#stone -> copper -> iron

[spaciebabie]

I so agree on the copper update being a great addition. It’s good for aesthetic and coolness AND it has two useful gameplay mechanics (the copper golem and the tools+armor)

nods yep yep! i saw a video breaking down how copper tools/weapons compared to iron and stone and the like and tbh b/c diamond is so powerful i wouldnt mind if they buffed iron a bit so that copper fit more neatly inbetween the different tools.....as of now with the way the snapshots are looking stone and copper are still a bit too similar for people to want to use them instead of stone methinks

[thesilicontribesman]

Craig Celynin Ancient Landscape, nr. Rowen, Conwy Valley, Wales

[vee-more-afraid]

dont get me wrong im still very critical about Mojang's continued use of 'golem' as the term for their constructed mobs, given their history of antisemitism and Minecraft being made by known antisemite Notch, especially in conjunction with giving all of them the big-nosed villager face BUT COPPER GOLEM RETURNS!! HE'S SO CUTE I NEED THEM!! AND HE SORTS YOUR STUFF!!!!

[oennpellmell]

Since people are sharing. Why not adding more :)

This is why I read the reddit comments

[nanamiskentos]

✶ 𝗝𝗨𝗗𝗔𝗦 (𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗜 𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗢) ── ryomen sukuna (両面宿儺

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 ── After Gojo’s death and the collapse of the jujutsu world, you were taken, not killed, by the King of Curses. Sukuna decided you were to remain at his side, whether you liked it or not. Now, you spend your days silent and simmering, trapped in an estate built on ash and bone. And you hate Ryomen Sukuna. Hate the way blood perpetually follows him, streaking the wooden floors. You also try to pretend that you don't spend your nights with fantasies of the rough grip of his inked hands on your hips.

𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 ➤ Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 ── Enemies to Lovers, Sukuna Won AU • Incorrect Jujutsu/Domains lore • MDNI [mastúrbation, creámpie, máting press, dp!Sukuna, CÓNSENSUAL c/nc but if dark romance makes you uncomfortable, please be wary!] • Jujutsu canon universe, mentions of blood, injury and violence, True Form Sukuna

𝗪𝗖 ── 5.4k

You had been dragged through the wreckage, head throbbing, and flanked by two low-grade curses. Their knobby hands clamp around your elbows like damp stone, claws digging just deep enough to sting in the thin winter air.

The atmosphere is ash-choked, acrid as it burns the lining of your nose.

Above, the sky bleeds a violent shade of red, seeping like an infected wound. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell tolls in a cruel and ceremonial mockery.

You’re not even sure where you are. Maybe this is the ancient heart of jujutsu, the city of Kyoto.

Or perhaps, you’re still stranded in the remains of Gojo’s battlefield, the ruins of Shinjuku.

The curses drag you forward until your knees slam against rough stone. Pain blooms ferociously as your chin knocks downward, gravel grinding into your teeth, and the sharp warmth of iron blooms on your tongue.

“Careful,” one of the curses chitters, reprimanding his companion. The curse has a voice like cracked clay, digits digging deeper into your tired bicep, “Sukuna wants her in one piece. I don’t fancy being flayed for messing up.”

You don’t bother speaking, not even as the sliding doors creak open behind the bone-white torii gate. The air shifts, with cursed energy curling outwards like heavy smoke, thick with the scent of incense and firewood. There’s a sweetness to it, beneath the copper tang of dried blood.

As a sorcerer, you understand that Domains are complicated. Half-real, and half-willed into existence. A metaphysical pocket carved into space.

Over the centuries, countless sorcerers had likely gone mad trying to decipher whether a Domain was tangible or simply a trick of the five senses.

Had things been different, had you not been dragged before a victorious King of Curses, you might have pondered the estate’s nature too. Because it felt real, too solid and too grounded in the bones of the world to be an illusion.

The throne room is dim, and lanterns glow behind crimson silk shades, casting slow-moving shadows over the floors. Despite your tired eyes, it’s hard to miss the striking architecture, dark wood beams and protective spells dangling from the rafters, parchments swaying like ghosts.

Of course, the King of Curses mars the decadent view. All four of his thick arms are draped along a throne, an ivory structure that bears the dull, dried appearance of charred bone.

His bare chest gleams, ridged with muscle and heatless sweat. Rings glint on his fingers, gold and dried sinew, as long, obsidian nails tap lazily against the throne’s edge.

Your gaze drops, instinctively. The lower arms twitch in an almost restless, feline manner. You could almost get lost in the hypnotic vision, were it not for the flash of memory. Gojo Satoru’s corpse, bisected on the snow-dusted pavement of Shinjuku.

Ryomen Sukuna is a monster, make no mistake.

The upper corner of his mouth lifts, but not in a smile. It’s a barbed expression, something more fang than good-will. His voice cuts through the thick air like molten stone, low and mocking, “Kneeling already?”

Your jaw clenches, as an aching pain blooms behind your ears, scorching your temples, while defiance stings your tongue, “Dragged here, actually. Don’t act so surprised.”

Sukuna’s laugh thrumbles through the chamber, dry and humourless like a sour thunderclap, “Still got that mouth.” The King of Curses is musing, head tilting just slightly as dawn-pink hair ripples across his forehead, “Good. I was afraid you’d be broken.”

You lift your chin, dirt-streaked and trembling, “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Sukuna echoes, savouring your words slowly, like a promise, “Mhm. That will do.”

The thick fingers of his lower right-hand twitch, and one of the curses step back as though he has been charged. The other captor hesitates too long; cold grip still latched to your arm. He’s looking between you, his prisoner, and Sukuna, his lord.

A ripple of irritation flashes across Sukuna’s fine features, or at least, the half of his face that isn’t covered in thick, rough plates of hardened flesh, “You may leave us.” His tone leaves no room for suggestion, and the curses dissipate with a hiss.

The room falls into an odd silence. Stretching long enough for the pain to settle in, your knees aching, and arms burning with a tight strain. You feel as though your lungs and heart haven’t caught up from the constant tolls of countless battles. From Gojo’s sudden –

No, don’t go there.

Sukuna shifts, as the throne creaks beneath him as he leans forward, gaze glinting as he coos, “Look at you.” There’s something deceptively soft in his tone now, but it is not pity nor kindness. Curiosity, or hunger, you don’t quite know.

You feel the cursed energy rise as he steps down from the dais. It tightens the air like a noose around your neck. The ground seems to warp with each step he takes, and you can barely breathe through it.

There are ankles on him, coils of gold and iron, resting round the thick jut of tendons. He’s taking his time, not out of grace nor indulgence. And your eyes lift up against your will.

Sukuna is terrifying beautiful.

His face is inked in brutal brushstrokes. The markings carve along the sharp angles of his jaw, and his four eyes are concentric, rust-coloured, as they drag across your form, committing you to memory. But you try to look away, attempt to not track the split tongue that flickers over a fang.

But there’s a heat that coils in your gut anyway. Shameful in a way that makes your heart pound, and your stomach lurch.

Sukuna crouches before you soundlessly. Not a king. Not a god.

A beast.

One hand reaches forward. Not to strike, but to hold. Your chin is caught between a clawed thumb and finger, his touch calloused and searingly warm. Far too intimate, too wrong.

A long nail drags along your jaw, tracing a streak of dried blood, “Yours?”

“Does it matter?”

Sukuna hums, a low sound, almost pleased, “No.”

He gently wipes the blood away, before bringing his thumb to his mouth. Maroon eyes never break contact with yours, and you nearly recoil. Disgust curdles in your stomach, as Sukuna savours it.

You’re jerking back, a mere few inches, before his upper hands shoot out, catching your shoulders and yanking you back forward. Your body collides with his chest, the contact searing like a sharp brand.

“What’s the matter?” Sukuna murmurs, a furnace of air brushing hot against your cheek, “You forget? I did promise to not kill you.”

“Then what do you want?” You grit out, pain splintering behind your temples.

Sukuna’s eyes drop, trailing down your blood-slick chest. The bruises, and the grimy mess of the past few weeks clinging to you. The sorcerer’s gaze lingers where it clearly should not, and there’s a twitch of his reddened mouth as though he’s barely reining something in.

“Is it not obvious?” Sukuna’s voice is like velvet over a knife, “I would have you.”

You blink, “Me?”

It’s stupid, the way the jagged question leaves your lip. Weak, and reeling from both rage and disgust, and something far more traitorous that coils like fire beneath your skin.

“I would have you as my Queen,” Sukuna says easily, “By my side.”

You scoff, mostly to cover the very real pulse of panic that cracks through your ribs. But Sukuna only smiles wider, cruel in his manner, as his grip tightens. Your knees buckle.

“You think I would waste you?” Sukuna murmurs, dragging his lower hands reverently, slowly up your arms, “You fought harder than anyone.” A sneer flickering across his features as his lower lip juts, “Aside from Gojo Satoru, of course.”

Sukuna tilts your face upward, fingers cradling your jaw as if the King of Curses sees you as something fragile. Even worthy of worship.

But you know better, for Ryomen Sukuna does not believe in anything sacred nor holy.

