#i was fine with them knowing it theoretically

[friend-crow]

Inspired by the advanced magic post - how/what do you define as 'advanced'? do you use it as a term in your practise at all?

We've seen so many different definitions - topics, ages/length of practise, etc, and it often seems like its closer to regurgitated fearmongering and elitism than actual considered thought, so we figured we'd ask someone that we know does more of the latter than the former XD.

I really don't have a specific definition. I think it's not that difficult to become advanced at specific types of magic if you work at them, but there's always other things that you won't really be advanced at.

Like if every spell you do is a candle spell, and you do a lot of candle spells, then you can pretty quickly become fairly advanced at doing candle magic. But if you then start telling people you're an advanced witch and present as a teacher or authority figure on the subject, that perception of you is gonna fall apart pretty quickly when people start asking you about subjects other than candle magic. Then again, if you can achieve everything you need to via candle spells, then on a personal level, that's perfectly fine.

And then some people have a great deal of knowledge about a lot of different types of magic, but very little working experience with most of it. There can be a huge gap between theory and experience, so I don't really consider having a lot of theoretical knowledge to be the same as being advanced at doing magic.

I don't feel that time is a good measure of advancedness, either. Some people will dabble a bit when they're 12, and a bit when they're 26, and then when they start dabbling again at age 40 they can say "I've been doing witchcraft for almost 30 years!" Time is gonna elapse whether you're actively working at a skill or not, but you have to actually be doing the thing to become experienced at it.

Honestly I'm not sure what the point of the "advanced" label even is. A lot of us are very experienced and knowledgeable in some areas and know fuck-all about others, and that's fine.

I figure if somebody is working as an artist, they'll just tell you they're an artist, and not an advanced artist. In fact, when I was studying art, most of the classes were set up so that there was a class for beginners in whatever subject (drawing, sculpture, painting, etc.), and after you'd taken the beginners' course, the classes were more about the specific media/application they focused on (sculpture classes on mold making, bronze casting, welding, soft metals, installation, etc.). You could repeat these classes for additional credit, but you didn't move on to an "advanced" version of the class -- you just gained more experience by practicing the technical skills and making different pieces.

So yeah, I don't think there's any particular curriculum or milestone that makes you advanced. I do understand that people want to be able to pinpoint a moment at which they've made it, but really I think it's more important to figure out what works for you, and then run with it. And if that means you end up being the world's foremost expert on candle magic but have never astral traveled in your life, I don't think there's anything wrong with that.

[mephistosfaust]

I'm this close to rolling up the file and giving her a light smack on the head with it—purely symbolic, of course—as if that might jolt her into taking this Baltic mess a bit more seriously. But I don’t. I exhale, shove the papers back into my briefcase with more force than needed, and click it shut. She's clearly in no state to offer a proper analysis anyway. Fantastic. There goes my chance at a balanced, second—no, third—opinion.

My brother's already read the documents. Naturally. He’s pored over every line with that gleaming, obsessive intensity he saves for anything that involves potential escalation. Predictably, he’s landed on the one conclusion he always lands on: deterrence, force, more money for defense. And gods forbid we show a shred of hesitation. Which is precisely why I have to be back at that summit tomorrow. The world’s hanging by a thread, and the last thing we need is a Prussian making unilateral decisions on Baltic security.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, not quite hiding the edge in my voice. “I’ll carve out time in the morning. And I know you hate hearing this, but you can’t fix everything in one night. So do yourself a favor and rest.”

I look at her, clearly worried about her state as she answers my question with that too-light laugh and a brush-off that smells like blood and adrenaline and someone trying very hard not to tremble. Just a regular Tuesday for me, she says, like it’s nothing. Like being hunted and bruised is part of the job description. Maybe for her it is. But that doesn’t make it fine.

When she leans in to talk, I shift, subtly guarding my side—not to reject her, but because this whole afternoon has been one intrusion after the other. Everyone in this room seems to have decided that I’m some blank canvas to draw their secrets and games onto. Like I showed up with ‘insert narrative here’ tattooed on my forehead. All I wanted was her too look into something, get some insights, and a quiet return to a world where people schedule their violence. Where things go through protocol. Where threats wear suits and shake hands before they stab you in the back.

But I listen.

