#i'm going to try my best to post every day but

[reveryfics]

The Range

Spencer Reid x Male Reader

Summary: With a firearms test looming, Spencer was struggling to improve even with Hotchner's guidance. Hotchner then recommended he seeks help from someone more qualified.

A/N: I'm going to start tagging these types of fics with "ftm reader" too. A lot of my "x male" fics can be read as both unless it's a specific request or outright mentioned like in my smut posts. Let it be known this started as a undeveloped idea and spiraled into this.

TW: Awkward Spencer - Fluff

The rhythmic thwack of bullets striking the backstop echoed through the vast, concrete expanse of the Quantico firing range, a stark, percussive counterpoint to the profound, frustrated silence emanating from Spencer Reid's isolated booth. Sweat beaded on his brow, not from the physical exertion of firing, but from the sheer, overwhelming mental strain of trying to coax his perpetually trembling hands into anything resembling a steady aim. His latest grouping on the paper target, a ragged constellation of holes, looked less like a concentrated cluster of impacts and more like the scattered pattern of a shotgun blast from fifty yards out.

Aaron Hotchner, ever stoic and observant, stood a respectful distance behind Reid, his arms crossed over his chest, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He'd dedicated countless hours to Reid this past week, patiently deconstructing and explaining every foundational tenet of marksmanship: the proper stance, the firm but relaxed grip, the crucial sight alignment, the smooth and controlled trigger squeeze. Yet, with each passing minute, it became increasingly, painfully clear that Spencer's prodigious intellectual brilliance, his near-superhuman capacity for logical deduction and encyclopedic recall, simply did not extend to the fundamental mechanics of operating a Glock service pistol.

"It's like... the gun just feels alien in my hand, Hotch," Reid confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, as he carefully lowered the firearm onto the bench with a grimace of pure exasperation. "My brain understands the intricate physics, the complex trajectory, the precise ballistics, but my body stubbornly refuses to cooperate with the simplest of commands."

Hotch nodded slowly, a familiar, resigned look settling onto his features. "Some things just don't click, Spencer, no matter how much you analyze them. But this isn't an elective. This is a mandatory qualification test, and you need to pass it to remain active in the field." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps it's best you seek help from someone who specializes in one-on-one firearms training, someone who's specifically qualified to help agents with... unique challenges."

Spencer nodded, biting his bottom lip, the humiliation a bitter taste in his mouth. He picked up his spent casings, the small brass cylinders cool against his fingertips, as he and Hotchner left the cacophony of the firing range, the echoing thwacks slowly fading behind them.

He didn't know the first thing about where to go for such specialized training. As much as he valued Morgan's advice, the thought of asking his perpetually teasing colleague for recommendations on his shooting inadequacy filled him with dread. He could already hear the good-natured but relentless jabs. Which was why, a few days later, he found himself standing hesitantly in the doorway of a small, nondescript local gun range, long after its official closing hours.

And there you were. You, who looked like you were perpetually one stupid customer away from subtly strangling someone, while simultaneously possessing the frantic energy of a person who'd consumed an industrial quantity of caffeine. The lingering, almost palpable smell of strong coffee on your breath confirmed Reid's deduction on that front. You were actively cleaning up, wiping down counters with meticulous, almost aggressive strokes, clearly eager to lock up and go home.

You had honestly thought, for a fleeting moment, that Reid was messing with you, perhaps a late-night prank from a colleague, especially since the range had closed nearly thirty minutes ago and you were clearly in the final stages of your closing routine. But the earnest, almost desperate look on his face, those wide, intelligent eyes behind his glasses, told you he was more than serious about his impromptu, late-night request for help. And who were you, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of quirky individuals, to deny this adorable, socially awkward dork of a man the assistance he so clearly, desperately needed?

You quirked an eyebrow, a silent question in your gaze, but Spencer just offered a small, hopeful smile. With a resigned sigh, you gestured for him to follow. "Alright, pretty boy. Let's see what we're working with."

