#doctrine of signatures

[drathanasius]

[aerikarkadian]

Plants are such an important field of study in witchcraft that some books on the topic even start out with lofty phrases like "since time immemorial..." or "from the dawn of time..." Yeah, we get it. People have been using herbs, like, forever. #herbology #plants #herbs #magick #witch

[drathanasius]

Horseman of the Scorpions, Francisco Toledo

[loudlylovingreview]

Gary Fincke: The Doctrine of Signatures

The woman who followed me from flower To flower said Birthday? Anniversary?And I shook my head among the arrangementsUntil she shifted to Accident? Sickness?Guiding and pointing and introducingThe Doctrine of Signatures, how all plantsWere created to serve us, their powersTo cure revealed by shape, by size, by shade:The bloodshot blossoms of the eyebrightHeal pinkeye; the Chinese lantern plantIs…

[cryptotheism]

What does "As Above, So Below" really mean? What does it look like?

It means the earth mirrors the heavens. The world is shadows of shadows of thoughts in the mind of god.

Broadly it refers to the doctrine of signatures. The medieval idea that the physical shape of things gives a clue as to nature of things. If an herb looks like a human eye, it can be used to make medicine for the human eye. If it looks like a liver, you can make liver medicine out of it.

This extends even further. Iron is hard and useful because those are things associated with the planet mars. Therefore, iron is ruled by the planet mars, and gets its properties from the influence of the planet mars. Additionally, drawing symbols associated with mars can imbue martian properties onto whatever you draw the symbols on.

The sun is brilliant and golden and shiny, and because of this, it's metal gold is also brilliant and golden and shiny. As above, so below.

[yandere-wishes]

˚｡✮ Yandere! Darth Vader {Anakin Skywalker} x Apprentice Reader

˚｡✮ Bad, bad news, One of us is gonna lose I'm the powder, you're the fuse, Just add some friction, You are my strange addiction

˚｡✮ We've talked about Yandere! Anakin Skywalker falling for Padawan! Reader... But what about Vader falling for his acolyte/apprentice?

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ★⋆.˚

Vader isn't nurturing.

It feels almost sacrilegious to entertain the thought.

That's why it's so troubling when the galactic empire's staff take note of a smaller morbid figure trailing after the ebony monstrosity.

I can see there being many interesting scenarios in which Vader would pick an acolyte. The most heartwrenching and particularly curious case would be if his acolyte used to also be Anakin Skywalker's Padawan.

˚｡✮ Imagine Vader searching for you across the galaxy. He feels your force signature reverberating inside him, calls out to it, tries to bind and morph it. A sardonic love letter he pens with rage and perplexion. Still, you always slip away. He keeps your hunt a secret, some ancient wound that's never healed right. The swing of your saber still haunts him, your satisfied grin as you land a blow on him. The force works in mysterious ways and Vader's desperation can't fully be reasoned. He's given up everything that Anakin once had. Forgone to an almost spiritual level. But you are the one pesky thing that still lingers. He likes to think that it's because he knows your true power. That you're a threat as long as you live.

˚｡✮ Imagine Vader finally, finally finding you. Mesmerized by how much you've grown. You're rugged, wild. Some strange creature wearing the skin of the girl he once loved. You don't hesitate to attack, and Vader signs it off as a blessing. He needs a reason to hurt you, to drag you back kicking and screaming. He needs an excuse to push his fury between your bones and drown you in his sorrows. He needs revenge in the worst way.

˚｡✮ Imagine Vader winning because of course he does. He leaves you bruised and broken, bleeding on the soft grassy ground. Your eyes are so beautiful when they're filled with terror. Your voice melodic as you scream in agony as his saber severs your leg and arm. Vengeance, Vengeance, Vengeance. You left him, left him to face Obi-wan alone, left him to be mutilated and disfigured.

˚｡✮ Imagine Vader only coming to terms with who he is, and what he is as he's watching the medical droids repair your body. He can never escape Anakin, cause that's who he still is. Anakin hasn't died just grown. He's no longer the kid with a schoolboy crush on his pupil and supernovas under his tongue. He's swallowed the burning stars, let their fires and explosions paint him in shades darker than the nights on Tatooine. He runs a cybernetic hand across your head, feeling you for the first time in forever.

˚｡✮ Imagine Vader training you once more. It's been months since your capture, months of brutal and tender torture. He's ripped you apart and rearranged you so meticulously. Picking favored parts to hem and sew with a buzzing red needle and dark doctrines. Only when Vader notes the red-rimmed golden shift flicker across your eyes does he know he's truly won. Your connection to the light is nearly completely severed. Your past is left to rot on the green planet. What stares back at him from the corners of the dark, damp cell is a creature forged of hate and malice. A sith in every way.

˚｡✮ Imagine Vader only ever happy when he's with you. He's finally free to train you as he pleases, to touch you as he pleases, to kiss you as he pleases. He's taken you to ice worlds to bleed kyber crystals and to Mustafar to forge your new armor. He kisses you on a battlefield littered with the corpses of dead resistance soldiers. Metal clancks against metal all wretched sinister love. You're beginning to love this new master, he's everything Anakin had repressed, he's everything you have always feared. But the thing you must realize about fickle fears is that once you fall in love with them, you begin to lose yourself.

