with every pulse of blood the rainbow edges of the floaters flared with gemstone brilliance. “Chuuok-au-Weehee-Wippou!!” cried the drunken Nightjar. His body tremored with electric spasms that shot up his spine, forked across his bony shoulders, and wound a circuit around his solar plexus.

About two months back, a local beekeeper dumped the Sheriff’s son. Every morning for a week, Walker County deputies sprayed all the neonicotinoids pesticides they could economically get their hands on, to demonstrate the weight of his scorn. Every easily accessible flower in the county had been laced and not an invertebrate was safe. As of this week there were no more moths for tens of miles in any direction, and the grasshoppers rotted in the soy fields. The sidewalks were littered with shuddering horseflies. The beekeeper moved to New Caledonia and married someone that sells Swiss Watches. The Nightjar that lived in the Chickasaw Plum lost its primary nutrition source and was forced to branch out its eating habits by trial and error. Was the discovery that its shockingly wide mouth could gobble down several gooey, sickly sweet-smelling, maroon colored fruit in a single swallow a mistake? Yes, very much so, but the Nightjar wouldn’t discover this until too late. For the moment it was caught deep in the undertow of its Dionysian death spiral, blissfully unaware it was poisoning itself.

[Xanthius] was aware of the situation and the plight of the hungry bird, but that only made him angrier. The injustice of his wrath ate at his belly and created a positive feedback loop of destructive negativity. The black dots in his eyes crept in from the edges and one by one evacuated the peripherals for the center of his view. The murmuration of brilliant floaters coalesced into a single mass in his eye like a wizard's cataract, completely obscuring the bird. His righteous fury had fully soured and he wanted only to hurt something defenseless. To flex his power. To do harm to the innocent. To get this expel this evil energy that had possessed his being to such totality, and to project it onto a sacrifice. The multicolored rim of his black cataract flared with a searing light and smoke billowed from its circumference. His blood pounded deafeningly through his ears and his teeth felt electric. He shivered once and the floaters began to drip away from the central shape in rapid succession. In seconds his vision had cleared and he saw shriveled, scorched corpse of the bird that had lived in his backyard for so many years now. The bird whose song he used to wake up to at 4am and marvel at despite himself. He felt a tingling below the skull of his forehead and a sensation like an outflow of snow melt into a stagnant pool. He felt refreshed. His pulse felt gentle, as if he had slept for twelve glorious hours.

[freeasforeveris]

DAILY DOSE

Capricorn is the only true chimerical being of the zodiac and lives under Dionysian rules.

Mushroom tip— Octopussy bottom. The cornucopia is both phallic horn and receptive vessel. Depths and heights. Whale-wolf, mer-goat, a scary scary “monster”.

If you think Capricorn is all business you just weren’t invited to the underground “after hours” party.

Earth signs rule our sexuality and if you thought Virgo was the revolution— that was just a drop in the bucket. Here comes the ocean… and beware it will be full tsunami style— right in your face.

It is the things we care about most that crush us.

This anaretic 29th degree of Capricorn is hyper yin and particularly grueling because it’s peak stress, that last push of labor— the “hurt so good” kind of ache that makes us feel alive. And that’s where the kore-kali-maiden-mother-crone god we call Pluto retreated to Saturday night.

Capricorn doesn’t want easy— it wants rock hard and long, and slow, and deep.

Capricorn aka Saturna’s Queendom brings a relentless energetic, like Florence and the Machine sings, “All I want is everything from you and what is left after that too”. It is the apex of the natural zodiacal wheel — begging us to climax. We feel the building tension here propelling us to reach our ultimate potential and know what it means to feel fulfilled. This is the degree where a FIRM foundation must be present in order to generate enough gravitational force for lift off. This critical nature is exactly what is needed to ensure everything is well oiled (lubed up) and in good working order—because the destination is out of this world (Aquarius).

So what does it mean to come back and land gracefully?

What have we learned from our first peek into the seminal waters of space?

What tweaks are needed now to survive our next try?

Pluto will return to this degree again on September 2, 2024 and station direct Oct 12, leaving it for good (at least in this lifetime) on November 19, 2024.

What radical embodiment still cries out for our understanding before we try to call ourselves “genius” and fly higher than we thought any earthly wings would carry us?

✏️@sapptter

🎨: @nesmamoharam_

[painting-portrait]

Titian Introduction

Titian (full name Tiziano Vecellio, AD 1490- AD 1576) was a representative painter of the Venetian School in the high Renaissance of Italy. He was a student of Giovanni Bellini and was influenced by Giorgione. Titian was known for his longevity, at least into his late nineties. When he was young, he inherited and developed the painting art of Venetian school under the guidance of humanism, and pushed the application of color, shape and brush strokes of oil painting to a new stage. The emotion contained in the painting is full and profound. As Giorgione's assistant, he helped paint the scenery behind Sleeping Venus. The religious paintings "Tax Silver" and "Assumption of the Virgin Mary" reflect the moral concept of the emerging bourgeoisie. Mythological works such as "Eros Festival" and "Dionysian and Princess Ariadni" brimmed with joyful mood and exuberant vitality. After Charles V made him a nobleman in 1533, however, he painted works that sought to meet the people of power, such as "Spain Saves Religion" and "Philip II dedicates the newborn Prince Don Ferdinand to the God of Victory." His portraits reveal the inner world of his subjects. Middle-aged painting style meticulous, steady and powerful, bright color; In his later years, the brushwork is bold, and the tone is simple and varied. Oil painting techniques in the late European oil painting development, has a great influence. https://painting-portrait.com/

Both Titian and Giorgione were students of Giovanni Bellini, and Titian became a great admirer of Giorgione's colors. In 1508, Titian helped Giorgione paint the front of a German merchant's warehouse in Venice, and was influenced by Giorgione. In fact, some of Giorgione's unfinished paintings were done by Titian. Due to Titian's careful imitation, there are so many similarities in conception and color that, if it were not noted who had painted them, one would not be able to tell which was Titian's and which was Giorgione's. But on the whole, Titian's artistic accomplishments were much higher than Giorgione's, not because he lived longer, but because of his passion for life, his passion for things. Titian lived a wide life and was quick to think. He found the beauty of objective nature and kept pace with the pulse of The Times. https://painting-portrait.com/

After the deaths of Giorgione and Giovanni Benaini, Titian became an independent painter in Venice. He was elected to an official position in Venice, but the painter was not interested in this, and he politely declined the high salary. For in the Republic of Venice the court painter was in fact no more important than the court musician, the cook, or even the clown, and he preferred to remain independent, seeking more freedom to attract customers, than to submit himself to a certain authority. In the history of art, Titian was the first painter who was not attached to a ruler. King Henry the Third of France visited his studio, and the Roman emperor Charles V, surrounded by his entourage, found a paintbrush on the floor, bent down to pick it up for him, and said to him wittingly, "The greatest emperor of the world picked up a paintbrush for the greatest painter." Titian died on August 27, 1576.