You led him deeper into the range, the scent of gunpowder clinging to the air like a second skin. The main bay was dark, but you flipped a switch, bathing a section in stark fluorescent light. In one hand, you balanced four boxes of 9mm ammunition, their weight familiar. In the other, you held your personal sidearm—a sleek, customized Glock 19—and a Glock 22, a close replica of the standard issue for the BAU.

"Alright, Spencer," you began, your voice losing its earlier edge, replaced with a no-nonsense professionalism. "Before we even think about touching a firearm, we're going to talk. And then we're going to breathe." You set the boxes and pistols on a cleared section of the counter, the metal cold and unyielding against the laminate. "You said your brain understands the physics but your body won't cooperate. My job is to bridge that gap. We're going to break this down, piece by painful piece, until it becomes muscle memory."

You picked up the Glock 22, checking its clear chamber before handing it to him, butt first. "Feel that weight? That balance? Your hands are trembling, I can see that. That's not just nerves about shooting; that's often a manifestation of mental overload." You watched as he cradled the weapon, his brow furrowed in concentration. "First things first: stance. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly back. Hips aligned with your shoulders, a slight forward lean. Imagine you're bracing against a strong wind."

You demonstrated, moving with an easy, fluid grace that belied your earlier grumpiness. Then you moved to his side, gently adjusting his posture. "Good. Now, grip. High on the backstrap, web of your hand firmly against the tang. Your strong hand does the work of controlling the firearm, while your support hand wraps around for stability. No 'death grip,' Spencer. Just firm control. You want to be able to isolate your trigger finger."

You demonstrated the grip with your own Glock, showing him how your fingers molded around the pistol, how your thumbs aligned. "Now, this is where most people struggle: sight picture and alignment." You took the Glock 22 back and held it up, aligning the front sight post precisely between the two rear sight posts. "Front sight in focus, target slightly blurry. When those three dots line up, that's your window." You held it steady, letting him lean in to observe.

"And finally, the most crucial part, the part that separates good shooters from great ones: trigger control." You handed him the Glock 22 again. "This isn't about jerking the trigger. It's about a slow, steady, continuous press straight to the rear, without disturbing your sight picture. Imagine squeezing a sponge, slowly, until the water comes out." You placed your finger lightly over his on the trigger guard. "You don't want to anticipate the shot; you want to be surprised by it."

You watched his face, the intense concentration, the almost painful effort to translate your words into physical action. "We're not even going to load a round yet. We're going to do dry fire drills, over and over, until you can hold that sight picture through the entire trigger press. And we're going to focus on your breathing. Deep, controlled breaths. It's amazing what a difference that makes."

You moved to a new target, a fresh sheet of paper with a crisp bullseye. "Take your time, Spencer. We've got all night."

Spencer took the Glock 22, his grip a little less tentative this time, but the subtle tremor in his hands was still evident. He tried to mimic your stance, shifting his feet, then his hips, then his shoulders, like a marionette with too many strings. His movements were jerky, hesitant, a stark contrast to your fluid demonstration.

"Okay, Spencer," you prompted, "now the grip. Remember, high on the backstrap, web of your hand firmly against the tang."

He adjusted his fingers, then adjusted them again, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. You could practically hear the whirring of his brilliant mind, dissecting every instruction, every subtle nuance. But it was clear he was overthinking it, getting lost in the theoretical instead of simply doing. His support hand wrapped around his dominant, but it looked awkward, like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle with an oven mitt.

"Good," you said, trying to keep your tone encouraging, even as you saw the familiar signs of frustration beginning to etch themselves onto his face. "Now, bring the pistol up. Find your sight picture."

He raised the Glock, his arms extending, but they wavered slightly. He squinted, trying to align the front sight, but his eyes darted from the blurry target to the pistol, then back to the target. He took a deep, shaky breath, then another, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was clearly trying to apply the breathing exercises, but the physical act was fighting against his mental state.

You watched as his shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched. He squeezed the trigger, and the slight, almost imperceptible flinch of the pistol was a clear giveaway. He wasn't surprised by the shot; he was bracing for it. The dry click of the firing pin hitting nothing echoed in the otherwise silent range.