˚｡✮ Imagine Pulling up Vader's mask and kissing the burns across his face. Your kisses are laced with such passion and hate he feels like he's drowning in lava once more. He's brutal in the way he handles you, each touch leaving a plethora of bruises, singing I love you. You like the way each training session starts with a deep all-consuming kiss and ends with him using the force to smash your head into the ground as you laugh and laugh. His force signature is different now, you like the way it slithers across your body, all fire and pain, all destruction. Love the pain that comes with him, this grisly bloody love affair that makes the stars shutter.

The staff of the galactic empire, Find the little midnight creature all too bizarre.

She trails after their commander with vicious playful skips and plays uno with their lives. She twirls around the galaxy's most feared as if she's playing hopscotch.

The staff of the galactic empire doesn't know whether to feel pity or terror...

I think about how at the beginning of being Vader, Anakin was so quick to reject who he once was. Trying desperately to kill off any semblance of Anakin. But by the time of the Original Trilogy, he's sort of come to terms with who he is and who he once was. Anakin isn't really dead he's just grown stronger now, and in a strange way, he even seems to embrace his past as a Jedi, wearing it as - a not so obvious- badge of pride.

[altrockingchair]

This plant looks like a heart = eat it, it's good for your heart

OLIVE = sounds like I'LL LIVE = EATING OLIVES EXTENDS YOUR LIFESPAN

[discombobulatedderry]

Fire and Ice

Hey, hey, hey! I'm back. (not for long, i'm sorry for still not updating that Sevika fic, tee hee) It's finally time to write about Ambessa, my no. 1 muscle mommy RAAGHHH. I saw a fic inspiration from a prompt saying how would Ambessa fare with someone who has the same status or standing as them, of equal importance and such. That idea stayed in my mind for like...a long time, before I actually found the will to write this. I hope it's to your liking!

The war table was laid out in the heart of the grand strategy hall of Noxus, its dark stone bathed in the glow of torches that lined the walls like sentinels. The air was thick with tension, the scent of steel and smoke mixing with the scent of parchment and old ink. Maps were sprawled across the surface, marked with crimson lines of conquests and blue counters denoting enemy forces. Seated at one end of the table, you kept your hands folded, your crimson-painted armor polished to perfection, giving no indication of the battles you had fought nor the sleepless nights spent orchestrating victory from the shadows. Your reputation preceded you. The "Ice of Noxus," they called you—calculated, unyielding, and relentless in strategy. You were not one for empty boasts or needless bloodshed; efficiency was your doctrine, and success was your law. Across from you sat the Lioness of Noxus herself—Ambessa Medarda. A warrior unlike any other, her sheer presence a force of nature, her reputation built on unbreakable will and a lifetime of victories. Her form was adorned in golden pauldrons, her signature deep red cape draped behind her like the bloodstained banner of war itself. She had been watching you for the better part of the meeting, her intense gaze never wavering, even as others debated strategy and countermeasures. You felt the heat of her presence, a direct contrast to your own calculated cold. “The eastern front is still holding, despite the resistance,” one of the generals spoke, his voice edged with frustration. “We could force their surrender if we—” “Burn them out,” Ambessa interjected, her deep voice cutting through the discussion like a blade. You exhaled sharply, though your composure remained unshaken. “Unnecessary. We hold the advantage already.” She turned her gaze fully on you now, the flickering torchlight illuminating the sharp angles of her face, the slight smirk on her lips betraying her amusement. “You’d have us waste time and resources prolonging a battle that could end in days?” “No,” you answered, your tone cool. “I’d have us win without needless destruction. Precision is our strength, Medarda. A pyrrhic victory is no victory at all.” The room went silent. Tension coiled between you like a drawn bowstring. Ambessa leaned forward, placing both hands against the table, muscles flexing beneath her armor. “You fight like a scholar, not a warrior.” You tilted your head slightly, unfazed. “And you fight like a hammer, not a tactician.”

Her smirk widened, eyes darkening with something dangerous. Interest? Challenge? You weren’t sure. The other commanders exchanged wary glances. They had seen men crumble under Ambessa’s presence before. But you? You sat still, poised and unaffected, a perfect contrast to the fire she exuded. “You believe in war without fire,” she mused. “I wonder how long you’d last in the flames.” You met her gaze with a quiet intensity, your voice a blade cloaked in ice. “Try me.” And for the first time in a long time, Ambessa Medarda laughed. A deep, knowing chuckle that sent a shiver through the gathered warriors. This war was not yet over. And neither was the battle between you and the Lioness of Noxus. The meeting had long since ended, yet the echoes of your dispute with Ambessa still burned in your mind. You strode through the darkened halls of the fortress, the weight of strategy pressing against your thoughts. But there was another weight—one heavier, more demanding—that followed you. The door to Ambessa’s quarters loomed ahead, flanked by guards who stiffened at your approach. Without breaking stride, you pushed past them, your boots striking hard against the stone floor as you entered. Ambessa stood by the hearth, one hand resting on her hip, the firelight licking at the edges of her armor. She didn’t turn as the door shut behind you. “Bold,” she mused, voice deep with amusement. “But I expected nothing less from you.” “You are reckless,” you stated, stepping forward, your tone sharp and unyielding. “Do you even consider the cost of your conquests?” At that, she turned, eyes glinting with something primal. “I consider victory,” she countered, stepping toward you with slow, measured strides. “I consider strength.” Your jaw tightened. “Strength without control is destruction.” “And control without fire is stagnation,” she shot back, stopping just inches from you. The air between you was charged, her presence radiating heat that clashed against the ice in your veins. For a long moment, silence stretched between you, each waiting for the other to yield. But neither of you would. Not yet. Then, her lips curled into a smirk. “You argue with such conviction. I wonder—do you fight as fiercely as you speak?” You lifted your chin, voice as cold as the Noxian winter. “Only when necessary.” Ambessa hummed, tilting her head slightly. “Then perhaps I should see for myself.” The challenge hung heavy in the air, and you knew—this battle was far from over.