“You made me bleed,” Sukuna muses thoughtfully, “And you are still strong. Still beautiful, even now.”

“You killed – ”

“Yes, yes,” Sukuna interrupts irately, “Spare me the weeping monologue. I killed them all.”

There is no guilt in his tone, no remorse. Your grief and fury is just another discarded page in the story he’s already rewritten.

“But you, I let live,” Sukuna leans in, voice dark and indulgent, “And you will thank me for it.”

You don’t ask what Sukuna does during the day. You don’t want to know.

It’s far easier that way, not wondering which cities lie burning beneath the horizon, or which shrines have been Sliced and Cleaved under the weight of his wrath and lazy hunger. You’ve long since stopped pretending the wind doesn’t carry ash through the open windows, or the sky hasn’t been a sickly, stagnant red for weeks.

Your days are now filled with things that mock comfort. Silk gowns in every shade of shadow, and blood. Combs and ribbons woven through your hair by silent handmaidens with cracked porcelain masks, and soot-darkened fingertips. You sleep on linens, in sprawling, ornate quarters, with no locks.

You hold to your resolve with a white-knuckled grip. You will not scream, nor will you give your husband the satisfaction of tears. And above all, you will not entertain Ryomen Sukuna in any form of conversation.

Especially not when, each night without fail, the King of Curses prowls into the dining quarters like a victorious beast, ivory robes loose, and rivulets of dried blood tacked to his chin. He slams his weight down beside you, all four arms sprawled, and thighs parted indecently, tearing into his food like it still writhes.

But he does not touch you.

Sukuna, for all his cruel jabs and leering glances, has yet to lay a clawed hand on you. It is a thought that you refuse to dwell long upon.

You eat in silence, and you certainly don’t flinch when Sukuna cracks bone in one hand and tosses the shards behind him. You try not to look at the second mouth on his torso, where the skin of his abdomen stretches into a grin.

You hate to admit it, but the icy little shadow trailing behind Sukuna, Uraume, knows how to make a damn good bowl of stew. Fragrant with green onion and wine, rich enough to cut through your ever-present nausea. You chew slowly, contemplatively, and make a mental note.

It might be worth befriending the sour, quiet bastard.

Maybe you could convince Uraume to slip something extra into Sukuna’s next meal. Not enough to kill him, because Sukuna is probably the sort to drink pond water for fun, but enough to leave him doubled over with a stomach-ache. The humbling image is amusing, and you can’t help the twitch of your lips.

“You’re quieter than usual, wife,” Sukuna drawls, tipping a goblet of wine to his lips. You ignore the thin rivulet of red that spills down his chest, straight into the waiting grin of his second mouth, “Not even a nasty look for me tonight?”

You focus on your stew. The heady wine, the sweetness of the fried onion. You’re chewing with purpose and stabbing chunks of beef with more force than strictly necessary. Imagining, quite vividly, what it would feel like to jab him instead.

If Sukuna notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s amused, “I look forward to that look, you know,” he murmurs, voice coiling like smoke around your spine, “The one that says you expect me to be grateful you’re here, instead of finding a knife in my ribs.”

You glare into your bowl, slicing meat carefully. You don’t reply.

“That’s the one,” Sukuna laughs, low and rolling, like distant thunder in this broken world.

You jolt when one of his lower hands, the left, reaches for you. Slow, deliberate. It tilts your chin, and you yank back before his grip can tighten. The woven mat beneath you shifts sharply as you stand, breath catching in your throat.

You’re not sure what to say.

Don’t talk to me?

That would be a pointless command, for Sukuna is the only one in this cursed estate with a voice. The others only click and twitch, nodding as if you’re supposed to understand their insect-like chatter.

Don’t touch me?

That one’s worse. That one stings. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and expose the awful, shameful truth.

You can’t bring yourself to say that either.

The rooms have been quiet these past few weeks. Lonely, and lately, far too often, you’ve finished with your own slick fingers buried between your thighs.

Chasing the ghost of ivory hair and blue eyes, and furiously flushing as the image gave way to inked sun and rippling, inked muscles.

And Sukuna, perceptive as he is, seems to know this. He watches you, head titled. Not angry, nor offended. Curious, in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“I like it when you talk back,” Sukuna finally says, voice low. His upper arms drape lazily over the back of his cushion, while his lower hands rest on his thighs, talons twitching like a predator biding its time, “But your body betrays you.”

Sukuna grins, fangs peeking out beneath a wine-red mouth, as though he’s aware of the slow, sticky throb beneath your fine robes, “I wouldn’t have needed Six Eyes to tell me that.”

You spin to leave, with the words blooming on your tongue, detailing exactly what you think Sukuna should do to satisfy himself.

The door slams shut before you reach it, a thud of finality that vibrates up your spine. A pulse follows, not sound, nor touch. You realise it’s the own beat of your heart, thrumming hot.

You freeze.

Sukuna hasn’t moved, not a single inch, but his cursed energy spikes. It wraps around your ankles like invisible chains, slow and deliberate. Then it rises, serpentine and humming, up the backs of your calves, your thighs, blooming heat at the hinges of your knees.

You swallow. Hard. It isn’t painful. But it’s heavy, clinging to your pulse points like it knows you intimately.

“You think I do not notice?” Sukuna’s voice is a slow, scraping murmur, “The way you jolt when I enter. How your thighs press together when I speak. Odd, no? For one who detests me so much.”

You don’t dignify Sukuna with a response. But you don’t deny it, either.

Sukuna stands, towering and bare-chested. The memory of your first night here vividly strikes in your mind once more.

Beautiful, but monstrous.

Holy, but sacrilegious to all you’ve ever held dear.

And yet, so tantalising. You would be lying if you said that you had not spent cold nights in your soft bedding, aching to know the feel of thick fingers in you, ringed with dark ink.

“Say the word,” Sukuna lazily rolls a ring from one hand to the other, “You need only ask.”

His cursed energy is tight. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. Your back finds the edge of the long dining table all the same, breath caught as your knees brush carved wood. But Sukuna’s hands remain at his sides. He hasn’t touched you.

But his presence is everywhere.

You glare up at him, voice tight, “Coward. Can’t even touch me without your cursed tricks?”

That earns you a laugh. Low, rough and sharp-edged.

“You think I need to?” Sukuna steps closer, concentric eyes trained on the swan-arch of your neck, “This is still my form of mercy, wife.”

Sukuna lifts a single finger, just one. He runs a dark-tipped claw along the line of your throat. A gesture that could slice your carotid artery cleanly, should Sukuna become careless with the pressure he uses.

But there is no threat in his touch, and your knees buckle at the prospect of moving away.

“I can feel your heart,” Sukuna murmurs, and a snarl dies in your throat. Words meant to tear and strike, for Sukuna has no clue of what truly lies in your heart, for how can he know something he lacks? But it’s a weak retort, and you exhale as another hand rising to rest flat against your sternum, and Sukuna’s eyes narrow, “Here. Beating like a war drum.”

“I hate you,” you snap, voice finally battling it out of your throat.

Never let anyone say you aren’t consistent.

Sukuna smiles, slow. Wolfish, as he brings a third hand to tap at his temple, “Perhaps. Up there.”

But his mouth dips towards your cheek, and the heady scent of pepper and wood-smoke envelops your senses, as he continues, “But down here?”

The heat between your legs is heavy and throbbing, beading at the apex of your thighs.

You can feel it, and you know he does too.

Sukuna always knows.

The silence stretches, and it’s unbearable.

The King of Curses tilts his head, forked tongue flicking out, dragging up the side of your cheek in a long, filthy stripe. The gesture is warm, obscene.

You shudder, but it’s not revulsion that ripples through you. Just heavy, irrational arousal.

And then, so close to your ear that you can feel the air vibrate, “Did he taste you first?” Sukuna murmurs, “Before I killed him?”

Your stomach drops, and everything inside you goes still. Your hands coil up into dense fists, as you shove at his chest, with little avail.

“Fuck you! – ”

Sukuna catches your wrists before you can even land the second blow. Two of his strong, meaty hands pin your arms above your head. Cursed energy cinching around them like a velvet rope, as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Desperate for Sukuna to not hear a breathy sound escape your mouth, as you suddenly clench around nothing, and find yourself aching for some friction.

You’re spread against the wall now, held up as much by furious adrenaline, as by him. His knees part your thighs, but they don’t press. Not yet.

“Gojo Satoru,” Sukuna says, and the name falls quietly. Almost reverently, “Did he kiss this mouth?”

He brushes your glossy lips with his thumb. You resist the urge to sink your teeth into his hand.

“Did he fuck this cunt?”

Gojo hadn’t, despite what people assumed. He had been your friend, not your lover.

But Satoru had always wanted more, an eager, gentle and wide-eyed love that you should have given him.

And yet, here you were, pinned in the arms of the four-armed demon that brought him down. Wet and slick, pulsing and hungry for a monster’s touch.

Some little mercy.

Another hand hovers between your legs, a breath above the silk of your inner thighs. Not quite touching. Not yet.

Your jaw is locked, but your hips shift. Just once, bucking upwards for the smallest scrap of pleasure. Barely perceptible.

And he feels it. Of course he does.

