#this cannot be tolerated.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

not "i ship these characters" or "i want them to bond platonically" but a secret 3rd thing (I want them to be forced to interact by the Narrative bc they would HATE that)

[the-kennsterrrr]

“We need more evil women.” Bitch you thought Skylar White was in the wrong 😭

[sophsicle]

here's the thing. whenever u say "eat the rich" the rich automatically make a sad lil face :( :( :( and go "well that's not very nice. what if we turned around and said eat the poor, huh? that wouldn't make you feel very good, would it?" which is. an insane statement to make. because baby, honey, sweetheart. you are eating the poor. every goddamn day you are eating the poor. and worst of all. you aren't even fucking hungry.

[starry-mang0s]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

MY SILLIES 0-0 THERE THEY ARRREEEEEE

you shall explode •_•

I’ll make sure of it. [threat]

Love ya lots!!! 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡 🥰

Grrrrrrr

DONT EVER DO THAT AGAIN

[Not Serious]

@starry-mang0s thank you so much !!!!

[m4rs-ex3]

the callum / runaan dynamic is so funny bc like. out of nowhere your daughter has a boyfriend who happens to be the most wildcard character you imagine she could find - human (mind you you're currently in the process of unlearning all your racial prejudices), magical, and a government official in addition to all of his other Emo Personal Lore - and they're the most beautifully devoted but also most painfully public affection-displaying couple you've ever seen and the guy also kind of freed your soul from purgatory plus you love and trust your daughter so basically you just kind of have to Deal With It. yet it would seem he's determined to make that as difficult as possible because he is the biggest fucking dork you have ever met in your life and it seems you are the only person who is bothered by this because your husband is amused, your daughter thinks he is the greatest thing to ever happen, and the dumbass himself attempts to show you some respect but also apparently refuses to stop being cringe so now you must continue on with your life while this loser teenager does your daughter in the room next to yours every night and you can't do anything about it because oh yeah you killed his father

[wildechildwrites]

Run, Rabbit

König/Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, Violence, Injury, Smut, lightly noncon but in the way that you're fighting it but are down, König being insane

No use of Y/N

Summary: You're on a solo mission in Romania, and König goes hunting

A/N: "Oh look another predator/prey coded Konig fic how original" SHUT UP I KNOW

AO3: Run, Rabbit

18+

You’re in the forests of Romania on a solo mission, snooping around an abandoned military base that’s been the location of some suspicious activity, according to your sources. You find the ghost of the for-hire group Kortac in rat-chewed maps and files, faint footprints in layers of dust, but the trail has long gone cold, the building slowly being reclaimed by nature. The trees show no sign of the changes of autumn, but it's in the air, the late summer whisper of a chill in the breeze. You take your time picking your way along the overgrown roads, enjoying the tranquility of the forest. The extraction point is ten clicks west of your position, but you’re content with your steady pace, the sun still high in the sky, shining brightly through the thick foliage, and the hike is an easy one. Your meager findings are carefully folded in your bag of gear, your gun snug on your hip. Ten meters to your right, a red deer raises its head up, watching you warily, before bolting away into the trees. You smile to yourself and raise your face to better feel the sun. 

You hear the crack of the shot and drop, but not quickly enough. Your ears ring, your shoulder burning agonizingly, like someone’s pushing a hot poker against it. You fight against the nausea and pain, willing yourself to move, scrambling into the brush for cover. The shot came from your six, and you grapple for your binoculars, trying to locate the shooter on the hill above you. You recognize the mask first, the bleached tear tracks down an executioner's hood, the hulking form of the figure wearing it unfortunately familiar. König is standing casually, seemingly unafraid of any return of fire, staring down like he can see you through the trees. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle instinctually as he begins to move, a sauntering pace down the hill like the slow lope of a wolf. You drop down again, ignoring the pain in your shoulder as you crawl through the underbrush. 