The space between you vanished in an instant. Her hand gripped your jaw, rough yet deliberate, forcing your gaze to hold hers. Fire burned in her eyes, a silent challenge issued in the heat of the moment. Before words could intervene, your lips crashed together in a fierce, claiming kiss. It was not soft, nor hesitant. It was war. Armor was unfastened, discarded piece by piece, each removal an unspoken surrender met with another advance. The firelight flickered, casting deep shadows across heated skin, the contrast between your cool resolve and her relentless passion only fueling the storm between you. She backed you against the stone wall, the chilled surface a stark contrast to the molten heat of her mouth against your throat. Your fingers dug into her shoulders, nails scraping against muscle as she pressed against you, strength overwhelming but not unwelcome. Every touch was a contest, every gasp a declaration of battle. She was relentless, pushing, taking, demanding, and yet you met her force with calculated precision, answering her ferocity with controlled intent. The tension that had crackled between you for months, the unspoken battles fought with glances and words, now spilled over in unrestrained desire. Fire and ice clashed, neither yielding yet both consumed in the inferno they had ignited.

She pushed, you pushed back. Teeth grazed, nails dug into flesh, neither of you willing to yield. When she pressed you against the wall, her hands gripping your wrists above your head, you yanked free, twisting her arm just enough to reverse the roles, pinning her instead. Her breath came hot against your skin, a slow, taunting chuckle escaping her lips. “Is that all?” she murmured, her voice thick with challenge. Your answer came in the form of your lips crashing against hers again, swallowing her words before they could fully form. She retaliated in kind, hands threading into your hair, yanking you closer, refusing to let you set the pace. Every move she made was met with calculated counterforce—when she pushed, you pulled; when she took, you took back. Every inch of revealed skin was a new battlefield, every breathless gasp a momentary victory before the war continued. She lifted you, forcing your back against the cold stone again, her knee parting your legs with practiced ease. But you wouldn’t let her win so easily. You twisted, rolling her beneath you, straddling her waist, pinning her hands to the bed now instead of the wall. A low growl rumbled in her throat, but her smirk never wavered. “I see,” she mused, voice husky. “The Ice of Noxus does know how to burn.” You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear, huffing before biting on it. “And you know how to freeze.” The night was long, the battle unrelenting. Dominance was traded like a weapon, each of you testing, taking, yielding only when it served to heighten the war. And when the fire finally settled, the echoes of your conquest still lingered in the dim candlelight.

By the time the storm settled, the battle waged between sheets instead of steel, you lay beside her, breath uneven, skin alight with the remnants of war. She turned her head, golden eyes glinting in the dim light, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You fight well,” she murmured, voice husky. You exhaled, the ghost of a smirk playing on your own lips. “I always do.”

The following morning, the field was alive with the sound of steel and the march of disciplined boots. Warriors stood in formation, clad in dark armor bearing the sigils of their legions. The air was thick with the scent of iron and anticipation as banners of Noxus waved under the pale morning sun. You stood at the head of your elite force, each soldier a hardened veteran trained in precise, calculated warfare. Their discipline was absolute, their loyalty unwavering. They were an extension of your will, your strategy made manifest. Across from you, Ambessa led her own warriors, a force known for their sheer power and relentless brutality. They stood as fierce as their commander, a stark contrast to your own legion’s quiet control. Your eyes met Ambessa’s from across the ranks. The embers of your argument from the night before still smoldered beneath the surface, but there was something else—a silent acknowledgment, a respect forged in conflict. She inclined her head slightly, a smirk barely visible beneath the morning light. You gave nothing in return, your gaze unreadable, your posture rigid with authority. Then, with the signal given, the march toward the enemy camps began. Side by side yet divided, fire and ice rode into battle once more.

A/N: And, that's a wrap! I guess? I think? I don't know, let me know what you think though. As for any updates I might do, or works I can publish, I have no schedule as I have my college semester up my ass. I only really write when I have the chance to :"))

Again, thanks for reading!

[daxe]

wonder what the doctrine of signature believers made of this one

[invisible-goats]

sympathetic magic: like attracts like, doctrine of signatures

unsympathetic magic: i throw a fairy at you and yell "get over it"

[nerdygaymormon]

Below are excerpts from the article:

Steven E. Snow, the emeritus general authority and former historian for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is a bit of an outlier...the St. George native remains a staunch Democrat and a passionate environmentalist.

As the faith’s historian from 2012 to 2019, Snow is widely credited with helping bring openness and transparency to the church history department. He helped shepherd to completion the Gospel Topics essays, which tackled some of the thorniest of the faith’s historical and doctrinal issues.

Snow’s other signature achievements include overseeing the publication of the landmark Joseph Smith Papers and “Saints,” the new multivolume narrative history of the church. With Snow at the helm, the history department also took over supervision of church historical sites, where he placed a premium on education over proselytizing.

His beloved wife of 52 years, Phyllis, died from post-COVID-related issues eight months ago.

I didn’t always see eye to eye with all the brethren on environmental and political issues, but I can appreciate that. I tried to listen and be respectful of their points of view and understand them. I appreciate where they are coming from.

What did you think about the now-abandoned policy of not allowing the children of same-sex parents to be baptized?