“That is what I thought,” Sukuna mutters, “Think I am not finely attuned enough to every breath you take?”

His large, warm palm settles between your thighs. Not rough, nor forceful. Just there.

You flinch again, not from fear. From want. You want Sukuna to slowly drag the flesh of him palm further up, to brush up against where you ache for his touch the most.

“Think I do not hear how your body begs?”

You hate how true his words are. Your breath shudders when Sukuna leans in again, “Begging to be taken,” he whispers, “To be filled. To be ruined.”

A single flick of his callous thumb brushes silk, right over your swollen clit, pressing down.

You jolt, a sharp and involuntary sound leaving your throat. Half-started gasp, and half moan. That single huff of air hands in the space between you and your husband, and you’re not sure if it’s a trick of the low light, but the very tips of Sukuna’s ear glow a flushed and angry red.

“Say it again,” Sukuna whispers, and you’re taken aback at the sudden anger that tinges his voice, but it’s not directed at you. Anger at himself for becoming so affected by the merest taste of you, “Say that you hate me.”

You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood. But you don’t move.

Sukuna bites. Not deep, just enough.

Just enough to make you mewl, your spine arching off the wall as sharp teeth catch at your throat. Claiming, branding you as the wife of the King of Curses. The pain blooms for only a second before it melts into something darker, filthier.

You pant against his mouth, dizzy with the force of it. Some unreasonable part of you aches to push forward, to press your lips to his, to end this charade once and for all.

But Sukuna pulls back, and your arms fall limp as the cursed restraints vanish with a crimson whisper. You’re crumbling forward against the oak table once more, chest heaving and legs shaking. Your pulse beats furiously at your neck, just beneath the strategic imprint of his fangs.

The King of Curses watches you, with some undiscernible expression flickering across his face.

You certainly must appear dishevelled now, fine robes crumpled as you flush from cheek to chest. Lips parted, throat damp where his tongue and fangs left their mark.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you rasp, cursing the unsteady waver of your voice.

“Why not?”

Sukuna is already turning, always walking away, and you don’t miss the angry twitch in his broad shoulders, the red heat crawling over the nape of his neck. The door slides open with a hiss, as your husband looks over his shoulders, “I will return to the estate within three days.”

And then, Sukuna is gone.

Your puffy cunt throbs, miserable and neglected as you pinch your thighs together for some weeping friction.

You should have put that dining knife through his ribs when you had the chance.

You don't see Sukuna at meals. Nor in the halls. Not even in the cursed, rotting corners of the estate where his minions cling like ash in your lungs.

Ryomen Sukuna is gone, true to his word.

Off hunting, off killing, off doing whatever it is that makes him a happy, smug prick.

And it irks you to no end. Not just your moral dilemmas with Sukuna's hobbies, but the fact that you've been waiting. For his voice, for his touch, for the rasp of his breath against your throat.

Your fingers keep twitching with the phantom memory, of claws at your hips, of heat between your thighs, of your own body folding under him like it belonged there.

You hate how vividly you remember it. The last few nights you've spent, alone in your chambers, weren't spent sleeping at all. On your back, with your knees bent and parted, silks twisted around your thighs.

The touch of your own hand wasn't nearly as overwhelming or deep as you wished. You'd press your fingers in, curling them in search for some sweet spot and relief, but it was never the same.

The ache didn't go away. It only bloomed, dark and awful, curling in your gut like hunger. For Sukuna.

On the third night, the sunset drips molten red through paper walls. The light begins to cut your pacing shadow in half as you mutter ill, seething omens into the air. You tell yourself it's not about the King of Curses, that he hasn't gotten under your skin that badly.

It's the confinement, right? The stillness, the —

Snap!

A voice, all teeth and thunder, curls through the room, and if you didn't know better, you would have caught the faint surprise beneath the bored drawl, "My wife is still here, it seems."

You whirl, fury burning across your face. Fury, yes, for how dare he leaves you wanting and aching for a touch that should not be yours to claim.

But Sukuna is already pressing his mouth to yours.

There's no warning nor hesitation, just sheer collision. Sukuna's mouth crashes into yours like a war cry, two hands already in your hair, and another two settling at your waist. The force of him has you stumbling back, but Sukuna follows, devours, consumes.

It's not gentle, and it's certainly not kind. It's all him, brutal and overwhelming, tasting you like you're already his in every way imaginable.

You gasp into the kiss, but your hands are already clawing up his frame to rest in his blush-pink hair before you can think better of it. Yanking and clawing, your teeth clinking against his.

You can feel Sukuna's mouth against yours, curling into a half-sneer, and half-satisfied smile as you moan, nails sinking into the inked planes of his back, right as he begins to push you towards the floor.

"You missed me," Sukuna breathes against your lips, dragging his forked, split tongue over your bottom lip before biting, hard enough to make you squeal, "Say it."

"No."

"We will see."

Sukuna takes you to the polished floor, rough palms skimming up your thighs, making space for you scramble at the knot of your robes. But his patience seems to grow thin, and quite soon, dark claws are curling into the fine fabric, tearing clean through silk.

You're bare beneath him. Bare, and furious, and soaked.

Sukuna's mouth is everywhere. Searing heat down your jaw, your throat, between the valley of your breasts. Leaving bruising, blooming marks that make you stifle sharp gasps.

He laves his tongue over one pebbled nipple, and rolls it between his teeth, while a massive, calloused hand pins your wrists above your head.

Your hips buck up, needy and shameless, as you blindly grasp for the waistband on his loose, martial pants. There's a thick, curved jostle against your thigh already.

No, there's two.

You can feel them, one thick and low, pressing right where you need it. And the other cock dragging higher, riding the curve of your abdomen as Sukuna ruts against you, clearly chasing pleasure of his own, a cherry-red hue painted high across his furious scowl.

"I can't – I can't b-believe you."

"Oh, so you would wish for me to stop?"

Your legs are spread beneath him, thighs splayed wide as your weeping folds swell and throb, pearly drops of your arousal already feeling unbearably hot against the cool, evening air.

And you glare at your husband, cheeks flushed with the prospect of the ridiculous motion, "I didn't say that."

You catch a rough, half-coughed snicker from the King of Curses who shifts his weight, and with little forewarning, shoves the lower of his cocks right between your folds, sliding along the wet slit, hot and heavy.

You need not even glance down to comprehend the sheer size of him, the thick bulge that snags against your entrance.

You're keening as the wispy, heated head bumps into your glistening clit, then lower, as Sukuna drags his cock against your entrance, but not quite pressing in yet.

"You're already dripping for me," Sukuna hisses, watching the hypnotic slide of his cock being enveloped by your heaven-sent pussy, "Fuckin' perfect. You want it? Take it."

And you do, for you roll your needy hips, desperate, catching the head of his cock once more, right at your entrance.

"Beg."

You growl, wiggling your hips further down to try and ease at least one cock in, "Go to hell."

Sukuna's responding look is flat, exasperated even, as all four hands are grabbing your thighs, spreading them wide, holding you open for him like a feast, "I will take you there."

Nothing could have prepared you for the jaw-dropping stretch, the snug inches that are melded by your gummy walls.

You cry out, spine bowing off the floor, eyes rolling. Sukuna's huge, stretching you, splitting you open like you were made for him.

The second cock, thankfully, does not slip further, but instead, drags against your belly as he begins to set a steady pace within you, the obscene friction adding a devastating pressure just under your skin.

You can't breathe. Can't think. Can only feel.

Sukuna moves with mean intent, driving into you with maddening rhythm, hips crashing against yours. Your back arches, hands scrambling for purchase on his biceps, his shoulders, the floor, anything.

"You should see yourself," Sukuna snarls, fangs glinting in the low light. "Mouth open, legs shaking. Grindin' on my cock like a bitch in heat."

You moan, head falling back, body clenching around him. He feels it, groaning, dark and low, and shifting his angle just slightly. Thick head finding that rough, sweet patch that makes you whine.

Kissing that spot deliciously with every sticky thrust and smack of his hips against yours.

"F-fuck, S'kuna— !"

"That's it." He leans in, sweat beading on his brow, and it brings you decent satisfication to know that he looks just as ruined as you feel. Maroon eyes hazy, lips glossy and flushed, and pulled back into a handsome snarl, "You can get louder. Let her talk."

Sukuna's second cock is leaking translucent, creamy pre against your stomach now, the obscene slide of it adding to the slick mess between you.

He presses his broad chest down, grinding the upper cock against your skin while the lower one ruins you, thrust after thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

You're trembling, gasping, sweating. And you want to hate him. You do, right? Heady and cloying arousal floods your senses in quick, lightning-style jolts that claw at any rational thoughts peeking in at the edges.

Sukuna feels you clench again, and his brutal pace falters, just for a moment.

There's stringy strands of slick being pulled between your thighs and his hips, all while Sukuna grunts, brows furrowed, "So soon, wife?"

"F-fuck you."

Sukuna snickers, mouthing at the juncture between your throat and jaw, "You are."

Your climax tears through you like fire, sharp, bright, overwhelming. Your back bows. Your throat rips open on a cry as you clamp down around him, spasming, sobbing, soaking his cock with your release.