She’s careful with the details. Not because anyone’s listening—frankly, no one here cares—but because that’s how her mind works. She still plays spy, even when there’s no stage. I keep my face still, even though my fingers twitch with the urge to wave her along. Just spit it out already. But I don’t. She finishes, and I give her a short nod.

“I thought we agreed we’re not doing the hero thing,” I say with a trace of sarcasm, stepping aside to let her lead the way.

We weave through the crowd, and of course, two more people think it’s open season on personal space. I yawn at them pointedly, Margo’s handiwork clearly having turned the place into a soft-focus hallucination. Half these people are halfway to orbit. Somewhere between a Banksy knockoff and a sculpture made out of VHS tapes, I pull a card from my briefcase, scribble my private number on it and hand it to Alex, who’s deep in some aggressively theoretical conversation about the limitations of satire in the space of art.

“In case you ever wander into my world,” I say. Then, on a whim, I run a single finger along his jawline—mocking, amused, but just enough to make sure he won’t forget me anytime soon. “Can’t say it was a pleasure. But it wasn’t the worst day of my life either. Plenty of room for improvement.”

With the briefcase snug in my grip, I follow Lily out of the gallery. The evening air is a welcome breeze of clarity, or at least relative sanity—cooler, cleaner, and blissfully free of the basement’s cloying mix of sweat, smoke, and too many half-assed theories of art.

“Please tell me we’re not in some inception-spy-thriller fever dream,” I say, as we walk. “Where the French woman turns out to be my forgotten lover and I’m trapped inside a collapsing dreamscape?” I’m joking. Probably.

I glance at Lily again and make a mental note—right after Baltic strategy and before coffee—to read up on quantum physics. It’s probably time that I learn to understand how the multiverse works.

"Right, of course, your summit. And the file. I can go over it tonight, I think. I shouldn't take it home though. My father might show up again. But don't worry, I have other places I can go that he doesn't know about. I think."

She reached out a hand for the file, but when Ludwig held it back, she dropped it. She tilted her head at his question. "Am I...Oh, am I fine? You mean all this?" She gestured to herself and laughed just a little. "It'll be okay. It's just a regular Tuesday for me, you know? I'll clean up and I'll heal right as rain soon enough."

She leaned in to talk more quietly to him. Not that it really mattered here, given the noise and lack of interest from anyone else, but she felt better doing it. "I got a phone call from a friend this morning. He was, ah, in a tight spot. Got himself into trouble with a nasty lot. So he asked for a favor. And he's good at returning them, so I couldn't say no. I thought it would be over and done with quickly, but they had more people than he told me. And more guns. But the important thing is that I got him out and to a safe spot for now. The whole thing isn't over yet, but I need more people to put a solid end to it. And that's not something I can procure in an hour."

"Alex told me you were with him and that Herr Beilschmidt was in my place. I got so worried about you. I tried to come as soon as I could. Good thing he found you though. Our father would never come here, especially right now. I don't know if he knows you're here though, but it's possible. He has eyes lurking around, and I swear one was following me tonight. So I'm not going to let you walk home by yourself. I lost that tail, but if it's one of his, they might circle back to this area. But I'm going to keep you safe, alright? Just promise me one thing: that you'll do what I ask you to do tonight. I know that's not your favorite thing in the world, but you're in my world in more ways than one right now. I'll get you home safe no matter what. So, if you're ready, we'll leave out the back way."

[wackywatchdotcom]

thinking about how ever since ive gotten really into pomni i consistently forget that i can just draw characters hugging. i dont draw her getting hugs despite being someone who tends to draw characters getting hugged a LOT and bc i draw her so often it has stopped occuring to me particularly often that oh yeah, that is still a thing i can draw, particularly with other characters

[aalinaaaaaa]

Some silly tidbits of dialogue that came to me earlier this week:

—

Cerigo: has anyone told you that you're hot

Eshani: *blushing* ah, you flatter me

Cerigo: no, I mean literally, I could fry an egg on your hands

—

Eshani: We're in North Arobyre (please don't do the thing)

Namon: And that's exactly why we should do it :D

[theygender]

Oh damn I just realized I'm going to have to deal with being nonbinary at work IN PERSON for the first time

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Everyone wish me good luck I have a big Very Important interview today

[ragnars-tooth]