I was surprised by the policy and was quite delighted when it was reversed. … I thought it was unnecessary, and I think it caused unnecessary hurt during the time it was in place. I was pleased to see President Russell M. Nelson revoke it.

How do you feel about the way the church addresses LGBTQ issues?

The church is trying. I’ve been really pleased with President Dallin Oaks’ and others’ efforts to try to find common ground. That’s why this recent action they took with regard to [transgender individuals in] the [General] Handbook seemed a little off, based on what they have been trying to do.

It’s a very difficult place for them to be. President Oaks continues to talk about gays in his General Conference talks. It’s as if he wants to draw a bright line that this is the way it is and there is not going to be a relaxing of that policy. It seems to me, that is what he’s trying [to articulate].

I have two gay granddaughters who have left the church. It causes me great sadness that we don’t have a place for everyone. They feel like there is nothing there for them.

How does environmentalism inform your faith?

We are given this beautiful planet upon which to live. As simple as I can state it, we should take care of it. We ought to make it a better place than when we came. We have to leave it in better shape, and we’re not doing that.

[elminx]

Since I have seen a lot of posts about correspondences in witchcraft going around again, I wanted to stop for a minute and talk about how correspondences work and why you might want to make sure that you understand the correspondences you are using in your own craft.

This is likely an oversimplification, but I think that we can break down correspondences into three main categories:

Cultural Correspondences - these are often heavily steeped in the mythology and folklore of a particular region. They are often but not always correspondences of items found in that region. This is where correspondences become the most varied because, despite what you may have read in Those Bad Witchcraft Books, culture is not universal. A great example of this is that most Western cultures associate the color black with Death and Mourning but a lot of non-Western cultures have the same association with the color white. It stands to reason that this type of correspondence will work the best for you if you are sticking as close to the correspondences of the bioregion that you grew up in as possible (1) and that they will be most effective when used magically on somebody else from that bioregion (2).

Material Correspondences - these correspondences are based on the physical properties of the item in question. Some plants are edible, some medicinal, and some poisonous. Things with thorns can hurt you when you touch them. Quartz has high levels of electric conductivity. The idea here is that if Rosemary repels insects, it can be used in a banishment spell to repel that unwanted "insect" from your life. These are, in my opinion, the immutable correspondences - the item you are using will ALWAYS carry its physical characteristics with it into your magic. Spicy peppers will always be Hot and Burning, so-called "Weeds" will always grow tenaciously, and Sugar will always be Sweet. It is worth keeping in mind here that when using plants, the part of the plant may affect whether it carries that correspondence. Sometimes only one part of the plant carries a particular property - consider the difference between the sweet scent of rose petals that we use in love spells versus the sharp thorn that would be better used for protection. 3. Sympathetic Correspondences - The base concept behind sympathy is that two things that are alike in some way share a connection with one another that can be harnessed magically. The more alike that two things are, the deeper the connection. There are many ways that this is used in magic. A lot of herbal correspondences involve sympathy through the Doctrine of Signatures. This is the thought process that anything shaped like an ear can be used to affect ears/hearing magically. The Doctrine of Signatures gets rolled in a little bit with Cultural Correspondences as it is heavily rooted in Western herbalism, but it deserves a mention on its own. Another way that sympathetic magic makes its way into correspondences is the idea that an object from a particular place carries some of the energy of that place which can be harvested for magical intent. You see this in the use of bank dirt in money spells or cemetery dirt in baneful magic. This is also where Holy water, moon water, and stormwater come into play - here we are assuming that something that has been done to the water (being blessed by a priest, charged in the moon, or collected during a storm) carries an inherent energy that can be then transferred to your spell. Depending on your viewpoint, you may or may not agree with the concepts of sympathetic magic.

And that's the whole point of this. Witchcraft, as a whole, isn't the sort of path where you are supposed to proceed based entirely on blind faith. If you're flipping to a certain page in Scott Cunningham's infamous Green Book and finding the first money herb you come across to use in a spell, you are probably doing yourself a disservice. I suggest that you look closer. Not only will the physical correspondence change how your spell manifests (I've written about this before) but you may find that you don't even BELIEVE or AGREE with that correspondence at all. And maybe that's not important to you (but if that's true, why are you even reading this?). But I suggest that it should be. That understanding of a correspondence deepens your connection with the energy of the item you are looking to use. Moreover, exploring it further may give you all sorts of juicy ideas for spellwork to augment that energy.

Do you like my work? You can support me by tipping me on Kofi or purchasing an astrology report written just for you.

[byeashhh]

⛧ ┊In Nomine Domini Nostri Satanae

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Secondo x Fem! Reader ⚠︎ MDNI. 18+. ADULT CONTENT. ⚠︎

Part 2

author's note: if you guys want more / want this continued.. let me know. i had so much fun writing secondo, hopefully he isn't too OOC. translations offered at end of text <3

content: nsfw, explicit content, satanic religious themes, blasphemy, sub/dom dynamic, restraints, power imbalance, improper use of sacred symbols, male receiving

. . . .

The quill scratched softly across parchment, the only sound in the cavernous hush of Secondo’s office.

Behind the heavy oak desk, flanked by towering bookshelves and veiled candelabras, Secondo worked in near silence. The only illumination came from flickering beeswax candles—rows of them lined the stone walls like faithful sentinels. Shadows crept along the ceiling, dancing in time with the flicker of the flame, but nothing dared to disturb him. A brass pendulum clicked in the corner. A relic. Accurate to the second. Just as he preferred.