Nestled low on a hill, large body half buried in the underbrush, König watches you through the scope of his rifle, toying with the idea of killing you. He recognizes you from the files he’s seen on the 141, but there was nothing left at the base for you to find, no reason to draw suspicion and attention back here. You were harmless like this, and magnetic, head tilted towards the sun, your face lit up in a wash of gold light that plays up the color of your hair. His finger brushes lightly across the trigger as he contemplates his options. He rolls his neck loose before glancing through his scope again.

You stop behind a small boulder, pressing your back to it, breathing heavily, and pull your radio off of your hip. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo Seven Four, over.” 

The crackle of the radio is a relief, Price’s voice faint but firm. “Go ahead Bravo Seven Four, over.” 

“Enemies one; direction east of my grid two hundred meters, injury sustained, six clicks out of extraction point, over.” You peek out from behind the rock, but can't see anything, so you continue your crawl, waiting for a response. The birds have stopped singing, a deadly quiet that warns of danger.

“Stay calm Bravo Seven Four–” Price’s voice is cut off by the sound of another bullet whizzing near you. You can’t have your radio giving away your position, and the squad is too far away to reach you before König could. You grab your radio and quickly press the button. 

“Bravo Six, silence, meet at extraction, over.” You turn it off, not waiting for a response, and tuck it back into your belt. Ignoring the growing burning in your shoulder, you move as quickly through the underbrush as you can. You need to cover more ground if you’re going to make it out of here, so you weigh your options, propping yourself into a low crouch, scanning the woods behind you. You can’t see or hear anything. You inhale deeply, then break into a sprint.

The cracking of branches is faint, but König is listening for it, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he searches for you. He immediately changes directions, moving towards the noise and quickening his pace. If you want to run, he’s more than happy to indulge you, relishing the adrenaline of the chase. Your trail is clear, broken branches like a beacon beckoning him closer. He spots blood on one of the low boulders, and swipes it up on his gloved hand, smiling under the mask. 

You're hyper aware of your disadvantage, the sounds of snapping branches as your pursuer draws closer, the sluggish flow of blood down your shoulder from where the bullet grazed you. Your lungs burn, head woozy as you run hard, branches scraping at your form. You risk a look over your shoulder, searching for König behind you, and your heart drops when you miss a step. 

All of a sudden, you're falling, hands stretched out in front of you as you tumble down a steep hill. You hear and feel the snap of your ankle in your boot, a whimpering sob yanked from your chest as you finally land heavily in some thorn covered bushes, branches scratching your body even through the thick fabric of your uniform. You pull yourself out, ignoring the pain as thorns drag against your face, drawing blood, then scan yourself quickly, the prognosis bleak. You can't run, not with what is definitely a broken ankle, and your shoulder is still oozing freely, but you won’t go down without a fight. You drag yourself through the dirt using your good arm, stopping periodically to listen to the sounds of König moving through the trees. Your entire body burns, and you fight against the growing fatigue that’s threatening to overwhelm you, trying to hold onto your quickly waning adrenaline. 

The sound of breaking branches draws nearer. He’s moving faster, heavy footfalls that make your leg muscles twitch with the urge to run. König whistles, high and loud, and you reach for your gun, cocking it as quietly as you can, turning around to face the direction of the noise, crouching low. Your heart pounds in your chest, fear creeping in, the weight of your situation crashing down on you.

“I heard you cry out,” a voice rings through the trees. There's something light in König’s tone, like this has all been a game of tag. “You can't be too far.”

Then the only sound is the breeze, rustling in the leaves. Blood from a cut on your forehead drips into your eye, and you resist the urge to wipe it away, scanning your surroundings as best you can without moving.

The unwelcome feeling of the muzzle of a gun presses against the side of your head, and your body shudders involuntarily. 

“Drop your weapon, Häschen,” König murmurs. You comply immediately, tossing it at his feet, unwilling to argue with a Beretta at your temple. The large man quickly kicks your gun into the bushes. “Sit up,” he commands, and you move slowly, trying not to aggravate your broken bone. 

