#witchworks

[palewitchknight]

Giving my sona a 'normal' form. He's just a black furred non-specific dog.

[parsely-bunny]

evil littol craft..... doing witch craft..... huff....

[mxdmagic]

Sunlight is another great way to clear, so long as the item isn't damaged by it! 🌞 #thrifting #secondhandshopping #recyclereuse #altar #altaritems #thriftwitch #witchtips #thriftywitch #witchworkings #witchworld #mxdmagic #mxdmagick #charlottenc #matthewsnc #minthillnc #smallwitchbusiness (at Charlotte, North Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClMR_8fO3-z/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[adelselles]

Amaris and Tommy

[breelandwalker]

Say what you will about carefully-curated workspaces and highly-detailed rituals for creating magical objects, they're all well and good.

But for me, the peak of modern witchwork is setting up your materials on a desk with sigils painted under the worktop, lighting up some incense you got in a trade at the last swap meet, tapping your wifi as a protective bubble, and making charms while you binge-watch something on your favorite streaming service.

[kintsug1kitsune]

clipped wings, risen metal [short story; cw: violence, gore]

Rip.

The angel's wing shudders to the ground violently, pouring bright-gold blood. "Please! Please, no!" The angel herself was weeping, limbs contorted and held by spells, burning circles of runes.

"Quiet." I take her other wing between my claws, giant metal digits snapping into their feathers.

She gasped and whimpered. "No..."

"Yes," I insisted, and--pulled, stripping the woman of her other wing.

"No--!" She shrieked one more note and fell limp into my arms.

All six of them stroked her naked body gently, cradled her tear-streaked face, lining it with her own blood. "There... You've been so good for me, little angel."

"Please..." she murmured. "I don't... You..."

"You've been a thorn in my side. Tracking my every movement. Tailing and, yes, even assaulting my dolls. Getting closer to me than anyone else dares..."

"It... It's for the..."

"Empyrean? Your Lord? For the mission? Or... was it for something else?" My fangs glinted as I smirked cruelly. "Something you maybe found to be... intoxicating?"

"I... Please, I don't-- I..."

"Yes?"

Given a moment, she shuddered and mewled, "It was for you..."

"Yes, it was. And now, your body and soul will be, too. Mine."

"Yours..." She fell even limper--

As I ran my claws delicately into her chest, bloodily extricating a brilliant light. The angel's Heart, and soul along with it.

---

In my workshop, the body of my new combat doll was left with its core exposed. Now was the time.

With the divinity excised from her Heart, it now shone a cavalcade of multicolored light, resting within my claws for the final time. I delivered it gently into the core, and...

It blinked open its seven eyes. The witchwork within it ticked to life, and it drew its first ventilating breath. The first in a new life, and it grinned. "My... Witch?"

I smiled gently. "Yes, my blade."

"Thank you."

[gallawitchxx]

Pluto and 3H please and thank you 😘

donna my sweet 🖤 hi! how are you? i love you!

pluto ⇢ tell something supernatural that happened to you

oh goodness. well, i believe in a lot of witchy shit, so i think supernatural stuff happens to me quite often... on at least 2 occasions, i'll be thinking about a book or someone will recommend it or i'll need it for my witchwork & within a couple of days, someone will have given a copy away & left it somewhere where i'll come across it. one time, it was my building lobby, another time it was a box of books outside a building on my dog walk route. books are a super common way that i talk to my guides/the universe. fun & spooky! 📚 ✨

3H ⇢ what are some of the topics you like to talk about the most?

🗣 🗣 witchcraft. reality dating shows. philosophy. true crime. 🗣🗣

astrology ask game ☄️

[maybeelse]

She doesn't get a chance to understand before it kills her.

A month later, when her latest iteration wakes inside her latest descendant-clone, she's already cursing when she comes out of the nutrient broth. Technician-dolls cringe away from her fury, unpleasantly aware of how it distorts their witchwork hearts.

"—I should have had it that time! What went wrong? Which of you fucking rags lost hold of their wards?" None of them reply, of course. "Give me the damn readouts, useless things, I'll figure this out myself ..."

The path from the resurrection suite to her office is among the longest and least scenic on the ship, deep below stairs, full of all the unsightly necessities that keep lights on and bellies full. Even so, there's still slimy nutrient residue clinging to her by the end of it, slick-drying-to-sticky. Dolls hurry to clean the trail she left behind.