He dipped the quill again, ink the color of dried blood staining the edge of a parchment labeled DOCTRINAL REVIEW – RITUAL VIOLATIONS – INTERNAL. His signature—sharply elegant—marked the bottom with a final, decisive stroke.

He leaned back, fingers laced together in thought. The leather of his gloves whispered as he flexed his hands once, then placed them neatly on the desk. His mismatched eyes flicked to the unlit incense burner. Cold. Just like the office tonight.

A knock broke the stillness. Delicate. Two beats. Not hesitant—but measured. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed like judgment in the silence. She stood in the center of Secondo’s office—no, sanctuary—where velvet curtains muted the moonlight, and candles bled shadows across the walls. The scent of myrrh and aged paper mingled with something darker, something undeniably him.

Secondo didn’t look at her. Not yet. He knew she was there, of course.

He reached for another scroll, dipped the quill again. "Seven minutes late," he said evenly, as he drew a line across the top of the parchment. “Your reverence for the schedule continues to disappoint.” his voice low and patient like a storm waiting to break She could feel his gaze even when his eyes remained fixed on the parchment before him.

He wanted her to feel that silence. To stand there, uncertain under his scrutiny even before he laid eyes on her.

Seconds passed.

When he finally did lift his head, it was slow- calculated. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint curl at the corner of his mouth. Her breath caught, but she bowed her head, hands clasped in front of her habit. “Forgive me, Papa.” He rose from the high-backed chair, robes rustling like dry leaves, and circled the desk with a predator’s grace. His gloves glinted in the candlelight, smooth and merciless. “I’ve given you leniency,” he said, stepping close—too close. “And what have you done with it? Tardiness. Disobedience. Sloppiness in your rituals.” “I—” she began, but his hand caught her chin, tilting her face up sharply. “No interruptions,” he hissed, voice like silk drawn over a blade. “You speak when I allow it.” She swallowed. Her knees threatened to buckle, not from fear—but from the way his command sank into her bones like sacred wine.

“I take no pleasure in reprimands,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “But discipline is holy, is it not? Submission is purity. And you, mia piccola peccatrice* … you need to be cleansed.” The glint in his eyes was anything but kind. There was reverence there— but it was the kind that burns down idols to remake them in fire.

“On your knees.”

She obeyed.

The stone floor was cold beneath her knees, but she welcomed it—deserved it. The hem of her habit pooled around her ankles, but she didn’t move to adjust it. She didn’t dare. Secondo remained standing above her, the candlelight casting long, commanding shadows behind him. He said nothing for a long moment. Simply looked down at her, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable.

"Brava*," he murmured at last. "At least your knees remember what they’re for." The words were cruel, but the heat behind them coiled low in her belly. Her breath hitched. He could hear it. He always heard everything. He circled her slowly, the click of his polished boots echoing softly around the stone chamber. Like a predator evaluating his prey— not for weakness, but for potential. For obedience. For willingness to be shaped.

"You carry our Lord's sigil on your chest," he said, voice cold and reverent as scripture. "You speak His names. But I wonder…" His gloved fingers trailed over her veil, down her shoulder, where he paused—gripping. Tight. Controlling. "Do you understand what it means to submit? Or have you merely been performing devotion like a role in one of Papa Primo’s operas?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but froze. His hand tightened. Just enough. "No interruptions, piccola*. I’ve already warned you once." She nodded, breath shallow. Her heart beat wildly under the smooth satin of her uniform. The way he looked at her—through her—felt like judgment carved into flesh.

He came to a stop before her again and held out one hand. "Hands," he commanded, and she raised them without hesitation. He took her wrists in his gloved grip, inspecting them as if appraising something he might discard. Then, deliberately, he slid a rosary from his robes. Matte black. Silver crucifix, inverted.

"For penance," he said simply.

With clinical efficiency, he bound her wrists together, the beads digging into her skin just enough to mark. "You wear sin like perfume," he murmured, voice low and dark. "And you like the way it clings to you. But in this room, I define holiness. I determine what is sacred. And you—"

He leaned down then, mouth close to her ear, breath warm and steady. "—you are mine to sanctify."

She shivered.

He stepped back, admiring her: on her knees, hands bound in rosary, eyes lowered in reverence—or fear. It didn’t matter. He had her. "And now, cara mia*, you will show me just how devoted you are to your Ministry."

Her bound hands rested in her lap, rosary beads pressing into tender skin with every pulse of her heartbeat. Secondo stood before her in silence, the weight of his presence crushing in its stillness. His gaze swept down, sharp as consecrated steel, and he tilted his head as if examining the posture of a relic placed improperly on an altar.

Then, without a word, he turned his back to her. The dismissal was not mercy. It was calculation.

He returned to the incense burner and, with methodical precision, struck a match. The scent of frankincense flared and bled into the room, heady and ancient, wrapping around them like a ritual shroud. As the smoke curled upward, so too did the tension. Electric. Sacramental. Secondo murmured a Latin phrase—low and reverent—before turning back to her.

He approached slowly.

“You kneel before me like a penitent,” he said, hand reaching out, fingers sliding along her cheek. “But is it repentance… or hunger that keeps you on your knees?” His thumb dragged over her lower lip—slow, possessive. Her breath stuttered against it. “You want absolution,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “But first, you’ll offer devotion.” She nodded quickly, lips parting to speak.

He tsked. “No.” The word hit like a commandment etched in stone.