The small shack hasn’t been used in a while, the table in the center of the room is covered in dust, and spiders have made their home in the corners, spinning silvery streamers that hang down, brushing against his helmet. König places you lightly on the small bed in the corner, stooping over uncomfortably in the low room. Your hair is full of sticks and leaves, your face scraped and bleeding. He needs to look at your shoulder, and the ankle you’d been hovering over protectively, but work comes first. You’ve thrown him off, his fingers tingling where he held you to him, the phantom pressure of your head on his chest as he carried your unconscious body through the woods haunting him even now. He grabs your gear bag, dumping it unceremoniously onto the table, pulling your medkit to the side before rifling through the papers you’d found. The information was outdated, but he shoves the papers into one of the pockets of his pants for disposal later regardless.

You knew he was large, but kneeling at his feet he feels like a goliath, towering over you, the gun held in his grip looking comically small in his giant hands. He holsters it, and you get a stupid, moronic, brilliant idea. In a quick motion, you’ve ripped your radio off of your belt, pressing down on the button and bringing it to your lips. “MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY–” König slams the heel of his palm into the back of your head, and the world goes dark.

He doesn’t bother stripping you properly, just takes his knife and slices it up through the collar of your shirt, baring your shoulder to him. His eyes, unbidden, trace the line of the now exposed column of your throat, and he swallows loudly in the quiet of the room. König draws his attention back to your injury with some difficulty. He barely even grazed you, the puckered wound bleeding sluggishly, and he quietly gloats at his own aim. When he pours alcohol on it, you awaken with a hiss, throwing your arm out hard in his direction reflexively before your brain catches up with you. He deflects you easily, wrapping large fingers around your wrist, enjoying the feeling of the delicate bones, watching with silent smugness as your confusion reads clear on your face. 

“Guten tag,” he says, pleasantly casual, as though you’ve run into him at the grocery store. Your head is pounding, and you’re thrown, trying to grasp your surroundings. Your shoulder is burning, and you’re suddenly aware of the air on your bare skin. You rip your hand out of his grasp, pulling yourself as far away from him on the small bed as you can manage. He tilts his head, studying you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, your voice hard. 

König gestures with the alcohol he’s holding. “I’m patching up your injuries.” His voice is low, his accent curling around the syllables of his sentences like smoke. 

You blink at him, utterly disarmed. “Why,” you pause, biting your cheek as a wave of pain radiates through your ankle, “Are you patching up my injuries?” 

“Would you prefer it if I left them?” He volleys back lightly, tilting his head. 

You don’t say anything, staring at him with suspicion. He’s got you cornered, quite literally, and there’s no way you can get away from him with your ankle like this unless you can get your hands on a weapon. There’s a knife tucked in your boot, but you can’t exactly pull it out subtly. His beretta is on his hip, his rifle is leaning against the table, but you’d be lying to yourself if you thought you had a chance in hell of reaching either before he could. 

 König takes your silence for compliance and goes back to dabbing your wound with alcohol. You flinch when he places his hand on you, and he makes a dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat. “Such a nervous little rabbit.” The mask conceals his expression from you, but you can hear the frown in his voice. 

“You shot me,” you respond dryly. “Doesn’t exactly foster trust.” 

 “Just a scratch. I could’ve killed you, if I wanted to.” He shrugs, a casual movement that’s unintentionally intimidating, your eyes on the way his shoulder muscles move beneath the layers of clothing he wears. 

You spend your time with large men, the boys of your team all averaging above six feet, but König is just startlingly gigantic. You scan his torso, eyes tracing across the wide planes of his chest, lingering too long to be decent. You catch yourself and drop your gaze down to your hands. “If you don’t want to kill me, what do you want?”