And Sukuna doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own end, voice ragged as he growls, "Gonna' take all of it? Every, last – fuck."

He slams in once more, deep and brutal. You feel it, everything. His cock throbbing inside you. The flood of warmth that fills you.

His second cock pulsing against your skin as he finishes, both of you trembling, writhing, lost.

Silence.

Heavy, sweat-slicked, tangled. He collapses over you, caging you with his body, still buried deep. And you're suddenly struck by the oddest comparison of your husband and a large, forest bear.

You're blinking up at the ceiling, chest heaving, and your legs still shaking. Your thighs sticky and spread, with drops of thick, opaque seed leakin' right out of your clenching cunt, smeared equally over Sukuna's abdomen.

You pretend not to notice that dastardly second mouth of his doing a right, determined job of cleaning the taste of both of you up.

"So," Sukuna rumbles, voice hoarse and smug, "Think you can take both?"

You let out a breathless laugh, eyelids heavy as you meet his challenging gaze. "What? You think I can't?"

His clever mouth twitches. One dark brow arches in challenge.

"Get on your back, husband."

And he does.

Wordlessly. Fluidly. Like he's been waiting for the command, and is still indulging you. You climb over him, the last of your strength curling into something sharp and hungry as your knees settle against the floor.

His hands find your waist. One of them slides up, slow, warm, steady, palm flattening over your stomach. The claws are gone. Blunted. Gentle.

Neither of you says a word about it.

[toiletchants]

Traditional Exterior Inspiration for a huge timeless beige two-story stone exterior home remodel with a hip roof

[metenee]

Beach Style Landscape An example of a mid-sized coastal full sun front yard brick driveway in spring.

[ilium-ilia]

kiss the skin that crawls

john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au | masterlist

part one: help wanted

It starts with the shattering of iron. 

Manmade structures can only withstand the test of time for so long before nature swallows what was once hers. Arms growing, invading, reclaiming what was stolen. You’re very much aware that you are the problem as you stand in your bathroom, eyes glaring at your clogged shower drain, yet you only pity yourself. 

Tree roots, the plumber says. Common with these old houses, an old cottage just on the fringes of nowhere and somewhere, something that was bequeathed to you when your granny passed. Its charm is quaint, though far from opulent, you took it in a heartbeat, excited to start your life as a true adult. Yet, after all these years, you’ve yet to find a partner to settle down with, or a job that pays you well enough to travel the world, and now you’re footed with a bill that reminds you just what it means to be an adult. 

You pick up more hours at work—as many as you can from a remote position, anyway. Tapping away on your computer, trying not to shiver too much from your drafty windows, you chip away at the cost bit by bit. Eating away decay. Willing it away in an attempt to have your dream home. You tear down the floral wallpaper in your office and coat it with a shade of green that reminds you of old copper—a patina that lingers on your fingertips—all while pretending that the bathroom sink isn’t leaking half your wells worth of water. You pretend that your drops in the ocean make a difference; a ripple large enough to feel. 

Of course, something else shatters. 

Ancient windows crack. The gap between the front door and its frame is too big. Electricity and gas blows through your bank account worse than groceries. You’ve cut your hands on the logs you tried to chop for the fireplace. When winter bleeds into spring and summer, the heat is unbearable—stuck in a furnace that cooks you, tender flesh and all, you are dying in this home. Alone, working to fix every chip that cracks from the stones that build your house; you need something more. A breakthrough, a promotion, a favor. 

Salvation presents itself to you on your third hour of browsing online forums and social media for odd jobs. Mind rotten from pyramid schemes and near slave labor, you almost miss the post entirely. Her name is Kate Laswell, and she has—perhaps—the oddest job of them all; a need for a surrogate for her and her wife. 

Initially, your eyes gloss over the post. Pregnancy is exhausting, and with the state your home is in, the last thing you need to do is get pregnant—lumbering around, swollen like a balloon, attempting to make renovations on your dilapidating cottage. If you were at any other time in your life—more settled, steadier—maybe you’d seriously consider it. 

All your qualms dissipate the moment you read the foot of the post. 

Compensation starts at £100,000.

The zeros are almost more than you can count—more than you can comprehend. It burns into your eyes, urging your fingers to twitch. How anyone could afford to pay this much is beyond you, but you suppose children are expensive either way; certainly it’s nothing to this woman and her wife. 

With that type of money, you wouldn’t even have to do the renovations yourself. 

After an evening of deliberating, you blindly decide to shoot off a private message to Kate Laswell. Her profile is odd—void, and blank. No pictures, hardly any posts. You tell yourself it’s likely a scam, and you’ll receive some sketchy link back from her during some odd hour in the night, if you even get anything in response at all. Yet when you wake in the morning, that pictureless account has sent you a message in response: 

We would like to speak with you in person. When can you meet? 

Stupidly, you meet with Kate and Lottie Laswell the following weekend deep in the heart of London in the cozy embrace of a coffee shop that does nothing to settle your nerves. Caffeine is thick in the air, nestling in the weaving of your clothes, sticking to your hair and skin. Though you’ve never seen Kate before, you recognize her instantly. Her stern, straightforward gaze beams at you from beneath her mousy brown fringe the moment you walk through the door, prompting you to awkwardly wave in greeting before she motions you over to the table. 

If Kate Laswell is the moon, then her wife, Lottie, is the sun. Her bright blonde hair scintillates, and it only grows in intensity in the sunlight that seeps through the perforated curtains drawn over the window on her right. Pale blue eyes framed by florid cheeks crease as you take your seat across from them, and you note the way she buzzes in her seat, hands politely folded on the table, manicured nails tapping against the wood grain at her fingertips. She tilts her head to the side, soaking you in, and her smile only widens. 

“It’s so nice to meet you.” Her voice is pitchy—draws long and soft. She’s American, you realize. Southern, you think. Blinking in surprise, you return the gesture. 

Though Kate is kind and cordial, she is much more business oriented than her wife. Once curt introductions are out of the way, she gets on with her questions. Her low, even tone and keen eyes have you sweating—this feels more like an interrogation than an interview. She asks everything about you, prodding the deepest part of you, poking your skin just to see how far she can push before you wince. Her questions about your health history and sex life come blunt, and it pairs oddly with Lottie’s airy giggles, but as the questioning drones on and you see more nods of approval from Kate, you find your nerves slowly mending themselves back together again. 

Eventually the questions fade into something softer—easier to spit out. Tastier to swallow. They ask you about your life; the hobbies you partake in and the work you do. How your family is, and if you’ve been well. You tell them about the garden you attempt to keep in the flowerbeds lining the cottage, and the administrative tasks you do and the office you just painted. You try to avoid the topic of your home—the isolation, the exhaustion, the yearning—so you slap your life with buttercream frosting and pray it doesn’t melt under the heat of the conversation.

They indulge you when you ask questions about themselves, too. Lottie stays at home—has been dreaming of a child to dote after for ages—but she bakes for shelters and spends time volunteering at their local retirement home. It fits her, you think. Her bubbly attitude, the bright sheen in her pale eyes; a literal princess among mongrels. The patience of a saint, but with a wit sharper than most tongues you’ve seen.

“I work for an intelligence agency,” is all Kate says when the conversation points towards her. It’s stiff—firm enough for you to not question any further. 

“So, what made you interested in being our surrogate?” Lottie cuts in, saving you the grief of backpedaling. 

“Oh,” you chirp. Your explanation gets caught in your throat as a rosy heat settles at the base of your neck. Embarrassment. Evil, vile—you hate begging. Crawling, groveling. “If I’m being honest, really, it was… well, the payment…”

Kate nods in agreement, hands curling around her coffee mug, though the liquid has long since gone cold. “There’s no shame in that. It’s a big favor that we’re asking for, and we have the means to compensate accordingly.” 

She reads you like a book, and despite all your flaws, welcomes you. It comforts you knowing how strictly professional this is—you have no skin in the game. Nothing to hold on to. You’re simply being a good person. Doing a good deed. Helping their dreams come to fruition. In turn, they help you with yours—an equal exchange. 

“So, what made the two of you come to England?” you prompt, leaning back in your seat. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve noticed the accents. Did you two move here recently?” 

“What, oh no,” Lottie giggles, hand floating in the air, waving as if pushing away the very notion. “Oh no, I don’t think I could ever leave Georgia.” 

“The donor lives here,” Kate explains simply. “Figured it would be easier to coordinate with a surrogate who lived nearby.” 

You nod, but it’s not enough to knock the confusion free from your brain. It’s visible on your face—your question. How you place two and two together; why would you need to be close to the donor? 

Before your mind can wander too far into that hole, Kate interjects. “We like meeting everyone in person. To ensure that it’s done right.” Then, her hands release her mug. “But he’s an individual I’ve worked with several times before. He’s a good man. Someone I trust.” 

“I imagine trust doesn’t come easy for someone in your line of work,” you quip. 

Kate cracks the first real smile you think you’ve seen from her this entire interview. “You’d be right.” 