“You don’t speak unless I allow it,” he repeated. “And if you disobey me again, I will remind you that pain is also a sacred tool of the Clergy.” She looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy in the flickering light. He smirked at the sight. Her need, her tension—it fed something deep in him. Something primal, dark, and perfectly in control.

"On your hands and knees," he said, stepping back.

She moved, slow and reverent. The rosary clinked faintly as she shifted her wrists. She bowed her head to the stone like it was holy ground. He circled her again, his robes brushing her as he moved, a dark star with her in obedient orbit.

“Così brava,” he murmured. “Look at you… willing to be remade. A vessel for obedience. A symbol of discipline.” He crouched beside her, his hand curling around the back of her neck, firm and grounding.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice thick with authority. “Say that you belong to me.” “I belong to you, Papa,” she breathed, barely able to speak under the pressure of the moment.

His fingers tightened. Pleased.

“Yes… yes. You belong to the Ministry,” he growled, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But through me. Your obedience, your submission, your pleasure—it all passes through my hands. And tonight…” He bit down—sharp enough to leave a mark just below her ear.

“…you are my sacrament.”

His breath was warm against her skin, but his tone was cold—commanding. Measured, like a prayer delivered from the pulpit with divine certainty. Secondo stood again, letting his fingers slide from her neck to her jaw. He tilted her head up until she looked at him, bound and trembling on all fours, the rosary tight against her wrists. Her lips were parted in reverence. Anticipation.

His eyes narrowed. “I wonder,” he murmured, reaching into the folds of his robes with slow precision, “if your mouth is as obedient as your knees.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t dare. But her gaze never left him.

He moved closer, letting the hem of his vestments brush her shoulder. The scent of incense clung to his skin, his clothes—holy and heavy, like smoke after a ritual fire. The air between them was thick with silence, but charged.

He unfastened a clasp, then another.

"You will not touch," he said. "You will not rush. You will offer your devotion slowly, as one offers prayers at the altar—carefully, reverently, on your knees." He guided her forward by the chin, his gloved hand resting lightly there—not restraining, not forcing.

Permission. That was the power. And still, he made her wait.

“Show me, mia peccatrice*, that you know what it means to serve.”

She leaned in, breath shaking, lips parting. And he watched her—every inch of movement, every flicker of hesitation and hunger written across her face. “Così brava*…” he murmured again. Her breath hitched as she leaned forward, his words settling over her like ash after a burning sermon. The folds of his robe parted just enough for her to see—an offering made sacred not by softness, but by control. She could feel him watching.

Her lips brushed against him— tentative, reverent. And in response, his breath drew sharp through his nose as her tongue ran along the vein on the underside of his thick shaft. "Slower," he said, his tone almost disapproving. "You’re not devouring a feast. You are worshiping."

She obeyed, her movements careful. Her lips moving to encase the swollen head within her mouth, her tongue swirling around the circumference before flicking at the slit. Slowly, she took him deeper into her mouth until she began to work with half of the length he had to offer.

A groan slipped from him then, low and contained, like it had been dragged from somewhere deep, unwilling. He finally looked down. One gloved hand slid to the back of her head, resting there— not forcing, not guiding. Just possessing. A symbol of ownership. A tether.

His fingers curled into the veil where it met her scalp. “Brava… così brava*,” he breathed, his voice rough now, losing its cold edge. “Do you feel it? This is your place. Not as a Sister of Sin… not even as a follower. But as mine.”

She moaned softly in answer, the sound vibrating his throbbing cock and that made his grip tighten. She felt his control waver, just for a moment. Just enough to know she’d pleased him. And still, he didn’t allow her to rise. Didn’t rush. The ritual was not complete. That singular groan and waver in control gave her more reason to continue her movements. Her head bobbing back and forth as her eyes, half lidded, looked up at him like he was her unholy lord.

“Guarda che bella creatura*,” he whispered above her, almost to himself. “On your knees… rosary on your wrists… my name on your tongue. So pure in your desecration.”

Her devotion was slow, steady—measured in breath and obedience.

Secondo’s hand tightened in her hair, just slightly. Not to correct her. Not to guide. Simply to claim. His head tilted back. The scent of frankincense hung thick in the air, smoke curling around them as though the act itself summoned it.

Every muscle in him was taut, coiled like a bowstring stretched to its final inch. He’d held his composure longer than he had intended. Too long. Her pace and her restraint was perfect. Too perfect.

“Sì…” he hissed through clenched teeth, the word barely more than breath. “You do understand now…”

She looked up at him, lips parted around reverence itself.

“Look at you,” he growled, the cadence of a final prayer rising in his chest. “Knees on stone. Mouth full of sin. My perfect little penitent.”

His hips jerked slightly, grip tightening in her hair as his breath caught.

Then—Stillness.

For one long, taut moment, everything stopped. The candles flickered in a draftless room. The incense smoke froze mid-spiral. Even the pendulum in the corner seemed to hesitate.

Then— release. A sharp exhale. A groan dragged from somewhere far beneath the liturgical calm he wore like a second skin as rope after rope of built up tension began to shoot down her throat, the remaining few ropes, dribbling onto her tongue.

She felt his surrender— earned, not given. And still, he held her. Still, he did not let her rise.

Seconds passed. The only sound was his breathing, slowing in time with the pendulum.

Click. Click. Click.

At last, his hand slid from her veil. Her tongue dragging up his now softening shaft as he pulled out with an obscene noise

He looked down at her with something almost fond. Almost.

“Keep your knees on the floor,” he said softly. “Your penance is not over.”