“I want to know what you are doing here.” His tone is still pleasant, but interrogative. His fingers are deliberate, surprisingly gentle as he bandages your shoulder, but there’s an unspoken thread of tension in the air. 

You’re much more docile when he patches up your ankle, an uneasy truce between the two of you. You sit still as he splints it, legs draped almost intimately over his lap, his large fingers curled around your injured leg, gentle pressure holding you steady as he works. He adjusts his hold, squeezing lightly on the meat of your calf, and your breathing stutters. His eyes flick to yours, something dangerous in their expression, and you hold his gaze as you deliberately drag your uninjured leg closer to you, your boot trailing across König's upper thighs intentionally. His eyes slip close at the sensation, just for a moment, and that's when you act, yanking your knife out of your boot and sinking it into his thigh and launching yourself to the floor. He lets out a snarling cry, and you scramble up, your vision going white from the pain of your ankle, but you push through it, sprinting out of the shack. 

“Chasing shadows.” You respond, your voice equally mild. You know he looked through your pack and probably found the papers. You wonder if he thought it was ironic that you came sniffing after KorTac, just to run right into him. You certainly did.

You can't run properly, reduced to a hobble that's made all the more difficult by the fact that you're on uneven terrain in the quickly growing dark. You need to figure out your location and find a way to contact your team, but you’re disoriented and disarmed. You haven’t made it more than a few meters when you hear the sound of the front door slam open. You pick up the pace, trying to put as much distance between you and the very angry Austrian hot on your trail. 

“Häschen,” König’s voice rings through the trees, and a trickle of fear runs through you. You duck behind a tree, pressing yourself against it firmly, trying to blend in with the darkness. 

“Always trying to run away,” he snarls, shoving his body against yours. He thrusts his uninjured thigh between your legs, pinning you further, and you let out an unintentional gasp at the sudden pressure of hard muscle against your core. König instantly pulls away, his eyes shooting down to your ankle with concern, before dragging slowly up your body, his gaze accusatory.  

He can hear you breathing, light and quick, and he doesn’t even try to disguise the heavy sound of his footsteps as he closes in on you. He whips around the tree you’re cowering against, and you try to bolt, but he wraps his fingers around your bicep, yanking you back, slamming his hands above your head, trapping you against the tree. 

“You like this,” he says, and you shake your head desperately. 

“I don’t–” he interrupts any denials you might have, deliberately grinding his thigh in between your legs. You clench your teeth against the noise it draws from your throat. 

He leans impossibly closer, your noses almost brushing through the hood he wears. “Did you like the chase as well?” His voice is a husky rumble, full of heat, and you have to bite back a whine. “I liked the chase.” You realize the hard length against your stomach isn't his Beretta, and an unwanted spike of arousal shoots through you in response.

“You’re insane,” you snap, grappling for some semblance of control over the building pleasure in your core. König pulls away from you abruptly, and you flush at how wet you are, soaking through your underwear. 

“How about a game, Häschen?” his voice has lost its edge, back to the pleasant tone he used in the shack, and your head spins at the sudden change.  “I'll give you five minutes to run or hide, and if you can make it ten minutes without me finding you, I’ll take you to your extraction point myself, safe and sound.”

Your heart races. You don’t trust him, but there's no way you'll get another chance to get away from him. “And if I can’t?” You ask. 

You know you’re fucked, but you scramble through the darkness as quickly as you can, trying to find a good place to hide. If your ankle wasn’t broken, you’d climb a tree, but you’re stuck searching for ground cover, listening with mounting paranoia to the quiet noises of the forest. You’re a celestial body pulled unwillingly into König’s orbit; collision unavoidable.

He says nothing, just purposefully presses his hard cock against your center. Traitorous want flows through you.

You hear him coming, branches breaking as he stalks towards you. You stand as straight as you can, letting him approach you, his eyes bright in the dim of twilight. When he comes within range, you lunge for his gun, almost succeeding in yanking it out of the holster before he grabs you around the waist and pulls you to the ground, pinning you roughly beneath him. 