“Oh, John’s such a great man. He’s been nothin’ short of sweet to us,” Lottie chimes in. As if suddenly remembering something, she begins to rustle through her purse until she successfully fishes out her phone. “We’ve been staying in a rental while we’re here—a beautiful thing—but we had some issues with the sink and cupboards and look! Fixed them right up for us, good as new!” 

She turns the phone towards you, revealing the kitchen and attached dining room that lies in their rental. Scrolling through a few pictures, you spot the before and after of their mini house project, and you try not to turn green with envy. Unhinged cupboards quickly screwed back into place, water damage mopped clean and patched up, good as new—almost every issue that’s been plaguing you in your cottage has come and gone within a blink of an eye for them, all while you’ve struggled to gather the means and the skills to bestow such a fortune like that upon yourself. 

Then, you see it—

—him. 

There, in the back, leaning against the granite countertops, blue jeans sitting on his hips, this donor—this John—wipes his hands off on a tea towel with a tight lipped smile. Thick patches of dark, coarse hair line his arms in hatch marks, thickening towards the swell of his forearms as he dries his thick fingers off with cotton. His head is lowered as if in prayer, crows feet on display, obscuring the color of his eyes, but you see the way his trimmed beard lines his jaw and upper lip, how it blends into the inky locks of his hair. 

He’s a large man—you note the way his iliac crest rests on top of the counter rather than beside or below it, a towering creature with a soft smile that stands out against his broad frame. Swelling biceps, flexing fingers—

“Such a beautiful rental,” you comment before your mind can wander any further. 

The sharp corners of Lottie’s cupid’s bow flattens as she clicks her phone off, lips curling into a near-smirk. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night at our place with John. Just a little get together is all, but we’d love it if you joined. Might be easier to flesh out all the details with everyone together. I promise I’ll cook you up the best chicken pot pie you’ve ever tasted.” 

Something tickles the back of your mind. It unsettles, wiggles, writhes where it shouldn’t. You feel how it crawls around on the inside of your cranium, slices through your brain and prods at the back of your tongue—it’s incessant. It urges you to speak before you can even think of the words. Meeting with donors—having the donors meet together... 

Then your mind thinks of that number. The zeros make your head spin, jumbles it up enough that you don’t even bother to question the circumstance or terms and conditions before you’re nodding. 

“Dinner sounds perfect.”

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[ueblog]

Mudroom - Rustic Entry Ideas for a large, rustic entryway renovation with a medium-sized wood front door, brown walls, and a slate floor.

[cryptotheism]

I'm attempting to add a scene to my novel involving an accomplished alchemist's attempts at the Great Work, staying as true to the real as possible, and I'm stuck. Any advice as to what that process would actually look like in practice?

Here, I'm gonna copy-paste the description of the process of the great work from the Hanegraaff Dictionary:

These stages can additionally be broken down into several steps. The number of these steps will vary from alchemist to alchemist, but the most common form of the process involves ten steps. They are: 

Calcination. Meaning oxidation by heating. Whenever you see an alchemist describe something as a “calcinate” that means its oxidized. Rusty iron is “iron calcinate” old green copper is “Copper Calcinate”

Solution. Meaning ”dissolution in “sharp” (or mercurial) liquids.” This means breaking a substance down by bathing it in acids. 

Putrefaction. Decomposition. Now that you’ve broken your substance down with acids, you’ve got to boil it in warm compost to induce fermentation. At this stage the substance turns a nasty black color, and is often described by alchemists as the “Black Raven'' which is soon resurrected as the “white dove,” thus marking the end of nigredo, and the beginning of albedo. 

Reduction, The recovery of the fugitive “spirits” (“spirit” in this context means a volatile substance) during the calcination process by means of a fluid (“philosophical milk”), whereupon a yellow coloration (citrinitas) appears. Basically, you’re adding back what you boiled off earlier. You know you’re doing it right when it turns yellow.

Sublimation. Adding the volatile, “spiritual” matter back to the vessel causes a violent reaction, and a red coloration. Alchemists often describe this as the raging of the “red dragon.” This is where rubedo occurs. 

Coagulation or Fixation. The reaction dies down, and the substance begins to solidify. This is the coagula part of solve et coagula. Congratulations, you have yourself some stable Prima Materia. 

Fermentation. This is a rare step. Some alchemists like to add a little bit of gold at this stage to act as a sort of “Yeast of Gold” to speed up the process. 

Lapis philosophorum. The Philosopher’s Stone. Now your prima materia can grow into ultima materia, (supreme matter). This bit is usually described as a heavy, dark red, mildly shiny, powder or stone. When you heat it up, it turns kinda waxy, but solidifies again when it cools. (What the alchemist has probably done at this point is produce mercury(II) sulfide, better known as Cinnabar.)

Multiplication. Now that you have your philosopher's stone, you can shave off bits of residue, and use that to make more. This is similar to how you can cut a mushroom in half, plant both halves, and get two mushrooms. 

Projection. Now that you've got your philosopher's stone, it’s time to make some gold. All you’ve got to do is get some dust from the philosopher's stone, and mix it into your base metal. If you’ve done your alchemy right, it should make the base metal change color until it looks like gold. In later, medical applications of alchemy, this is the point where you apply your panacea (universal medicine that cures all ills.)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it is my fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[thesilicontribesman]

Ancient Spindle Whorls Selection, Stewartry Museum, Kirkcudbright, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland

[foone]

one thing I kinda hate and it happens with basically every factory/base building/crafting game:

you've got the original game and it's got like 5 resources: stone, copper, iron, diamonds, and lasers.

but then there's a mod that adds more intense factory shit and now there's aluminium and titanium and tin and zinc and silicon (which players will always pronounce as "silicone") and even more.

I was playing a modded factory game which shall not be named (just pretend it's a femboy factory beta) and I saw something and it said "molybdenum ore" and I said "OH FUCK OFF" out loud.

[mizuno-marmalade]

​btw does anyone have any tips on how to like. get rid of those massive jungle trees quickly and efficiently?

i haven't explored very far into my world yet cus the trees make it impossible to get anywhere before the sun sets. also the shade & vines make it the perfect spot for mobs to hide during the day, and there's a tree right next to my house so half the time i have to go out the side door or just wait until the zombies go far enough into the sunlight. (also i don't have a full set of leather armor yet, i like never see cows on my side of the river for whatever reason.)

sorry no art atm. i'm too busy playing minecraft

[theonottsbxtch]

ANXIETY PT 2 | CL16

an: and here she is! i hope you guys enjoy her, please come and talk to me about it in!!

wc: 4.4k

part one

AT FIRST, SHE DIDN’T SLEEP.

Not really. The chair was uncomfortable, the ropes cut into her wrists, and every time she let her eyes close, her mind jolted awake with the same question hammering over and over: Where am I?

At some point, exhaustion won. When she woke, her neck ached from slumping forward. The room was dim, only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Her stomach was empty now, hunger gnawing at her ribs.

And Charles was there.

Sitting calmly on a chair opposite her, reading a book like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

She stiffened, heart thudding against her ribs. “How long was I out?”

He glanced up, gaze unreadable. “A few hours.”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “You can’t keep me here.”

He sighed, setting the book down on the table beside him. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” She yanked at the ropes again, ignoring the sting. “You can’t just—just take someone and expect them to—”

“To what?” His voice was calm. “To accept it?”

She glared at him, breathing hard. “I will never accept this.”

Something flickered in his expression, but he only nodded. “You’re hungry.”

She clamped her jaw shut.

Charles stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll bring you something.”

“I’m not eating anything you give me.”

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “You said that last time, too.”

And then he left.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

He’s lying. He has to be lying.

Doesn’t he?

On day three, the ropes were gone.

She woke in a different room—a bedroom this time, the bed soft, the room too grand to feel real. Dark wood, deep emerald curtains, a chandelier above her that glowed with warm golden light.

She sat up so fast the world spun.

The door was closed. Not locked. She knew that because when she stood, moving hesitantly toward it, she tried the handle.

It turned easily.

Her stomach clenched.

A trick. A mind game. He wanted her to think she was free.

Carefully, she edged the door open, stepping into a long corridor lined with paintings. The air smelled like old books and polished wood. No signs of anyone else.

Her breath quickened. If she was somewhere new, if she wasn’t tied down—maybe she had a chance. Maybe—

“I wouldn’t do that.”

She spun, heart slamming into her ribs.

Charles stood a few steps away, arms folded, watching her with that infuriating calm.

“Do what?” she forced out.

He nodded toward the far end of the corridor. “Try to leave.”

She clenched her fists. “Or what? You’ll drag me back?”

His lips quirked slightly. “You’d only get lost.”

She hated how certain he sounded.

“I want to go home,” she said, voice shaking.

Charles tilted his head slightly. “You are home.”

A chill ran down her spine.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”

Charles said nothing. He only turned, walking away.

And the worst part?

Somehow, she knew he was right.

She would get lost.

Because she had no idea where she was.

On day five, she ate.

Not because she trusted him, but because hunger gnawed at her so fiercely she could barely think.

Charles didn’t comment when she finally picked up the fork. He simply sat across from her at the long dining table, reading another book, drinking from a glass of wine.

Like this was normal.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

He turned a page. “Doing what?”