One of my big compulsions is taking a fuck ton of screenshots Just In Case a piece of information is important in like 4 years and I can't remember it (sometimes the information is an instagram post that I might not remember later and of course needs to be recorded everywhere (I will Not be looking at that again)) so today is my transfer 16000 images off my phone admin day (woo)

Like yeah I never looked at any of them and they were completely irrelevant to my daily life, But what if I need them ✨️ later ✨️ (you'll see that the idea of Later is doing a lot of heavy lifting here) OR what if there's a vital piece of information in the mix somewhere that I'll lose forever if I delete them? So: onto the external hard drive they go

This is one of those cases where. Yeah. Ideally I wouldn't take 16000 screenshots in half a year. And YEAH ideally I'd just delete them and not transfer them somewhere else to never look at again. BUT at least I get a clean slate and I can maybe not mindlessly save everything for 2 seconds. It's like. Small wins? Progress. Yknow.

[gothicnights]

the worst thing about making and posting gifs on tumblr is people can add them to their posts and you get a notification which is great and fine but they literally only ever add them to x reader fanfic posts. and i’ve learned this but i don’t have the self control to stop clicking on the notifications

[hopefulqueer]

if Bean doesnt eat something soon i think i am going to lose it

[gunpowder-tim]

i am once again. thinking abt my ocs. and drowning.

[overwhelmedfrog]

had to bring my african fat-tailed gecko to the vet (this is my first time at this clinic because my old exotic vet left the practice), and the doctor gave me a care sheet about leopard geckos and I ???? they do look very similar and have similar husbandry in some ways but AFTs are from Madagascar… where it is humid… and leopard geckos (which I also have) are from like Iran and Afghanistan… where it is decidedly not humid. and he was talking to me about keeping humidity down and???? again??? he’s from the rainforest??? 😭 I think this man doesn’t realize this is an AFT he’s looking at, not a leopard gecko and I’m ???

[sluthut6000]

stars did not come apart and atoms did not come together to breathe life into me for me to have a "disorganized" and "fearful-avoidant" "attachment style"

[differenteagletragedy]

To me, Simon has the dumbest hair 90% of the time because he just buzzes it himself (I cannot believe that man pays money to one, do something he could theoretically do himself, and two, spend time with a stranger). The other 10% it's good -- when he first cuts it, an eighth of an inch of pale fuzz left behind, and when it just starts growing out, that's fine. But a lot of the time, especially when he's at home, he just lets it go.

And you, his next door neighbor, will never not give him shit about it.

"You look so goofy," you tell him when you see him in the hallway, one arm holding your groceries and the other fiddling with your keys. "Just cut it, Jesus Christ."

He rolls his eyes or tells you to fuck off, because you've known each other long enough for that kind of thing. He's lived in the building for years, never having seen a reason to leave, and you've been there for a few yourself. You're friends in the way that you may not call or text or schedule time to hang out, but you can scarcely think of anyone you see more often.

"Seriously," you go on, unlocking your door and speaking louder so he can hear you when you go inside. "It's just like two inches sticking straight off your head, why are you walking around like that?"

"Doesn't bother me," Simon answers, moving to lean against your doorframe and watch you as you put up your things. "Seems to bother you an awful lot though."

Your back is to him while you move around your kitchen, but you can tell he's smirking, and you scoff.

"Yeah, it bothers me. You get a face like that and you go and screw it up with the dumbest excuse for a haircut I've ever seen."

It's not the first time you've flirted with him, or even the most direct time, but it still gives him pause. He doesn't wear his mask when he's not working, most of the time anyway, because he thinks it draws too much attention and he'd prefer to just slip into the shadows wherever he goes. But you seeing him, and you letting him know that you like what you see, it does something to him, every time.

"You cut it then," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're the one so torn up about it, you fix it."

You snort, finally turning back to him, saying, "I'm not a barber, stupid."

"No, you sure seem like a coward though."

A few minutes later, you're both in Simon's bathroom. He's got his shirt off, straddling the toilet so you can reach his head, and you're behind him with clippers in your hand, looking down at him. You've never seen this much of him, never even seen the place where his tattoos stop on his arm, and it's a lot to take in.

You want to take your time, commit every scar, every freckle to memory, but he turns his head, smirking again.

"Told you you were a coward."