Her office is cleaner than she left it, a fresh pot of tea waiting on the sideboard. Her own custom blend. It's the best she can do out here in the uneasy void, and her best is very good indeed. Each sip coats her throat with hot honey and drenches her tongue in delicate, creamy flowers. By the end of her third cup it becomes clear that her failure has no easy culprit.

The mass of potential her ship is anchored to, the scar on the void, simply popped her existence like an unwanted pimple. Possibly this was in response to something she did—she's missing the final thirty seconds of telemetry and memory—but if so it would mean that her last iteration went off script. There's no trace of anything else.

She groans in frustration.

As if in response, there is a knock at the door. Tentative, uneasy. No wonder; her foul mood is palpable. "M-mistress?"

"Come in."

The door's hinges don't creak. They used to, in the old house she plucked it from, but somehow that was lost in transition. Perhaps in her absence the dolls have grown over-eager to oil them.

The face that peeks through is one she knows well; after all, she is responsible for most of its more distinctive features. The delicate scarification around its seven eyes, two sets of three packed close together and the last above, splitting its forehead into two smooth panels; the seams where she taught its lips to part further than it ever thought they could. And, most satisfyingly of all, the involuntary flush that creeps into its cheeks when it sees her. Her secretary.

Its body is no less pleasing to her, even hidden under space-ready overalls and behind a large manila folder. Her eyes linger; her crotch twitches. It takes her a moment to focus on what her secretary is saying—her new body's hormone balance must be off. Something to look into.

"... lost one substrate tank to a micrometeorite strike while You were away, but otherwise resource consumption was minimal. Hydroponic and solar arrays are both running at full efficiency, so that's good. The bad news is the ram-scoop malfunction, which this one already mentioned, and contamination in the soul-farm. Not urgent, but attrition will be a problem until it's fixed. Other than that," it trails off, "there's ... miss ...?"

It drifted closer to her desk while it was talking, its many-branched legs twitching almost involuntarily. It always moves like this: incidental, distracted, torso held perfectly steady. In low gravity, its hair slowly drifting around it, the effect is mesmerizing. Heat runs through her body, hundreds of strings plucked and vibrating, converging, focusing. The choice to stand is not wholly her own.

She prefers to be taller than her secretary, though not by much. Standing, its eyes are level with her collarbones; kneeling, its complex legs partially folded under it, it looks up at her from waist-height. She admires its eyes, lidded and dilated; its choice to kneel owes more to rigorous conditioning than conscious thought.

"... miss?"

She steps towards it, the flush in its cheeks deepening as her body's heat and scent envelop it—the chemical-sweet nutrient broth, the milky-sour undertones of fresh-grown flesh, her own tangy musk slowly building as her body makes its needs known. Her secretary's lips part.

"Good. Now, keep your mouth open for me ..."

She takes full advantage of how wide its mouth opens.

Later—much later—she's scrubbing her resurrection's last vestiges out of her hair, massaging the shampoo into her scalp with the same precision she'll soon apply to building a new exploration-craft. Putting her new hands through their motions. Her secretary lies on the tile floor, its body leaking, swollen, and utterly insensate.

This is her fourth attempt to get clean. It's entirely her own fault that her secretary looks so delicious every time it stirs back to life, just as it's entirely her own fault that they have had an intermittent audience of off-duty technician-dolls: when she designed her ship she didn't think to give herself a private bath suite, and the dolls weren't grown with enough sense to give their mistress her privacy.

Probably that's going to cause cultural problems down the line, if she doesn't remember to do something about it.

Another technician-doll freezes in the entrance to the baths, its soft curves already half-freed from its shapelessly utilitarian uniform. Its eyes flicker between her and her secretary; she can feel the way its gaze travels down her body, snapping to her breasts, the curve of her stomach, and her crotch, flushed and oversensitive and demanding no matter how hard she tries to calm it.

The doll's nose twitches; its cheeks flush; and she yells "get out, idiot!" at it just before it's too late. Her entire body twitches with predatory need as she watches it flee; an utterly inappropriate way to feel about a thing that is already hers, that exists only to serve her purposes, that would happily let her break it apart—and why shouldn't she? She vibrates with need, her body taking a single step before she swings back towards her secretary, so perfectly shaped to her desires—

She is starting to think that something went seriously, fundamentally wrong with her resurrection.

She's going to have to figure out how to fix it, soon.

But maybe not yet. Not with her secretary's body right there. She can afford to wear herself out first, just as a precaution. It's fine. And, as she picks up her secretary's limp body, she's careful not to acknowledge that she's not sure if she can stop herself.