She gestured around. “This. The house. The food. The—freedom.”

At that, he glanced up. “You call this freedom?”

She swallowed, setting the fork down. “It’s more than the chair.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just studied her, his gaze sharp, like he was assessing something.

Then, finally: “Would you like more?”

More.

The word sent a shiver through her.

She should have said no.

Instead, she whispered, “Yes.”

The garden stretched endlessly, walled in by high iron gates. Roses bloomed in neat rows, and somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly.

She stood on the stone path, arms wrapped around herself, the warm breeze brushing against her skin.

Charles had let her outside.

That morning, he’d simply left the door open, said nothing.

And so she’d walked.

Not away—because where would she go? There was no way out. Not yet.

But here, in the open air, something inside her loosened.

She turned, slowly, finding him watching her from the terrace.

She should have hated the way he looked at her.

Should have feared the way he watched.

But she didn’t.

Not as much as before.

And that was the part that scared her most of all.

In the three weeks she was here she still flinched when the doors closed behind her.

She still watched the windows, traced the lines of the gates with her eyes, searching for weak spots, exits, anything.

But she walked freely now.

She could move through the house, through the halls lined with dark wood and grand chandeliers, past the velvet curtains that swallowed all the light when drawn.

She ate when she wanted.

Read when she wanted.

Walked outside in the gardens without him hovering over her shoulder.

It was a trick, of course. A slow, careful noose around her neck that Charles kept loosening, letting her believe she wasn’t trapped—until one day, she’d forget she ever wanted to leave.

But she wouldn’t forget.

She wouldn’t let herself.

Would she?

That night she found the man by the main door.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit.

His back was to her, but something in the way he stood sent a jolt through her, something familiar.

Her stomach turned as she took a step closer, her voice hesitant.

“…Carlos?”

He turned, and there it was.

The same sharp cheekbones, the same neatly-trimmed beard, the same deep brown eyes she had passed a hundred times in the lobby of her old building.

Carlos.

Her doorman.

The man who had held the door open for her every morning. The man who had nodded politely whenever she returned home late.

The man who—

Her breath hitched.

He let Charles in.

A chill ran down her spine.

Carlos studied her with a neutral expression, his hands folded in front of him. Not nervous. Not guilty.

Like this was normal.

Like he belonged here.

“I—” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t understand.”

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

Then, a voice from behind her.

“I see you’ve met Carlos.”

She froze.

Charles.

His presence was immediate, filling the space even before she turned to see him standing there, watching, a small smile playing at his lips.

“You know him, don’t you?”

A shudder rippled through her.

She looked back at Carlos, at his blank, unreadable face, at the way he didn’t deny it, didn’t react.

Her mind reeled.

How long?

How long had Carlos been watching her? How long had he been letting Charles in and out of her apartment, standing there while she went about her life, oblivious?

Her stomach twisted.

“Why?” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t answer.

Charles only smiled.

A slow, knowing smile.

And in that moment, something inside her cracked.

The days blurred together.

She told herself she was still angry.

Still fighting.

But anger was exhausting.

And fear—fear ate away at her like a slow poison, seeping into her bones, making her limbs heavy, making her thoughts sluggish.

She couldn’t live in a state of panic forever.

Could she?

Charles never raised his voice.

Never locked her in a room.

Never forced her to do anything.

He gave her space.

Gave her freedom.

She wandered the mansion now. Sat by the grand windows that overlooked the gardens, let the golden light of the afternoon spill over her skin.

She could walk outside.

Could touch the flowers.

Could breathe in the crisp, fresh air.

But not once—not once—did she ever make it past the gates.

She thought about running. She did.

But there were cameras.

Carlos was always nearby.

And Charles…

Charles would know.

He always knew.

He was in her head.

It was in the little things.

The way she’d hesitate before touching something, as if waiting for his approval—even though he wasn’t there.

The way she found herself choosing clothes she knew he liked, soft fabrics, delicate things, things that felt beautiful.

The way she caught herself listening for his voice, the sound of his footsteps, the subtle shift in the air that meant he was near.

She hated it.

Hated how much space he took up in her mind.

Hated how her body had begun to relax around him.

One evening, she sat by the fire, staring into the flames, the heat licking at her skin.

Charles sat across from her, reading.

Just reading.

Not speaking. Not looking at her.

But his presence—his quiet, calm presence—wrapped around her like a thick, suffocating blanket.

She should leave.

She should go to her room.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

And when the fire crackled, and she flinched, he finally looked at her.

“You’re safe,” he said.

Simple. Soft.

Something in her chest ached.

She turned away, her jaw tight.

Because she knew—she knew—what he was doing.

But her body didn’t.

Her body had already started to believe him.

Sometimes at night she would have nightmares, she dreamt of her old apartment.

Dreamt of the cold metal handle of her front door.

Dreamt of reaching for it—

And finding it locked.

No matter how hard she twisted, how much she pulled, it wouldn’t open.

She turned, frantic, searching for help.

And there, standing in the hallway—

Carlos.

His face calm. His hands folded in front of him.

Behind him, Charles.

Watching.

Smiling.

She jolted awake.

Heart pounding. Breath shaking.

She wasn’t in her apartment.

She was here.

In the mansion.

And when she turned her head—

Charles was there.

Sitting in the chair beside her bed.

Not touching her. Not speaking.

Just watching.

Her breath caught.

“Bad dream?” he asked, voice low, smooth.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying her with that unreadable expression.

And then—

“You called for me.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No, I—”

“You did.” His voice was steady. Certain. “You said my name.”

A lie.

Had to be.

She wouldn’t have.

Would she?

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

His eyes flickered to her hands, then back to her face.

“You don’t have to fight me,” he murmured.

The worst part?

It sounded kind.

It sounded gentle.

She turned away, pressing her forehead into the pillow.

She didn’t want to know if he was lying.

Because if he wasn’t—

If she really had called for him—

Then she was already losing.

She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but she awoke a second time to a knock at the door.

She had learned to read the silence in this house.

Knew when Charles was near, knew the way the air shifted when he entered a room, how his presence curled around her like an unseen force.

But this—this was different.

The knock echoed through the grand halls. Sharp. Unexpected.

A voice—low, irritated—followed.

Charles.

She couldn't hear the words, only the tone.

Something wasn't right.

She barely had time to sit up before her bedroom door burst open.

Charles stepped inside, closing it swiftly behind him.

And in his hand—

A knife.

Her breath caught.

Not because she thought he would kill her.

If he wanted her dead, she wouldn’t be here.

But because there was something in his eyes she had never seen before.

Fear.

True, genuine fear.

She pressed herself against the headboard as he approached, his steps controlled but urgent.

"You're going to listen to me," he said, voice low and edged with steel.

She forced herself to breathe. "Charles—"

He climbed onto the bed, hand pressing the cold blade to her throat.

Not enough to cut.

Just enough to remind her that it could.

Her body went rigid.

"You’re going to go downstairs," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "You’re going to smile. You’re going to hold my hand. And when they ask, you're going to say you're my fiancée."

The word made her stomach churn.

Her fiancée.

Not his prisoner.

Not his victim.

His fiancée.

Her pulse pounded against the knife. "Who—"

"My parents."

It was barely a whisper.

And suddenly, she understood.

The fear in his eyes. The tension in his jaw.

This wasn’t just about keeping her in line.

This was about him.

She watched his expression shift—controlled, but cracking at the edges.

She had never seen him like this.

So close to unraveling.

So vulnerable.

The realisation came slow.

Charles wasn’t untouchable.

He wasn’t some godlike captor, holding all the power.

He needed something from her.

And that meant—for the first time—she had something to use against him.

She swallowed, carefully. "And if I say no?"

The knife pressed harder.

His jaw clenched.

"You won’t."

Silence stretched between them.

And then—

He begged her without words.

Not with his mouth, but with his eyes.

She should have relished it.

Should have felt some twisted sense of victory.

But all she felt was cold.

Because beneath all the threats, beneath the blade at her throat—

She realised something else.

Something worse.

He was just as trapped as she was.

And against her own will, against all logic—

A part of her wanted to know why.

She walked down the grand staircase, her heart a chaotic drum in her chest. The house felt suffocating, every shadow looming over her like a heavy cloak, pressing down on her. Charles followed closely behind, silent, his presence more oppressive now than ever before.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck, the tension in his hands as they gripped the knife, still not far from her body. She tried not to think about the cold metal, the threat of it against her skin.

At the bottom of the staircase, in the vast, immaculately decorated living room, an older couple stood near a fireplace. They were every bit the aristocratic picture Charles had painted of them. His mother, a stately woman with silver hair and a soft smile that somehow didn’t reach her eyes, wore an air of command. His father, frail and stooped, leaned on a cane, his expression hardened and distant, eyes too tired to care about anything beyond his own world.

His mother, however, noticed her immediately.

"Ah, Charles!" She said, her voice surprisingly warm, eyes lighting up with something that bordered on excitement. "And you’ve brought her."

Her eyes roamed over the woman who had entered their world, as if appraising her like some prized possession, before settling with a satisfied smile.