Without a word, you turn on the clippers and get to work.

It's not hard, it's just a buzzcut. The hard part is in touching his ears, gently pushing the lobes down to trim around them. It's in sneaking glances over his shoulder to watch his chest as it rises and falls while you work. In trying not to notice the tiniest little hitch in his breath when you lean in closer and rest your hand on his back while you get the hairs on the back of his neck.

The worst part though, is the beauty mark that sits perfectly in the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Specifically, the worst part is the strong, almost uncontrollable urge to bite it.

When you're done, you turn off the clippers and set them on his bathroom counter, then dust off his shoulders for him. Just before he stands, you can't deny yourself any longer -- you won't be able to reach it when he's not sitting so perfectly like this -- and give a quick, soft kiss to the mark.

During all the time you've known Simon, he's barely responded to your flirting. To you, he doesn't seem interested, and to him, you don't seem serious. But a kiss, faint as it may have been, is different, and before you can register it, he's on his feet, turned and standing over you.

"Hair looks better," you say softly.

He grunts in response, and before you know it, his mouth is covering yours, hot and insistent. It's a heady feeling, having him so close, and before you can get used to it, his hands are on you, first on your waist, then on your hips, then on the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up and holds you against him.

He maneuvers you both out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom, where he unceremoniously tosses you on his bed. You look up at him, letting your eyes trail freely over his body now, going down when you see him place his hands on his belt.

"Not so mouthy now, are you?"

[monzabee]

woah, baby! - s. reid

criminal minds masterlist ||

Summary: spencer regrets his words about not wanting kids. how can he not when he sees you with a baby? 

Pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: spencer doesn’t want a baby (or does he?), talks about schizophrenia, kissing, babies, talks about pregnancy 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

In retrospect, he should’ve known his words would eventually come back to bite him in the ass. Especially because they hadn’t been spoken in anger or frustration. No, Spencer had said it casually over takeout and an old documentary playing in the background. 

“I just don’t think I want kids,” he’d said, chopsticks paused mid-air. “I mean, I just don’t think it would be fair to them, with our line of work and all. You know?” 

You’d gone quiet then, your smile faltering for just a second before you recovered. You didn’t argue. You didn’t press. You just nodded, picked at your noodles, and changed the subject. “People around us will have kids,” you had said to him later, “you’re more important to me.” 

And he’d believed you. Or at least, he’d convinced himself you meant it. Because you were always understanding, always willing to compromise. Spencer had taken that quiet acceptance and tucked it away, like an old piece of paper, pretending it didn’t ache to think about having kids with you.  

It’s not that he doesn't want kids per se, because he does. He really, really does—and with you. But he’d spent so long convincing himself that it isn't a good idea, that it wouldn’t be safe, that he wouldn't be good enough, and there was a risk he would pass on the gene for schizophrenia. But all of that—the logic, the statistics, the what-ifs—starts to crumble the moment he saw you with a baby in your arms.  

It had been an impromptu visit to JJ’s. A rare weekend with no case, no jet, just brunch on her back patio while Henry played in the yard. You’d offered to help with Michael, who was fussing, and within seconds you had him nestled against your shoulder, bouncing gently and humming something soft under your breath. Spencer had looked up from his plate, and everything in him stops. 

But now, you weren't just holding JJ’s baby—you were glowing. Calm and natural and heartbreakingly beautiful as you whisper silly things to make him giggle. He sees your eyes soften when the baby grabs your finger, the way your lips curls into a secret little smile meant just for him. And that’s when something shifts. Like a dam inside his chest, like every carefully constructed wall of rationality and fear finally gave in to something far more powerful—want.  

Not abstract or theoretical, not someday or maybe.  

But real and immediate. Now. 

It’s completely irrational, and irresponsible, and Spencer knows this. But the only thing he wants to do right now is to take you home and—well, to put it crudely, put a baby inside you—in the most gentlemanly way possible, of course. He doesn’t do it right away though, of course not! And he doesn’t say anything when Will asks him whether he’s fine, no. Not while you’re cradling Michael and smiling like that, like you were meant for it. He just watches you, heart thudding with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. He thinks about the future—the possible future where the two of you have a baby of your own.  