He lowered the pistol, his hands dropping to his sides, the frustration radiating off him in palpable waves. He rubbed his temples, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. "It's... it's just not connecting," he muttered, his voice laced with exasperation. "I understand what you're saying, I really do, but when I try to put it into practice, my body just... rebels."

You took a slow, deliberate breath. You could see him spiraling, trapped in his own head. This wasn't about technique anymore; it was about getting him out of his own way. Without a word, you walked up behind him, your presence a warm, solid wall at his back. You were close enough that you could feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the tension in his muscles.

"Relax, Spencer," you murmured, your voice low and calm, a stark contrast to his inner turmoil. Your hands gently but firmly settled on his, guiding them back to the pistol. Your body was practically pressed against his back, allowing you to manipulate his posture with your own. You adjusted his feet, subtly shifting his weight until he felt balanced. Your arm came around his, guiding his elbow into the correct position, your hand overlapping his on the grip, molding it into a perfect, natural hold.

You leaned in slightly, your chin almost resting on his shoulder, your voice a soft whisper near his ear. "Now, feel this. Feel the connection between your body and the firearm. Feel the stability." Your hands, strong and steady, became an extension of his, demonstrating the proper grip, the high purchase on the backstrap. "This isn't about thinking, Spencer. It's about feeling. It's about instinct."

You brought the pistol up, your body moving in unison with his, your eyes looking down the sights as you guided his hands. "Front sight, target. Breathe. Slow, steady press. Feel the resistance, then feel the release." You held it there, perfectly steady, allowing him to feel what a truly stable platform felt like. The tension in his body, though still present, began to subtly lessen under your unwavering physical guidance.

You remained behind him, your body a living brace, subtly correcting his stance, your hands guiding his as you raised the Glock again. "Feel that?" you murmured, your voice a low rumble against his ear. "That's what proper alignment feels like. That's stability." You held it there, perfectly still, letting him absorb the sensation. "Now, your focus goes to that front sight. Make it sharp, clear. The target can be blurry. All that matters is that little post right there."

You could feel the subtle shift in his breathing, a slow, almost imperceptible relaxation in his shoulders. He was still tense, but the frantic energy that had radiated from him minutes before had begun to recede. Your body warmth, combined with the steady pressure of your hands, seemed to be short-circuiting his overactive mind, forcing him to engage with the tactile experience rather than the abstract theory.

"Good," you encouraged, your voice soft but firm. "Now, that trigger finger. Isolate it. Don't move anything else. Just a slow, steady press. Like you're pushing against something heavy." You put the slightest pressure on his index finger, guiding it. "Feel how it moves independently? Don't anticipate the shot. Let it surprise you."

The quiet click of the dry fire echoed in the range. It was a cleaner sound this time, less of a jerk, more of a controlled release. You felt the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, but it was significantly less than before.

"Again," you instructed, keeping your position, your body still molded to his. "Reset. Find that front sight. Breathe. Press."

He did. And again. And again. Each time, the click was a little smoother, the dry fire more consistent. You felt the tension in his muscles slowly bleed away, replaced by a nascent, unfamiliar rhythm. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but the improvement was undeniable. The rigidity in his movements softened, replaced by a tentative fluidity.

After a series of successful dry fires, you finally stepped back, giving him some space. "Alright, Spencer. Take a breath. Tell me what you felt."

He lowered the pistol, his gaze fixed on it as if seeing it for the first time. He flexed his fingers, then opened and closed his hands. "It's... different," he said, his voice quiet, thoughtful. "When you were there, guiding me, it felt... natural. Like my body knew what to do without my brain having to overthink it. It was just... muscle." He looked up at you, a flicker of genuine surprise and dawning comprehension in his eyes. "I think I understand now. It's not about the physics, it's about the feel."

You nodded, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Exactly. Now, let's see if you can replicate that feeling on your own." You picked up one of the boxes of ammunition. "Ready to load some live rounds?"

Spencer took a deep breath, a flicker of apprehension returning to his eyes, but it was quickly overshadowed by a determined glint. "Ready," he affirmed, a newfound resolve in his voice.