[maybeelse]

"Mortals!" Florence intones, "what offerings hath thou brought to this, our witches' sabbath?"

Grace can't help giggling. Florence is trying so hard to set the right mood, with her stony expression and a too-large robe whose origins as a bathrobe are still obvious despite the amount of black dye soaked into it, and it's not working at all. It's just silly!

At least Ash seems suitably impressed, staring with wide eyes and clutching her backpack tight against her chest. Perhaps that's not surprising, though. She's always been a bit naive, and the other two have had to chase off more than one guy who tried to take advantage. At least she's able to overlook the bathrobe, and the boxes of old holiday decorations and worn clothes littering the dim attic.

"Hey! It's not funny!"

"Sorry, Flor," Grace does her best to smooth away her amusement, "but it sort of is. Like, couldn't you find something better?"

"You didn't even try to get dressed up!"

"Because I couldn't find anything!"

"Hey," Ash interrupts, voice a single degree smaller than usual, "do you want my offering?"

"Yeah," Florence squeaks, and then, remembering herself, fills her tone with the deep darkness of an unfilled grave, "place it upon the pedestal that it may be counted!"

"Ooo, got anything good?"

Of the three of them, only Ash comes from anything resembling an interesting family. Florence's is bog-standard nuclear dysfunction and Grace's moms think that staying up until eleven with a bottle of soda is the height of decadent indulgence; Ash is proper witch-born, and her bespectacled father stole her away from her mother when she was still in the crib.

That's what they've decided, anyway. Ash's father doesn't like talking about her mother. He gets twitchy and sad whenever Ash asks; the most she's ever gotten out of him is that he'll tell her when she's old enough, which is just pathetic. They all are old enough, and it's not like abusive relationships are a secret!

The upshot of which is that, when Ash pulls a book—a tome—out of her backpack and places it on the alleged pedestal, none of them question whether or not it's real. It obviously is, from the gem-eyed skull molded into its leather cover to the generic padlock holding it shut.

"Oh wow," Grace breathes, "is that …?"

"I, uh, found it in one of my father's chests. In the basement. It was with a bunch of other stuff, clothes and jewelry and whatnot? But I thought …"

"A perfect offering!" The faux-importance drains from Florence's voice. She pokes the padlock. "Uh, do you have a key?"

"No, uh. There wasn't one there. But it's just a normal lock, right?"

Florence and Ash both look at Grace. She's been learning to pick locks; keeps on getting in trouble at school for turning up in places she shouldn't be.

"Yeah, yeah," she says, "I got it."

It doesn't take long, once she gets some lock lube in, but she acts like it's harder than it is. Ash is suitably impressed; Florence rolls her eyes impatiently.

The lights flicker as Florence opens the book, and Grace shivers. The attic suddenly seems colder than it should be; the piled boxes less welcoming. The others don't seem to notice, though, so she's not going to point it out and risk being branded a chicken, not in front of Ash.

For all the drama, its contents are remarkably mundane. Just row after row of dated entries ("August 5th: Went into town. Henderson still sick; parents skeptical of offer. August 8th: Woken up early by knock. Parents begging for help; Henderson in death throes. Designing a suitable ward. August 11th: Ward effective. Henderson seems stable. Told parents it was too late.") split by masses of incomprehensible geometry.

"… oh."

"Uh. Should I have brought something else?"

"Nah, Flor just expected a grimoire. This is cool, though! Who do you think Henderson was?"

"I don't know, dad's never mentioned …"

Florence skips ahead, first page by page and then in huge chunks, skipping forward into a past increasingly dominated by massive witchwork sigils, forcing words into scattered crevasses before exterminating them entirely. The final page is an almost solid mass of color, hair-thin lines weaving together into a symbol that shifts and bubbles as they stare at it, Florence hungrily and Grace fearfully and Ash with that blank, happy mask that she wears whenever she's not sure what she's supposed to be.

"Flor," Grace says, "maybe we should—"

"No! This is perfect! We'll use it," Florence taps the middle of the page, not looking at it, "as a focus when we call down the—Grace, let go of my hand."

"What? I'm not—"

They all look down. Florence screams, starting with an almost intelligible "get it off! GET IT OFF!" before her voice dissolves into the burbling, bubbling ink climbing up her arm from the book.

Ash trips and falls. Grace backs away until her back is pressed against an unsteady tower of too-old boxes. The slightly squishy cardboard isn't at all reassuring. They both watch, though; they can't help watching.