Even as he manhandles you, you're hyper aware of the delicate way he avoids putting any weight near your injured shoulder. He's got your legs splayed around him, but he's careful, adjusting you just so, keeping your ankle tucked safely away, angled so he won't jostle it. His hips press obscenely against your ass, and you can't help arching your back into him, begging for his cock even as you swear at him.

“Get the fuck off of me,” you spit, and he just laughs, an off-putting, mean sound, before reaching around and ripping open your pants. The button pops off, and the zipper teeth split forcefully apart as he shoves a hand into your underwear. 

“Complain all you want, Häschen, but you're soaked for me,” he coos into your ear, roughly rubbing your clit. You moan at the contact, and he moves his hand lower, pressing his palm against your clit before shoving a finger into your wet center, roughly splitting you open. You gasp at the sudden stretch, König giving you no time to adjust as he pulls his finger out for a moment and plunges it back in, moving in and out at a punishing pace.

“Tell the truth.” He orders, adding a second finger. He curls them, stroking your inner walls, bullying you open until he finds the spot that makes you see stars.  “Say you want me to fuck you.” 

You're beyond words, making a derisive noise that transforms into a whine as you move your hips back, driving König's fingers deeper, your ass rubbing against his clothed erection. All you can focus on is the press of his body against yours, his fingers unspooling you, pulling you apart as he pants along with you. The tension is building, the knot in your stomach tightening as König forces you closer to the edge. 

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you devastatingly empty and unsatisfied, and you let out an anguished whimper despite yourself. He pushes your pants roughly down around your thighs, and the purr of his zipper opening makes you clench reflexively around nothing. 

He presses right against your entrance, a breath away from splitting you open on his cock. You shove your hips back, trying to fuck yourself onto him, and he pulls back. “Say you want this,” he demands. 

“Fuck. You.” You snarl, even as your thighs tremble. He drags the head of his cock up through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, and you gasp. 

“Such spirit,” he murmurs. In a single motion, he sinks into you, splitting you in open, pulling the air from your lungs. 

He thrusts into you fast and hard, like he wants to tear you open, and it hurts, even with how soaked you are. You cry out, trying to squirm away from the pain. His fingers find your clit again, his breath hot in your ear. He dwarfs you, your legs shaking from pleasure and the weight of him on top of you, pressing you into the dirt. 

“You wanted this.” His voice is a panting snarl, his talented fingers stealing your senses as he forces you closer to your orgasm. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the forest air as he pounds into you without mercy. “Say it.” 

“I want this,” you whimper. You feel the shocking whisper of his lips against the junction of your neck and shoulder and realize with a start that means he’s not wearing his hood. All thoughts are shoved out of your head as he sinks his teeth into your skin, and you wail as you snap, the sensation dragging you over the edge, your body trembling as you cum. His thrusts become sloppy, his cock twitching inside you as he shoves his hips against yours, filling you up. He stays like that, flush against you, as his dick softens, keeping you full and trapped under him. 

You lay in the dirt panting, hollowed out and raw. There are pine needles prickling against your skin, soreness awakening in your limbs as you come back to yourself. König climbs off of you, still cognizant of your injuries, and pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you like a lover, the brutality melting into tenderness like watercolor. His hood is back in place, and the world comes crashing down around you as your senses return, the weight of your actions pulling you down as regret and shame bubble under your skin. 

The walk to the extraction point is silent. König holds you cradled against his chest; your hand fisted in the front of the vest he wears. His thigh burns, his entire body consumed with exhaustion, but he clenches his jaw against the pain, focusing instead on your face, turnt up towards him, open and vulnerable, eyes rimmed with red. If he was a better man, he'd be sorry. 

König notices your eyes glazing over, the warble of your chin, and reaches up a large hand to cradle your face, wiping away tears you didn't realize were threatening to fall. “Hush bunny, you did so well,” he croons down at you, his saccharine actions thrown in high relief against how violently he handled you before. “Such a good girl for me.”