You nodded, a subtle approval in your expression. "Good. We're going to start slow. One round at a time." You picked up a magazine and deftly loaded a single 9mm cartridge, the brass glinting under the fluorescent lights. The distinct clink of the round seating in the magazine was a stark reminder that the stakes were about to increase.

You handed the loaded magazine and the Glock 22 to Spencer. "Load it," you instructed, watching as he fumbled slightly, but managed to insert the magazine into the grip with a more confident click than you'd seen from him previously. "Now, rack the slide firmly."

He did, the metallic clack-clack echoing in the otherwise silent range as the round chambered. He held the pistol up, his hands still trembling slightly, but his stance was noticeably better. The subtle adjustments you’d made earlier seemed to have stuck.

"Front sight," you reminded him, your voice calm and steady. "Focus. Breathe. Slow, continuous press."

He took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes narrowing as he found the front sight. His finger, though still a little hesitant, began to press. You watched, a silent observer, as the muscle memory you’d just helped him build battled with the ingrained mental blocks. There was a moment of absolute stillness, then—

CRACK!

The gunshot ripped through the air, a concussive force that made the concrete walls vibrate. The recoil made Spencer flinch, the pistol kicking up and to the right. He instinctively lowered it, blinking rapidly, a surprised gasp escaping him. The smell of burnt gunpowder instantly filled the air.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide. "That's... louder than I expected."

You walked over to the target, a new one you’d put up just for this. A single, ragged hole marked the paper. It was off-center, far from the bullseye, but it was on the paper. And more importantly, it wasn't a complete wild shot.

"It's always louder the first time," you said, your tone neutral. "But you kept it on the paper, Spencer. That's progress." You walked back to him, taking the Glock. You ejected the empty magazine and checked the chamber. "The flinch is normal. It's a natural reaction to a loud noise and sudden recoil. We'll work on that."

You reloaded a single round and handed him the pistol again. "This time, I want you to remember what it felt like when I was helping you. Try to recreate that stability. Anticipate the noise, but don't anticipate the shot itself."

He nodded, taking the pistol. He raised it, his movements a little more practiced now. He took a longer, deeper breath, visibly trying to center himself. You could see him fighting the urge to flinch, to yank the trigger. He found his sight picture, held it, and then, with a palpable effort of will, began to squeeze.

CRACK!

Another shot. This time, the recoil was still significant, but his body didn't flinch as violently. He held the pistol up for a moment longer before slowly lowering it.

You walked to the target. The second hole was still off-center, but it was closer to the first, forming a very loose pairing.

"Better," you stated, your gaze returning to him. "Much better. You're starting to get the feel for it. We're going to keep going like this, one round at a time, until that flinch lessens and your groups tighten. Ready for another?"

Spencer nodded, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, but a flicker of grim determination now shone in his eyes. "Yes. Again."

You reloaded a single round, the familiar clink a small punctuation mark in the quiet range. You handed him the Glock, and he accepted it with less hesitation this time, his fingers finding the familiar contours of the grip. His stance was more natural, less rigid, a faint echo of the perfect form you'd guided him into.

"Remember the breathing," you coached, your voice low and steady. "Control the inhale, control the exhale. Don't let your heart race."

He took a visibly deeper breath, his chest expanding, then slowly contracting. He raised the pistol, his arms extending, and though there was still a slight tremor, his sight alignment was noticeably quicker, more precise. You could almost see the gears in his brilliant mind shifting, moving from frantic overthinking to a more intuitive, almost meditative focus. He was no longer just trying to do it; he was beginning to feel it.

He held the sight picture, the front post unwavering for a crucial second, then two. His finger began to move, a slow, deliberate press. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly as he fought the natural urge to yank or flinch.

CRACK!

The shot rang out, sharp and immediate. This time, the pistol's recoil was still pronounced, but Spencer absorbed it better. He didn't drop his arms immediately, holding the pistol up, his eyes wide but no longer as surprised. He slowly lowered it, a small, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction on his face.

You walked to the target. This shot was significantly closer to the center, a marked improvement. It wasn't in the bullseye, but it was a solid, undeniable step forward. You tapped the paper with your finger, indicating the new hole.