It's over surprisingly fast, though those scant minutes will live in Grace's head until the day she dies.

It covers Florence.

She falls down, her limp arm dragging the book down after her.

"D-do you think she's," Ash says, not moving.

"No, she—she can't be," Grace stammers, taking a single step towards the glossy body.

The glossy, multicolored body, wrapped in the same elaborate pattern that filled the book's now-empty final page. The body that slithers upright, a strange, boneless movement accompanied by a series of crunches and snaps, and stares at Ash, its head tilted at an angle that its neck can't possibly be pleased with.

"Oh," it says, "there you are, daughter. I thought I'd lost you."

Girls who read a book

[palewitchknight]

Cute little WIP for my lovely friend featuring our sonas just bein’ cute.

Finally drew Seth’s anthro form after a million years

[mxdmagic]

At the end of the 5 days - cleanse it and dispose of it away from your home. #spellwork #charmbag #witchtips #mxdmagic #witchworkings #mxdmagick #witchcraftspells #witches #witchylife (at mxdmagic) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cn9reJVu59J/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[inspireflect]

Trio of Angels- Alpha Boots is my Spirit Companion Animal- my familiar. She never wants to leave my side. Edward is my Protector and works for the Universe. I'm pretty sure he is an undercover archangel and has seen the entire solar system. And littles Lavie Binks is my wild, curious devil. She watches ceiling fans for hours, crawls in any cabinet when opportunity knocks, sprints and leaps across entire rooms in a single bound, keeps her independent Will strong, and is a KITKA - Kitten In Training for Kindred Adventure! #trioofAngels #msbootsieparton #edik #lavieenrose #spiritguides #god #witchworks #catsofinstagram (at Chicken Vision) https://www.instagram.com/p/ByY7IcThhXk_W_1cK68ZMYfgNOfK8fnJlMSlyM0/?igshid=2n0tqhncm8sb

[sapphireclaw]

@witchwork-at-home

This is the most flattering thing anyone could have said about this drawing and I thank you.

Oh to hug ur big eyeball monster bf before making ur way thru the apocalypse together to fuck Jonah Magnus up.

More Apocalypse Beast AU lol. (Slight alterations to his previous design)

[breelandwalker]

Just checked my overall schedule for the year and by the time December closes out, I'll have tabled at a total of 14 separate markets and events in 2023. With the exception of January and February, I've done at least one market every single month, sometimes two. In October, I'll be doing three. Next year will probably be more of the same

Add to this the time spent running my shop, selling my books online, and working on the podcast and I feel comfortable calling myself a Professional Witch. (As in, witchcraft-related activity forms a substantial part of my income, not that I'm any kind of expert or take on witchwork for hire.)

I just wish I could actually write that on a tax form. 😅

[kintsug1kitsune]

welcome to the library [short story ; no cw]

"Welcome to the Library, dear guest."

The doll at the front desk bowed dutifully. It was wearing the Library's fine black longcoat, suit and tie, and its brown porcelain body was delicately powdered with makeup.

"Uh, hey." 92 Jagged Edges was a rather small and squat woman, brown-haired and plain, with many scars, wearing only a haphazardly-tucked button-up shirt and jacket, and worn slacks with combat boots. "Thank you. I'm here on behalf of--"

"Firmament," the doll answered, bowing again. "The Director knows. She will be coming to greet you…" Its head canted up at thin air. Jag followed suit, but slower, perplexed.

And then, in a warping of that air, there appeared another doll.

No. It looked false and mechanical, joints and all, but its flesh was darkness, about 170cm tall--shorter than Jag--pooled together into a figure neither dark nor light, humanoid but not human, wearing a far more embroidered Library robe, bismuth thorns and flowers, and a tie with a special clip: roses, a tome, a sword, and a singular "I" marking it. The sheer aura, as if the Library around them bent to accommodate her…

"Hello there." She smiled, all fangs, two magenta eyes--no, far too many eyes, it was hard to tell--under the broad brim of a Witch's hat, veiled. "I heard a representative from Firmament Corporation was coming. Thought I'd welcome you in. I am the Library Director, Cynithe."

The petitioner took a gulp and bowed politely, herself. "Ma'am. 92 Jagged Edges, intelligence officer, Firmament Corp. Call me Jag."

"Jag," the Witch tasted. "Good name. Wonderful. What can I do for you, Jag?"

"I'm here for a book. Uh--obviously," she chuckled, trying not to let sweat bead down her forehead.