He sets you down gently on a large rock, and pulls your knife out of a hidden pocket, his hand raised in a placating gesture as he slowly places it beside you. It’s still got his blood on it, dried to rust on the tip. You don’t reach for it, pulling your uninjured leg up and wrapping your arms around yourself. You look even smaller than you did before. 

He straightens his spine against the odd sensation in his chest. “Tell your captain to keep a closer eye on his men,” He orders, then reaches out a hand, hovering just above your cheek bone. Neither of you bridge the gap.  

You watch him disappear into the trees, the shadows swallowing him whole, the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

[asavt]

[ Reflection ] About yourself.

Was listening to Shunkan Sentimental by SCANDAL at like 10 p.m. and stayed up until 4 a.m. to work on this. I didn't finish it right away tho, I still had to sleep.

Two extras below read more!

[kitamars]

high school joui 4 shenanigans

[aigoosm]

HEAR ME OUT.

sect leaders lan sizhui, ouyang zizhen, and jin ling calling lan jingyi as “furen” as a joke, until it escalated and now the rest of their sects— respectively, calls him; lan–furen, ouyang–furen, and jin–furen. all because none of the sect leaders attempt to deny the rumors if lan jingyi is really gonna marry one of them and become their madame, and because the three of them secretly preens at jingyi getting called their furen. they are three dumb lovesick fools who are deeply infatuated with their best friend.

despite jingyi’s flustered state at every address towards him, it reached to a point that he got used to it and fully embraced his title(s). the three saw this as a tacit approval and began openly courting and initiative towards him.

lsz: “jingyi, can you stay for a little while? would you really allow this husband of yours to be left alone after his incessant efforts of finishing his paperwork?” sizhui teases fondly, his voice too soft that jingyi assumed it was genuine. jingyi pulls his hand away with a flush.

after jin ling bought him 5 chicken wings, before jingyi could even protest.

ljy: “jin ling! i can’t finish all of this!” he fusses. “you’ve been spending so much stuff for me since earlier, what’s up with you anyway?”

jin ling only directs him an amused glint in his eyes before humming,

jinling: “i can’t let them think i‘m neglecting their beloved jin–furen.” he says before wrapping his arm around the other’s waist.

the lanling jin sect members— especially the younger disciples, absolutely adore jingyi. since jin ling‘s reign as sect leader, the lanling jin sect transformed for the better, and he broke the cycle of shitty sect leaders. the younger disciples are made of majority of members jin ling personally handpicked and invited into the sect, and they’re fond and grateful towards him. because of this, they are very comfortable and friendly, and jin ling allows them to be informal and friendlier towards him as long as it's just him and his sect. the other trio were present during this, and are quite popular amongst them, especially jingyi. they are very fond of jingyi since he has much more time to visit, since the other two are sect leaders. the disciples have an inkling about their sect leader’s attraction towards jingyi. who knows, they probably call him jin–furen to appease their leader and hopefully deliver the message to jingyi’s dense ass.

i cannot think of any scenario for zizhen, but i can imagine that zizhen would act more.. soft and affectionate towards jingyi. aaa

[vaguely-concerned]

of course the thing that kind of gets lucanis on board with the whole necromancy thing is contemplatively reflecting that it creates job opportunities and is vital to the nevarran economy (as the crows are to antiva. just dealing with the post-mortem part instead of getting someone there). he really is like ah I get it now that's pretty cool actually fhdskjfhsa. never ever change lucanis

[musingmelsuinesmelancholy]

Musings on titles and definitions

I've been listening to Radical Elphame and BiblioSophia. The interview they did recently with Marshal and Austin and the interview Biblia Sophia did with Shani Oates (my god that was fascinating) got me thinking about how we define and title the things we practice.

Why do we specify traditional witchcraft? Is there a difference between witchcraft and trad craft? What exactly is folk witchcraft?