She nodded, lips still wet with the remnants of devotion.

“Brava,” he murmured again, tucking himself back in before shifting his robes back into place with ceremonial precision. “You’ve pleased me tonight, piccola peccatrice*.” He stepped back, the distance not cold— but deliberate. “You may pray now,” he said, voice once again smooth and composed. “Pray that I choose to bless you again.” And then he turned his back to her, returning to the desk, as though nothing had happened at all. ────────── TRANSLATIONS; mia piccola peccatrice - my little sinner brava- good piccola - baby cara mia- my dear Così brava- so good mia peccatrice- my sinner Guarda che bella creatura- Look at what a beautiful creature Sì - yes piccola peccatrice- little sinner

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Aphrodisiacs

The Greek Goddess of Love, Aphrodite, lends her name to an extensive list of foods and other weird and wonderful items that are supposed to increase the libido and enhance the chances of seduction and therefore fecundity.

The issue of fertility has always been an overriding concern for humankind, and any substance that either enhances sexual prowess or increases the chance of conception has always been highly sought after.

Ancient man had a limited seasonal diet, and a bad hunt or the failure of a crop could literally be a life-or-death matter. Getting enough food to eat was an overriding concern.

Chances of fertility are restricted if nourishment is poor, and so certain foods were given magical powers in the hopes that they might increase both male and female potency despite the limited diet.

There is a marked differentiation between the foods that increase fertility versus the ones that enhance sex drive, and given that early man did not know about the chemical constituents of food, many aphrodisiacs were chosen as such primarily because of their symbolic significance.

The Doctrine of Signatures—the notion that a plant or a feature of an animal that is similar in appearance or quality to a body part could be beneficial to the organ it resembles—had an important part to play in deciding which foods had aphrodisiac qualities.

Example: The Rhinoceros Horn still carries a frisson as a stimulant to sexual appetites, as does Spanish Fly. Both these ingredients, sort of mystical precursors to Viagra, were ingested by men in eager anticipation of increased virility.

Pliny the Elder and Dioscordes documented many of these aphrodisiacs as far back as the 1st century, and it is likely that they would have been regarded as such for some time prior to this.

The behavior and lifestyle of certain animals made them fertility symbols, too:

Example: The sparrow, a prolific breeder, was sacred to Aphrodite and its blood was a popular ingredient in love potions.

Steak was thought to contain all the virility of the animal it came from, the bloodier the better.

Ground rhinoceros horn is symbolic of the libido but the power of the rhino is also perceived as the ultimate in male sexual energy.

This ancient, visceral belief in the power of appearances has meant that many of the original foods that were considered to have aphrodisiac powers by ancient man still carry the same meanings today, despite their actual chemical constituents.

It is true to say that certain foods actually do have aphrodisiac powers purely because of these old beliefs, and generally owe more to folklore and symbolism than to fact; however, a symbol is a potent force and often the association alone is enough to bring about the desired effect.

Example: A dinner date where oysters and strawberries are on the menu will leave no doubt about the intended conclusion to the evening.

To our ancestors, any kind of food that resembled the penis, the vagina, or constituent parts thereof, carried powerful suggestive meanings, although latterly our ability to analyze certain minerals and trace elements has proven that some supposedly aphrodisiac foods may actually deserve their reputation.

Example: The fifty oysters that Casanova reputedly managed to swallow every day for breakfast not only resemble the female sexual parts in scent, texture, and form, but it has also been discovered that their high zinc content may indeed help enhance the libido; a large proportion of zinc is spent when men ejaculate.

For ancient man it was not always necessary for the foods to be eaten for them to have the desired effect. Some of the weird and wonderful things considered to have aphrodisiac qualities were toxic, but could work their magic simply by close proximity.

Example: The berries of mistletoe were a reminder of the semen of the Gods and the little crosses on the undersides were kisses, but it would be unwise to eat them.

Seeds, nuts, bulbs, and eggs, because they are full of potential new life, were considered as aids to fertility; snails, too, were considered to enhance sexual appetites because of the viscous fluid of the trails they leave behind, although slugs are not considered to have any aphrodisiac qualities whatsoever.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ List of Aphrodisiacs

[cryptotheism]

There are many points in my readings of Jung where he will describe a theory of the mind or society, and I will go "hey wait a minute, this is the medieval doctrine of signatures. Jung clearly also knows this is the medieval doctrine of signatures, so why isn't he mentioning that to the audience?" It begs a lot of questions!

[notablenotions]

Ma-Chapter 3

Radzig watched from the high tower window, arms folded, jaw tight. Below, the forge’s smoke curled like ghost-breath into the grey Bohemian sky.

He had set that forge just outside the keep walls—not too near to draw questions, but close enough that he could, from this perch, watch Henry hammer away. His boy. Not that anyone could know it.

To the world, Henry was Martin the blacksmith’s son. And Anna—sweet, brave, sun-warm Anna—was Martin’s lawful wife. And Martin, gods bless the fool, played the role better than Radzig ever could.

It had been a choice: titles over truth. Power over parenthood. A decision to sheath fatherhood in silence so his boy would never starve or bleed as he once had. Let the boy live in the shadow of a lie if it meant he lived at all.

But now Henry was ten. And his shoulders were growing broad. And his laughter, when it echoed up to this tower, cut sharper than any sword.

Radzig pressed his knuckles to the cold stone sill. Had he done right?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots—no, a frantic stomp—and the door slamming open.

“Ziggy!”