"Isn't she simply delightful?" The woman’s gaze swept over her, a smile as sharp as glass on the edge of her lips. "She’s even lovelier in person, Charles."

Charles stiffened behind her, and she could feel the way his breath quickened slightly. His mother didn’t seem to notice or care. She had already turned her attention back to her son, a pleased hum in her throat.

The woman approached her slowly, as if she were a rare animal, circling her with the precision of a predator. “Tell me, darling, when are we expecting the wedding?”

The question landed like a blow, and the world seemed to stretch in that moment, spinning around her. She blinked, unsure of what was happening - her mind whirling. The wedding?

Before she could gather her thoughts, his mother was speaking again.

“Charles, you’ve been keeping her all to yourself, I see. We can’t have that, can we? Our family is far too old, too proud, to let such a treasure go unnoticed - she’s gorgeous.”

Her voice was syrupy sweet, but there was something cold in her gaze, something unnerving in the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It felt like the woman was sizing her up, mentally cataloging every detail of her appearance - her clothing, her posture, the subtle trembling of her hands.

“Charles, I’m so glad you finally found someone who matches our family’s standards.”

The words didn’t sit right. The way his mother spoke - like it was all an agreement, a deal in place. She wasn’t just meeting a future daughter-in-law. She was assessing an asset.

“Isn’t she beautiful, darling?” His mother asked, turning back to him with a satisfied grin. “Just like your father wanted.”

The mention of his father caught her attention. Wanted.

A shiver ran through her, the weight of it suddenly hitting her all at once. It wasn't just about love for him.

It was about inheritance.

And Charles.

Charles wasn’t in control of this.

She met Charles’ eyes across the room. His face was stiff, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t smiling. There was something behind his gaze, something darker than she had ever seen before.

Her stomach twisted.

She was trapped in his world now, his carefully constructed reality that he was trying to force her into.

And still, she played her part.

“Thank you” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.

His mother’s smile widened. “You’re a smart girl. I can see why Charles chose you. You’ll fit in here nicely.” She stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder in a way that felt oddly possessive. “Now, let’s talk about the wedding details, shall we? I’m sure you’ll want the very best of everything.”

“Of course,” she managed, her voice quiet.

But in the back of her mind, questions bloomed like thorns. Why had Charles done this? What was his real game?

She could feel it now, the slow creeping of understanding. He wasn’t just trying to trap her.

He needed her.

More than she could have ever known.

And with each passing moment, her sense of self-control slipped further away, replaced with something far more dangerous. 

Before she knew, before she could take one more final look at Charles, she was being ushered into a room with a tea set already waiting for them. She sat opposite his mother, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her lap - the way she thought his mother would like to see.

The tea was delicate, floral, and far too refined for a situation like this. It sat untouched in the dainty china cup the maid set before her, the scent of lavender and something citrusy curling around her like an unwanted embrace.

Charles’ mother sat opposite her in the vast room. Light spilling through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. Everything about the scene should have felt elegant, serene even - but it didn’t.

It felt staged. 

It was too perfect, too rehearsed. Like a moment out of someone else’s life that she’d been forced to step into.

His mother was watching her, a satisfied smile playing at her lips as she stirred her tea with an air of contentment.

“I must say, I’m relieved,” she said suddenly, her voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. “I was beginning to wonder if Charles would ever find someone.”

She tensed slightly.

His mother sighed, a hand resting delicately on the table as she glanced out towards the sprawling estate grounds. “After his diagnosis, well…” She let the words hang in the air, almost wistfully. Then she turned back to her, eyes sharp. “It’s just so wonderful that he’s found you.”

The breath hitched in her throat.

Diagnosis?

She kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside, something splintered.

His mother didn’t seem to notice - or if she did, she didn’t care. She carried on, voice gentle, as though she was discussing something as mundane as the weather.

“For so long, we worried, you know. The unpredictability, the… obsessive tendencies. It’s difficult, raising a child like that. Difficult to see them struggle with attachment. But look at him now - he’s changed so much.”

The world around her seemed to shrink, the space between them closing in as though the very air had turned thick and suffocating.

Attachment.

Obsessive tendencies.

Her mind raced, pieces snapping into place with a horrifying clarity.

His break-ins. The way he had watched her, orchestrated everything. The control. The calculated way he had slowly stripped away her autonomy, little by little, reshaping her world until she had no choice but to exist in his.

She had thought it was just manipulation. Just power. Need.

But it was more than that.

His mother reached forward suddenly, placing a delicate hand over hers, her grip deceptively strong. “You must be something special,” she said with an approving nod. “He’s never taken to anyone like you before.”

The room felt colder.

Her chest tightened.

Because now, she wasn’t just his little prisoner.

She was his fixation.

A carefully chosen piece in a puzzle he had been building long before she had even realised she was part of his game.

And Charles, he wasn’t just keeping her here because he wanted to.

He was keeping her here because, in his mind, she was slowly the only one who could truly ever belong to him.

Who could get him that inheritance.

To fulfil his life.

The weight of his mother’s hand on hers sent a chill up her spine. She willed herself to stay still, to keep her fingers from trembling beneath the woman’s touch. The realisation sat heavy in her chest, a slow creeping dread wrapping around her lungs like ivy.

She tried to swallow it down, to push past the rising nausea, but the older woman’s gaze held her in place - evaluating, assessing, approving.

“It really is lovely to finally meet you, dear,” she continued, giving her hand a light squeeze before retreating, picking up her tea as though she hadn’t just cracked the foundation of reality beneath her. “I always knew Charles had a heart for romance, but he was so particular.”

She managed a small, weak nod, the motion barely there.

Particular.

Another careful choice of words.

His mother sighed, giving her a knowing smile as she took another delicate sip of her tea. “Oh, don’t look so worried. He’s an intense man, yes, but intensity is just another word for devotion, isn’t it?”

Devotion.

The world settled uneasily in her stomach. 

She forced herself to glance away, her eyes flickering towards the garden beyond the glass. The estate stretched out endlessly, its perfectly kept hedges and winding paths giving the illusion of freedom when she knew it was nothing but a gilded cage.

“I-” she started, but the words caught in her throat.

What could she even say?

That she had no choice? 

That she was here against her will?

That her presence at this table was a careful act of survival?

His mother’s eyes were too sharp, too perceptive.

“That’s why I’m so pleased to see you two together,” his mother went on, placing her cup back into its saucer with a soft clink. “A woman like you will be good for him. Anchor him. Make sure he doesn’t slip into those… darker tendencies.”

She felt like she was going to be sick.

“I-”

But the door swung open, and there he was.

Charles.

His presence filled the room instantly, the air shifting with an almost imperceptible tension.

His expression was carefully neutral, but she saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw.

“Mother,” he said smoothly, stepping inside. “Father and I have just wrapped up in the office and while this was a lovely surprise-”

His mother cut him off, beaming. “Oh, Charles, really. No need to sound so stiff. We simply had to meet your lovely fiancee.” She gestured towards her, as though presenting a mule at an auction.

Charles’ gaze briefly flickered to her, unreadable, before he turned back to his mother.

“As much as I’d love to extend the visit,” he said, his tone still polite, still composed, “I believe you and Father have tea at the Wetherby’s soon, don’t you?”

His mother waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, they won’t mind if we’re a little bit late-”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Charles interjected smoothly. “But it would be terribly rude to keep them waiting, wouldn’t it.”

A beat of silence.

Then his mother gave a soft chuckle, shaking her head with a knowing smile. “Oh, you always were one for manners. Perfection.”

Perfection.

She rose from her seat gracefully, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.

His father walked in, just as she stood, casting a look at Charles that lingered. There was something unspoken in it - something that made Charles’ expression harden just slightly.

Then his mother spoke.

“You know,” she mused, tilting her head, “for an engaged couple, you don’t seem terribly affectionate.”

The words sat heavy in the air.

And then he looked at her.

It wasn’t just a glance, it was a look that sliced right through, that saw. As if he were peeling back the layers, peering at what lay beneath the surface.

Her breath hitched.

Charles didn’t hesitate.

Before she could process it, he took a step, his hand was at the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her face up towards him. There was barely a second to react before his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss.

It was possessive.

Demanding.

Her body stiffened, instinct flaring up like a warning siren. But there were eyes on them.

His mother.

His father.

Watching.

Judging.

Expecting.

So she kissed him back.

The act of submission made something shift.

Charles’ fingers tightened in her hair, his other hand pressing against the small of her back, drawing her in. His lips moved against hers with a slow-burning intensity, something dark and unreadable curling at the edges of her mind.

The worst part?

For just a fraction of a second, just a sliver of time too small to admit aloud, she forgot.

Forgot the circumstances. Forgot the control he had over her. Forgot the door that had locked behind her, the cage she had been placed in.

For a moment, it was just heat.

Just breath.

Just the slow, sinking sensation of something shifting inside her, something she wanted to recoil from but didn’t.

The sound of his mother’s voice snapped the moment in two like a brittle twig.

“Alright then!” she chimed, her tone light, amused, but edged with something knowing. “Don’t defile your poor fiancee before the wedding, Cha!”

A soft laugh.

His father sighed.