I know we have all heard that tw is used to distinguish from Wicca; but I don't honestly think that's accurate. I know Cochrane disliked Wicca and did consider what he was doing diametrically opposed to Wicca. I do think the two are different, but are really different enough to define trad craft as non-wiccan witchcraft? I don't think so, we use similar tools, laying a compass is similar to casting a circle (having done both I have noticed differences), Sabbatic Craft works with Divine Male/Female pairings. No, I would think that its more accurate to describe tradcraft as non-new age witchcraft. When I see people complaining about wiccans, I find that often, not always, what they're actually complaining about is New Age! Both trad craft and wicca used similar ideas/material in their inceptions, it just seems like it was interpreted differently. They certainly are two different approaches to the craft but in the same way I do not think it would be helpful to describe a Baptist as a non-Catholic Christian, even though that is true, I don't think it's helpful to describe tw as non-wiccan witchcraft. Most trad witches would probably describe witchcraft as the art of trafficking with spirits, becoming like them and the practice of malefica. So why not just call ourselves witches? Imo it is because, generally speaking, the popular idea of witchcraft is more along the lines of energy manipulation, manifestation, angel numbers 'intentions' and tends to conjure up images of crystal healing, eclecticism etc and/or tends to be use as term to describe magic in general with no specific definition. (Not that there is anything wrong with that it doesn't matter what other people do, so as long as it isn't racist or appropriative). There is certainly still some conflation with wicca and witchcraft, but I don't think it's as bad as it was and therefore do not see the need to specifically set us apart from wiccans.

However, I do think wiccans and trad crafters approach the craft differently. (generally speaking!) I feel that the trad craft approach is more about connecting to rediscovering or reinvigorating the culture/traditions of a certain place. This often leads to a dual-faith observance, as our idea of witchcraft came to be in the context of Christianity. When I was wiccan, it felt more about re-inventing and reclaiming witchcraft and participating in a religion which, at the time, I felt made up for the lack of feminine/nature-based spirituality. We have different founders of course, Cecil Williamson, Robert Cochrane, Gardner, Valiente (though I think she was involved in both currents). The two trads evolved differently. Shani Oates said in her BiblioSophia interview "It [Wicca] is something that has no cosmology, and no end times. So, it doesn't have an eschatology, it just exists in its own creation, in its own bubble. Whereas The Clan of Tubal Cain and Robert Cochranes development of that very much has a cosmology and an eschatology, so it's a full rounded thing." I disagree about Wicca not having cosmology, the god/dess and belief in rebirth/Summerland's would be cosmology, no? I'm sure different traditions have their own too, which the public may not be privy to. The rest resonates very well with me and why I am drawn to trad craft specifically. Before I continue, I want to say in this I am comparing and contrasting my own experiences in wicca and tradcraft. I was wiccan for a while. I am not attempting to diss the religion as a whole, there's much about it that I appreciate! I can only speak on MY OWN experiences and in no way am trying to speak for or on wicca as a whole. I absolutely felt that wicca 'existed in it's own creation' during my time as one. It did not engage with culture or folklore. It had no connection, as far as I am aware, to a cosmology or eschatology that had evolved over time/within a certain culture or religion. (this is not a problem per se and I am generalizing). Trad craft gave me a way to connect to existing cosmologies which had connections to the land, the cultures and the histories I was drawn to. (local ones + my ancestors). I felt that I had more "scaffolding". What I was searching for, when got into spirituality, wasn't a re-creation or re-invention of a pagan/witch faith but rather connection to land, culture and its people. I didn't want to re-invent these things, I wanted to appreciate with and engage with them as they are. That isn't to say that a wiccan can't blend their religion with local or ancestral lore/culture or incorporate an outside cosmology into it.