He thinks about the scattered toys around the apartment, and lazy mornings where you all pile into bed together, your child nestled between the two of you, giggling as Spencer pretends to be asleep just so he can feel the weight of their tiny body crawling over him, demanding attention. He imagines late nights, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, warming up bottles while you rock the baby against your chest in one of his old FBI hoodies. He pictures your shared smiles when they take their first steps, say their first words, when their sleepy eyes blink up at him like he’s their whole world. 

He thinks about it, and he thinks about it a lot. But he stays silent, knowing that once the words are out, there’s no taking them back. And for something this big—this life-altering—he needs to be sure. Not just that he wants it, but that you still do, too. That somewhere deep down, after all this time, after his half-hearted deflections and logic-laced excuses, you’re still holding onto that quiet hope. 

So, he waits. 

Waits until you are in the safe confine of your home. You're humming as you put away the leftovers from earlier, and Spencer leans against the doorframe, watching you with the kind of reverence that aches. It hits him again, the thought that this is what he wants every day, forever, with you. 

He walks toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid that moving too fast might make the fragile thing blooming inside him shatter. You glance up at him and smile. It’s so easy, so effortless, and he wonders if you even know what you do to him. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, a little unsure. 

You raise an eyebrow, catching the slight change in his tone. “Hey. You okay?” Spencer nods, but then shakes his head, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. “Is it your stomach? I told you to stay away from the dairy, Spence, you never listen to me—” 

“I want kids,” he blurts, voice higher-pitched than intended, sharp enough to cut right through your sentence. 

You freeze, a Tupperware lid still in your hand, eyes wide as you turn to face him. “Huh?” 

“I—” He exhales shakily. “I know it sounds sudden. And maybe it is. But it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about today after seeing you with Micheal and I just thought about kids. Our kids.” 

You blink, still not moving. “Kids. Like—plural?” 

“I mean, I’d start with one,” he says, a little breathless, a touch desperate. “Just one. Though I guess twins do run in your family, so that means at least a fifteen percent chance of multiples, but that’s not the point—” He stops himself, clearly spiraling into statistics out of nerves, and drags a shaky hand through his hair. “What I mean is, yes. Plural. If you want. I just… I want this with you.” 

The Tupperware clatters onto the counter as you slowly set it down, turning to face him fully. “Spence, you told me you didn’t want kids, remember?” 

“I know,” he says, voice thick now, eyes wide with something raw. “And I meant it—at the time. Or I thought I did. I was scared. Scared of passing things on, of not being good enough, of loving them so much it would undo me. But you…” He takes a step closer. “You make it make sense. You make it feel possible and safe... right.” You swallow hard. It’s a lot. All of it. The past, the memory of that night he so casually shut the door on this dream. The quiet ache of acceptance that came afterward. And now—this. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he continues quickly, seeing the conflict flicker in your eyes. “This isn’t me asking you to decide right now, or even soon. I just needed to be honest. I needed you to know.” He stops a foot away from you, eyes searching yours. “Do you still want that? With me?” 

The silence stretches for a moment. And then you reach for him, wordless, threading your fingers through his and placing his hand gently over your heart. “I always wanted that with you,” you whisper, and he releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

Spencer leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Okay,” he breathes, soft and reverent. “Okay.” 

“Yeah,” you laugh, a little breathless and a little teary. “Let’s do it. Let’s have a baby.” 

Spencer exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. After a beat, he mumbles into your skin, “I still think it was the dairy, though.” 

You snort. “Spencer.” 

“What? I’m just saying, correlation isn’t causation.” His voice pitches higher as he tries to defend himself, making you smile into his shoulder. 

You sigh in faux-exasperation. “God help our future child.” 

“I’m a very fun fact at parties.” You laugh, as he grins, holding you tighter. Then, suddenly he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes soft but filled with something raw and hopeful. His hand cups your cheek, brushing his thumb over your skin like he’s trying to memorize every detail of you. 

“What?” You ask, laughing softly. 

“I love you,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “I just—really, really love you.” 

“I love you too,” you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips, but it’s a smile full of so much more than just happiness.  

It’s full of everything you’ve both been through, everything that’s led you to this moment, and everything that’s to come. And somehow, you think it’s perfect. 

[fionnaskyborn]

every day (overstatement) i come up with increasingly more ridiculous ideas on how to approach fighting games

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.