"Yes, I expected as much," Cynithe smiled, as if she was sharing a joke.

"Heh. Yeah, I'm looking for the specs on a certain weapon." She paused a moment. "…The mirror-splitter."

"Oh, I see." The Director hummed and tapped her chin; her gaze betrayed nothing, empty beyond belief. Hungry. "Why? Is Firmament going to war?"

"We have reason to believe Raze Corp's going to employ it."

"…Walk with me."

Not thinking for even a moment of refusing the Director's vast will, Jag followed as they began walking further into the Library's halls. It was better-crafted than anything she'd seen in in human-made lands; elegant pillars lined the walls, strips of pure light illuminated everything in comfortable gold. The ceiling was far overhead, the floor was fine stone, and soon the hallway out of reception emptied them onto a vast balcony.

A ring--layers of rings--overlooked the Library's grand center, a massive tower crossed with bridges and stairways, railings hewn with flowery designs. It was, for all its greatness, very empty; dolls went here and there, a few patrons of different kinds milled and searched, some seemed engaged in conversation, and yet others were reclining on one of the many red couches, smoking, drinking, laughing. But for its size--it was quiet, serene, even, if not a little eerie.

Jag whistled low. "Nice place you've got."

"Thank you," Cyn said, "I do think I look lovely."

"Ah, right--the Director is the Library itself. Or, that's what I heard," she hurried to say.

"You heard right," she nodded back, leaning on the near rail to watch everything. "I am the Library, the Witch of the Endless Night."

"I see. It's an honor to be, uh… in you?" Jag frowned a bit and followed her lead, leaning on the railing.

Cyn laughed, a sound like a thousand mortals being cut down and church bells shattering. "You're welcome, love. Now. Do you know what a mirror-splitter is?"

"Vaguely," she answered. "I've heard it's some sort of weapon." The Director hummed, "Potentially. It's inspired by witchwork, a device that is capable of slicing through possibility. It can render divinations of the future, as it was intended to do, or… it can cut possibilities away."

"I… see?"

"Imagine that you toss a coin." Cynithe flicked her claws and an ancient nickel medallion appeared amidst her fingers.

"Uh, a coin. Right, that used to be used as money." Jag watched curiously.

"Yes. Now, it can be heads," she showed one side, "Or tails," and showed the other. "When I flip it…" She used a thumb to launch it into the air--caught it, and slammed it over onto the top of her other hand. "Now, it can be either heads or tails, and we don't know which."

"Right, I see."

"But if I were to use a mirror-splitter, I could cut the possibility of it being tails. Do you understand? There would be no choice but for it to be heads, in any reality."

"…Huh."

She let the coin out--tails, as it happened--and let it vanish into darkness. "If used on a living being, it could force them to be only one thing. It could force a singular outcome for their existence. Or, it could erase all possibilities of their existence at all."

"That… Nobody should use that. If anyone made that, it could destroy free will forever. Let alone people--the implications as a weapon…" Jag gripped her hair and shook her head, eyes wide, frowning.

Cynithe looked understanding. "Mhm. And your employers want it."

She shot her gaze up to the Director. "No-- I can't let them have it. I can't let anyone get ahold of it. Fuck my job."

"Good, you understand the problem. Do you have a head for books, Jag?"

"--Uh?" She cocked an eyebrow. "I guess? I'm in charge of gathering and organizing company intel. I do my share of paperwork, filing, and that shit. Wait, are you offering me…?"

"Not a job," the Witch shook her head. "A position with me, here. You know you cannot return empty-handed to Firmament."

"Pft, they'd cut my heart out and burn it just to make a point," Jag spat.

"And neither of us want you to return to them with the schematics for a mirror-splitter."

"No…"

"Work with me. Become a Librarian, and we will recover the mirror-splitter plans from Raze Corp." The many-eyed stare affixed to Jag was empty… but still far from as vile as the looks in her managers' eyes.

She nodded. "Sounds like a plan, Director. Let's get to it."

Cynithe smiled.

"Welcome to the Library, Jag."

[thefiresontheheight]

The other corner of their poly drama trio is Angel, possibly the only person with more trauma than Eli herself. Young, scraggly, with a special and barely quantifiable thread connecting them to everyone who ever worked in any diner across America. The only one of the main characters who did not grow up around magic, witchwork, godminders and the like. Formerly the chosen one, who should have saved America.

I wanna talk about my book about trans blue collar witches and avatars of concepts and a chosen one and the emerging god of America, worshipped in every diner in the country.