This brings me to folk witchcraft. I'm seeing this word used more and I have a lot of feelings. I would think that a folk witch is one who is practicing the witchcraft of the area they live in or is one who has been brought into a living folk tradition. Can you call yourself a folk witch, if you're one such as myself? Raised in a white homogenous consumerist culture. No language passed down, no folk tales, very few folk customs retained. I seek out the lore and traditions of my state and of the cultures of my ancestors. I use folk spells. but who are my folk? folk magic is community based. I can't call myself a Canadian, French or Scottish folk witch, even if all the magic I did came from those cultures. I don't live in any of those places. I cannot claim those cultures. I suppose, as the lore of my state is a part of what I do, I could call myself an INSERT STATE NAME folk witch. But, again, who are my folk? The old French-Canadian culture that was once here is all but gone. Not that we don't have a distinct culture of our own anymore! We certainly do.

I like how Marshal described trad craft as "loric" as opposed to folkloric. The lore/history of Europe and America do inform my understanding of witchcraft, but folklore is regional! One cannot say their craft is based on European or American folklore. Who's folklore? Which countries? Which states? "loreic" is specific enough to imply that the lore of witchcraft shapes what one does while not claiming that one is part of a folk trad they have no connection to.

Certainly, one's craft being a melting pot of ancestral and local lore(s) while having to navigate practicing on stolen, colonized land, is very American in spirit.

Edit: Forgot to mention this! Honestly the biggest difference between trad craft and wicca is the "astral sabbath" I never encountered mention of a "sabbath" (I don't like the word tbh due to its antisemitic origins. I propose the use of Conclave instead?) as a nonphysical, spiritual event within Wicca. If you've spent any time in the trad craft sphere, you'll know it's a main focus of what we do. Idk if wiccans place emphasis on spirit initiation either. I didn't learn of the term until I got into traditional witchcraft.

[writhe]

dude i know this is so toxic of me but i am beginning to become a small dog hater

[cuntylestat]

not to be too tmi but either i ate something bad or caught some kind of stomach virus... and i'm going thru it

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

The thing about the broadly left-of-center in the United States that I find striking in this moment is the conceit that they did literally everything they could and it didn't work, and this just proves the United States is worse than they ever imagined

I suspect this is one of the main problems with their strategy. They cannot pretend not to hate the United States long enough to make it stick. Every time they try, it is immediately recognized for the lie that it is, and then when their lie fails to catch, the mask then drops immediately, and they revert back to their miserable and bitter selves

[wardensantoineandevka]

the real problem with the Veilguard score is not that it's bad (because it isn't) it's that they didn't put all of the stuff on the soundtrack

[emilieduchatele]

Jews in Girl Genius

I'm rereading girl genius and in the very beginning there's a Chasidic Jewish student

which got me thinking about how he could have gotten onto a secular university campus

Chasidic Judaism is a fairly traditional sect that discourages going to secular school, especially 130 years ago. A Chasidic boy would be expected to go to a yeshiva ( a Jewish school focused on learning Jewish texts only.) I'm not Chasidic myself, but from my understanding going to a secular school would be very frowned upon in the 1890s. So how did he get here?

Of course colleges also weren't exactly open to Jews at the time in our world, but that sort of a thing doesn't seem to be as big of a deal in Europa. Given the diversity of the students on castle Wulfenbach, including a Jewish student, under Klaus it seems plausible that a Orthodox Jew would be allowed into the school.

What this still doesn't explain is how he's managing to maintain being Chasidic while at university. What does his community think? There were Jewish groups who encouraged a secular education active at the time, why hasn't he joined one of those sects?

I'm sure this is just the result of the Foglios trying to show a diverse setting without doing a lot of research, but they accidentally made what i think is a very interesting character, and I'm fascinated by the implications.

what is Judaism like in this universe? Sparks would fit into Judaism super well actually. the Talmud seems pretty sparky already, i'd love to read the version in girl genius. SPARK RABBIS!!

TLDR; I really want fanfic about Jewish sparks, this opens up so many possibilities