Sir Hanush of Leipa, Radzig’s old war comrade and long-suffering friend, strode in, alarmingly sober and breathless.

“Tell me you’re decent,” Hanush panted.

Radzig arched a brow. “Only in law and doctrine.”

Hanush slapped a wrinkled, sticky parchment onto the nearest table. It bore the king's seal. And a faint smell of plum jam.

“They broke into the king’s writing room,” Hanush said. “Used his own parchment. And his bloody ink.”

“Ballsy.”

“Deranged. Read it.”

Radzig did. His face twitched.

“This is a threat."

“A threat with pastry-based demands. Look at the signature.”

Radzig tilted the page. “'General Peaches.'” He exhaled. “With a drawing of... a peach in armor?”

“They want a negotiation. At Erhart of Kunstadt’s old estate. You remember Erhart.”

“Death on horseback,” Radzig muttered. “He vanished after his wife died. No one mentions him.”

“Which, as we both know, means it’s probably a cursed swamp now.”

Radzig sighed. “Fine. Saddle the horses. Bring something to bribe lunatics. Almonds, maybe.”

---

Erhart’s keep looked like a forgotten ruin. The battlements crumbled like old bread. No guards. No banners. Just moss, quiet, and bad omens.

“I’m getting buried-alive feelings,” Hanush muttered.

The doors opened with the soft scrape of wood and doom.

And then she appeared.

Small. Five, maybe six. Blonde curls stuck out in all directions, wrangled by a crude circlet made of wildflowers, chicken bones, and rusted coins. Her face was moon-pale, cheeks flushed from activity or outrage. She wore a noble girl’s dress dyed in such violently clashing colors it could have triggered seizures. A single ragged doll dangled from her hip like a squire’s sword.

Her hands were on her hips. She scowled.

“You the misters the king sent?”

Hanush coughed. “Er. Yes.”

“He must be desperate,” she said, unimpressed. “You look like boiled pigs in a bishop's wig.”

Radzig opened his mouth to object. She cut him off with a wave.

“Come on. Be quiet. Papa’s resting. Again.”

They followed her through cold halls where light dared not linger. Staff skirted them like they were ghosts. The nursery they entered was more command tent than playroom.

One small table. Three child-sized chairs. One doll.

Commander Buttons: A bear with its face half-burnt off, stitched with red thread, a shard of mirror in one paw. "He sees everything," Jitka said, tone low. "Even in dreams."

She gestured to the table. “Sit. Or he’ll be offended.”

Radzig stared at the doll.

Hanush, already pale, sat.

Radzig followed, muttering a prayer.

Jitka dropped two lopsided crowns made of wire and feathers onto their heads. “We follow protocol in this house. Even the mad do.”

Then, the demands:

1. Her father's full pension.

2. A public feast in his honor.

3. Ten lemon cakes.

4. Commander Buttons wants a new eye. Not a fake one. A real one. Human preferred.

Radzig blinked. “That’s not happening.”

Jitka tilted her head slowly, like a wolf cub gauging wind. “Oh. Then we’ll have to renegotiate... with the goat files.”

Hanush cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could lower the lemon cake count, Your Ladyship?”

She stared at him. “Perhaps you could stop sweating like a pig in church.”

He flushed.

“Do you always cry when a little girl insults you, or just when you feel your failure as a knight press in on your cabbage-smelling shoulders?”

Hanush made a high, wheezing noise and looked away.

Radzig stood. “Enough. This is absurd! You’re five. This doll is terrifying. We’re not signing anything until I know where you’re getting your information.”

Jitka smiled. “From my dollies.”

“That is not—”

“They listen. Especially Commander Buttons. He’s been under the tables.”

She slid a scroll across the table. Radzig unrolled it. His own signature. In a brothel ledger.

Then another. Hanush. And a bottle of ink.

Then a map. Annotated. Personal guard rotations. Hunting schedules. Who in court was secretly sleeping with whom.

Radzig sat back. “How...”

“My dolly told me.”

He signed. Hanush signed. They didn’t ask about Operation Gooseberry.

---

Radzig visited the keep once more, weeks later. It was dusk. The torches burned low. Erhart waited for him in the chapel, kneeling before a broken statue of Saint George.

His eyes were sharp for once. Lucid. Desperate.

“Ziggy,” he said, voice thick with age and madness. “You have to take her.”

Radzig shook his head. “Erhart, she’s your daughter—”

“I nearly drowned her,” Erhart said, staring at the altar. “Last week. Thought she was... something else. My mind is going, Radzig. The walls whisper. The past crawls. But she... she listens. Too much.”

He grasped Radzig’s arm with strength he shouldn’t have had. “They’ll use her. My kin. The nobles. She’s clever, too clever. They’ll feed her lies and cut her to fit a dress. You can protect her. She respects you. Somehow.”

Radzig swallowed hard.

He knew what it meant for a man to give a child away. Knew the cost.

He said nothing. Only nodded.

---

She didn’t cry when Radzig came for her.

She simply looked at her doll. Then at him.

“Commander Buttons says you’re decent.”

She climbed onto his horse without another word.

In the months that followed, she refused to sleep anywhere but his armchair. She followed him like a Duckling so he called her that. Asked questions he never expected. Learned faster than she should.

One night, half-asleep in the chair beside his desk, she mumbled,

“Goodnight, Ziggy.”

He grunted. But he didn’t correct her.

She called him that ever after.

She became his daughter. By fate. By fire. By some godsdamned divine joke.

---

Moving a bit away from history for writing purposes enjoy :)