Charles finally pulled back, just a breath away, his lips still perilously close to hers. His eyes locked onto hers, dark, unreadable, his breath steady and controlled.

But there was something in his gaze.

Something that said: I felt that too.

Her stomach twisted.

PART THREE...

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[high-priestess-house]

𝖀𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌 & 𝖀𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖑 𝕮𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘

Witchcraft magical correspondences refer to the associations made between various objects, substances, times, and events with specific magical effects or purposes. These correspondences have deep historical roots and derive from a blend of multiple sources, including ancient alchemy, early science, cultural symbolism, religious beliefs, and intentionality.

Ancient Alchemy

Alchemy, the precursor to modern chemistry, played a significant role in shaping magical correspondences. Alchemists sought to understand the mysteries of matter and the transformation of substances, often imbuing their experiments with spiritual and mystical significance. For example, the seven classical planets (Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn) were associated with specific metals (gold, silver, mercury, copper, iron, tin, and lead, respectively). These associations were believed to reflect the planets’ influences on earthly matters and human affairs. Alchemical texts also explored the relationships between colors, elements, and spiritual principles, influencing the development of magical correspondences in witchcraft.

Ancient alchemy holds a significant place in the history of science, philosophy, and mystical traditions, influencing various fields and practices, including witchcraft. The importance of ancient alchemy can be understood through its contributions to the development of modern science, its philosophical and spiritual dimensions, and its enduring influence on magical and esoteric traditions.

The Great Work (Magnum Opus): Central to alchemy is the concept of the Great Work, which symbolizes the alchemist’s quest for spiritual and material transformation. This process involves the purification and perfection of substances, often mirroring the alchemist’s inner spiritual journey toward enlightenment and self-realization.

Symbolism and Allegory: Alchemical texts are rich in symbolism and allegory, using metaphors to convey complex philosophical and spiritual concepts. Symbols such as the philosopher’s stone, the ouroboros (a serpent eating its own tail), and the four elements (earth, air, fire, water) encapsulate profound ideas about the nature of reality, transformation, and the interconnectedness of all things.

Hermetic Tradition: Alchemy is closely associated with Hermeticism, a philosophical and spiritual tradition based on the writings attributed to Hermes Trismegistus. Hermetic principles, such as “As above, so below” and the unity of opposites, permeate alchemical thought and emphasize the correspondence between the macrocosm (the universe) and the microcosm (the individual).

Magical Correspondences: Alchemical principles and symbols have been integrated into various magical and esoteric traditions. The associations between planets, metals, and elements in alchemy have become foundational correspondences in many forms of magic and witchcraft.

Transmutation and Transformation: The alchemical goal of transmutation, particularly the transformation of base metals into gold, has a symbolic counterpart in magical practices. This idea of transformation is applied to personal growth, healing, and the manifestation of desires through magical means.

Ritual and Practice: Alchemical rituals, with their focus on purification, transformation, and the attainment of higher states of being, have influenced the structure and content of magical rituals. The use of specific substances, tools, and processes in alchemy has parallels in magical workings, emphasizing the transformation of both the practitioner and the environment.

Alchemy in the Renaissance: During the Renaissance, alchemy experienced a revival as scholars and practitioners sought to integrate ancient wisdom with emerging scientific knowledge. Figures like Paracelsus and John Dee contributed to the development of alchemical thought, blending it with medicine, astrology, and early chemistry.

Psychological Alchemy: In the 20th century, Carl Jung, a prominent psychologist, explored alchemy as a metaphor for psychological processes. Jung’s interpretation of alchemical symbolism as representing the individuation process—the integration of the conscious and unconscious mind—brought new insights into the relevance of alchemy for personal development and psychotherapy.

Contemporary Practice: Today, alchemy continues to inspire both scientific inquiry and spiritual exploration. Modern alchemists, both literal and symbolic, seek to uncover the hidden principles of transformation in nature and the self. The enduring appeal of alchemy lies in its holistic approach, integrating material, psychological, and spiritual dimensions of existence.

Early Science and Natural Philosophy

Early scientific observations and natural philosophy also contributed to the development of magical correspondences. Ancient and medieval scholars often categorized the natural world into elements (earth, air, fire, and water) and humors (blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile), each with specific qualities and effects. These classifications were used to explain natural phenomena and human health, and they found their way into magical practices. For instance, herbs and stones were categorized based on their perceived elemental qualities, and their uses in magic were aligned with these characteristics.

Cultural Symbolism and Mythology

Cultural symbolism and mythology provided another rich source of correspondences. Different cultures imbued animals, plants, colors, and objects with symbolic meanings based on their myths, legends, and folklore. For instance, the oak tree was sacred to many ancient European cultures and associated with strength and protection, while the owl, often seen as a symbol of wisdom in Greek mythology, became associated with knowledge and divination in magical practices. These symbolic associations were passed down through generations and integrated into the magical correspondences of witchcraft.

Religious Beliefs and Practices

Religious beliefs and practices also shaped magical correspondences. Many magical traditions borrowed from the rituals and symbols of dominant religious practices in their regions. In Western Europe, for instance, Christian symbols and saints were often syncretized with older pagan deities and symbols. The use of incense, candles, and specific prayers or chants in magic often mirrors religious rituals, emphasizing the importance of intentionality and spiritual alignment in magical workings.

Intentionality and Personal Experience

The role of intention and personal experience cannot be overlooked in the development of magical correspondences. Practitioners of witchcraft often develop their own associations based on personal experiences, intuition, and the results of their magical workings. This process of individual experimentation and reflection allows for a dynamic and evolving system of correspondences that can vary between different traditions and practitioners. The intention behind the use of a correspondence is believed to be a critical factor in its effectiveness, highlighting the importance of the practitioner’s focus and purpose.

Synthesis and Evolution

Over time, these diverse influences have synthesized into the rich tapestry of magical correspondences used in witchcraft today. Texts such as the “Key of Solomon,” “The Picatrix,” and various grimoires have codified many of these correspondences, while modern practitioners continue to adapt and expand them based on contemporary understanding and practice. The integration of psychological insights, ecological awareness, and cross-cultural exchanges in the modern era further enriches the system of correspondences, making it a living and evolving aspect of witchcraft.

No single person or group decided these correspondences; rather, they evolved organically through the accumulated wisdom and practices of different cultures. Here are some key influences and sources:

Ancient Civilizations

Egyptians: Ancient Egyptian priests and magicians developed extensive knowledge of correspondences. They believed that everything in nature was interconnected and that specific plants, stones, and symbols held particular powers. Their practices were recorded in texts like the Ebers Papyrus and various temple inscriptions.

Greeks and Romans: The Greeks and Romans contributed significantly to the development of correspondences, particularly through the work of philosophers and physicians like Hippocrates, Theophrastus, and Pliny the Elder. Their writings on herbalism, astrology, and natural philosophy helped establish connections between natural elements and their supposed properties.

Celts: The Druids of the Celtic world had a deep understanding of nature and used various plants, trees, and natural phenomena in their spiritual and magical practices. Their knowledge was passed down orally and later recorded by Christian monks.

Medieval and Renaissance Europe

Medieval Herbalists and Alchemists: During the Middle Ages, herbalists and alchemists in Europe studied ancient texts and conducted their own experiments. They documented the properties of plants, minerals, and metals in texts like the “Materia Medica” and various grimoires. Alchemical traditions, which sought to transform base materials into higher forms, also contributed to the understanding of correspondences.

Astrology: Medieval and Renaissance astrologers played a significant role in establishing correspondences, particularly through the association of planets with specific days of the week, metals, and plants. The writings of figures like Ptolemy and later Renaissance magicians like Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus were influential in this regard.

Eastern Traditions

Chinese Medicine and Taoism: Traditional Chinese medicine and Taoist practices developed a system of correspondences based on the Five Elements (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water). These elements were connected to various aspects of life, including organs, emotions, seasons, and directions. The “Huangdi Neijing,” an ancient Chinese medical text, is a key source of this knowledge.

Indian Ayurveda and Hinduism: Ayurvedic medicine and Hindu spiritual practices established correspondences between herbs, gems, times of day, and deities. Texts like the “Atharva Veda” and various Ayurvedic treatises documented these associations.

Modern Influences

Grimoires and Occult Literature: From the Renaissance onward, numerous grimoires (books of magic) compiled and expanded upon earlier correspondences. Notable examples include the “Key of Solomon,” “The Lesser Key of Solomon,” and “The Picatrix.” These texts were influential in shaping modern Western magical practices.

The Golden Dawn and Modern Witchcraft: In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and similar occult organizations synthesized various magical traditions, creating detailed systems of correspondences. Influential figures like Aleister Crowley and Dion Fortune contributed to this synthesis. In the mid-20th century, Gerald Gardner and others who founded modern Wicca drew upon these traditions, further popularizing and systematizing magical correspondences.

Conclusion

Magical correspondences are the result of centuries of observation, experimentation, and synthesis by various cultures and traditions. They were not decided by any single individual or group but evolved over time through the collective wisdom of countless practitioners. Today, they continue to be an essential part of many magical and spiritual practices, providing a framework for understanding and working with the interconnectedness of the natural and spiritual worlds.