"Look at that, Spencer," you said, a genuine note of approval in your voice. "You're starting to build a group. You're adapting. That's what we want." You picked up the Glock, ejected the spent casing, and loaded another single round. "The flinch is almost gone. Now we focus on consistency."

He took the pistol back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "It's... it's like my body is finally listening to my brain," he mused, looking at the Glock with a newfound respect. "Or maybe, my brain is finally listening to my body."

You smirked. "Something like that. Ready for another?"

Spencer continued, firing round after round, and with each shot, the improvement was remarkable. The flinch became a barely perceptible twitch, his groups on the target tightening from a scattered pattern to a discernible cluster. He was still far from a sharpshooter, but the wild shots were gone, replaced by consistent impacts within the inner rings. You watched him, a quiet satisfaction growing within you. He was learning, adapting, and most importantly, no longer fighting himself.

You decided to join him on the line, pulling up the lane next to his. You grabbed your customized Glock 19 and a fresh target, hanging it with practiced efficiency. The rhythmic CRACK! of your shots mingled with Spencer’s, a steady drumbeat in the otherwise silent range. Your movements were fluid, economical – a testament to countless hours on the range. Each of your rounds punched a neat, precise hole in the bullseye, forming a tight, cloverleaf pattern. It was a stark contrast to Spencer's still-developing technique, yet your presence seemed to spur him on. He'd glance over, a quick, almost imperceptible assessment of your flawless form, then refocus, his own shots becoming more deliberate, more controlled.

As the second hour past closing ticked by, the stack of empty brass casings around Spencer's feet grew considerably. He was no longer just hitting the paper; he was consistently placing his shots within the vital zone of the silhouette target. The initial frustration had completely vanished, replaced by a quiet, intense concentration. He looked less like a panicked academic and more like someone genuinely engaged in a complex, rewarding problem.

Finally, you called a halt. "Alright, Spencer, that's enough for tonight. Let's see the damage."

You both walked downrange to retrieve his targets. You pulled the paper from the hanger, examining it with a critical eye. The first few shots were still scattered, but the latter half of the target showed a significant improvement – a respectable grouping that would easily pass a basic qualification.

"Look at this," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips as you held up the target. "From a shotgun blast to this in a couple of hours. That's excellent work, Spencer. You got out of your head, and you let your body learn. This," you gestured to the tight cluster of holes, "is more than enough to pass your qualification."

Spencer took the target, his eyes wide as he stared at the evidence of his newfound proficiency. A faint flush crept up his neck as he processed your praise, and suddenly, the earlier intensity of his focus seemed to dissipate, replaced by his more familiar awkwardness. His gaze flickered to you, then away, then back, and you could practically see the delayed realization hitting him – how close you’d been earlier, how your body had been pressed against his, guiding his movements.

"Oh," he stammered, running a hand through his hair. "Right. Uh, yes. Thank you. I mean, it's... I really appreciate it. I wouldn't have been able to... that is to say, I'm usually not..." He trailed off, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

You chuckled, enjoying the sight of his return to his delightfully flustered self. "Relax, Spencer. It's just shooting. And you did good." You watched him for a moment, a sense of quiet amusement warming you. "I expect to see you walk through these doors after your test and tell me you passed. Understand?"

He nodded vigorously, still slightly flushed. "Yes! Absolutely. I will. Thank you again. Really." With one last, slightly awkward nod, he turned and headed for the exit, the lingering scent of gunpowder and coffee trailing after him.

A few days later, the familiar chime above the door announced a new arrival. You were behind the counter, deep in conversation with a customer about custom barrel threading, when a figure began to weave through the usual afternoon crowd of shooters and gear enthusiasts. It was Spencer. He was navigating the bustling range with a renewed sense of purpose, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

You finished up with your customer, then cocked an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. You didn't need him to say a word. The way he carried himself, the subtle bounce in his step, it all spoke volumes.

Spencer reached the counter, his usual awkwardness back in full force now that the pressure of the qualification was off. He shifted his weight, then, almost shyly, lifted the hem of his sweater just enough to flash the Glock now securely holstered at his hip. The movement was quick, almost furtive, as if he worried someone might scold him for showing off. He quickly covered it back up, a faint blush already coloring his cheeks.

You chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. "I knew you had it in you, Spencer. Good job."

His blush deepened, a delightful shade of pink. "I... I wouldn't have passed if you hadn't helped me," he stammered, his gaze darting around the room, avoiding direct eye contact. "My scores were... significantly better. Hotch was actually surprised." He fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag. "And I just... I wanted to thank you properly."

Before you could even formulate a response, the words seemed to tumble out of him in a rush. "So, I was wondering if you'd like to... go on a date with me? As a thank you, of course. Not that you owe me anything, but I just thought it would be a nice... gesture. If you're busy, I completely understand, no pressure at all, it's just a thought, really—"

You watched him, suppressing another laugh. He was trying so hard to backpedal, to soften the blow of a potential rejection, but you found it incredibly endearing.

"Spencer," you interrupted gently, cutting off his rapid-fire monologue. A broad smile stretched across your face. "I'd love to."

He froze, his mouth slightly agape, clearly not expecting such a straightforward acceptance. His eyes, wide and surprised, finally met yours.

"I'll see you tonight after work," you confirmed, your voice warm.

A goofy, delighted smile slowly spread across Spencer's face. He nodded vigorously, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Tonight! Yes. Okay. Great. I'll... I'll see you then!" And before he could embarrass himself further, he practically spun on his heel and hurried out of the range, leaving you to your work with a pleasant warmth settling in your chest.

[onlyangel4]

bed chem. jacob fatu. smau.

jacob fatu x singer!reader

synopsis: the internet has always known you have been in a relationship. but they all miss the clues of who you are dating.

you're the pop star with a voice that drips honey and a love life that’s always been off-limits. he’s the silent force in the wrestling world, undeniably powerful, always private. you’ve been together for years, just outside the spotlight. but all of that changes when you drop your new single, "bed chem."

the lyrics are intimate. the visuals are blatant. the chemistry? unmistakable. suddenly, fans are trying to work out who the song is about. they miss wildly.

but you hard-launch it all. because this isn’t a fling. it’s bed chem. and it’s always been about him.

faceclaim: coco jones

angel's playlist

y/ninsta

liked by taylorswift, reneerapp, jacobfatu and 823,595 others

y/ninsta: life lately

view all 21,119 comments

reneerapp: can't wait to go on tour with you bby

y/ninsta: i'm legit counting down the days

user1: once again begging to know who mystery man is

user2: i'm gonna die before i know who y/n is dating

user3: mystery man is so fucking lucky

y/ninsta posted a story

written: first night of tour i'm so excited to see all of y'all

jacobfatu posted a story

written: the new bloodline all love y/n y/ln

trinity_fatu posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: y/n is fucking killing it

y/ninsta posted a story

written: post show ice cream with my love

wwesightings posted a story

written: jacob fatu spotted with an unknown woman outside an ice cream shop in nyc

wwe posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: the stars are out at msg with singer y/n y/ln arriving

trinity_fatu posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: she was on stage last night. i'm on stage tonight how perfect

y/ninsta posted a story tagging wwe

written: thanks wwe for hooking me up with some insane seats

y/ninsta posted a story

written: surprise! my new song bed chem is out now !

y/ninsta

liked by uceyjucey, jonathanfatu, trinity_fatu and 918,283 others

tagged: jacobfatu

y/ninsta: every love song has always been for you but this one is extra special. the first one i ever wrote. bed chem is out now

view all 24,585 comments

jacobfatu: the best song ever

y/ninsta: had the best inspo

jonathanfatu: there are some things you don't need to be sung about your cousin

y/ninsta: suck it up

uceyjucey: about time. y’all had the whole family signing ndas

trinity_fatu: look at my babies. y’all too fine for this world

user4: THEY WERE HIDING A WHOLE RELATIONSHIP FOR YEARS AND WE MISSED IT

user5: me listening to bed chem knowing it’s about HIM >>>>>

user6: i just know the studio was sweating when she recorded that bridge

[windvexer]

This is going to sound pretty silly, perhaps, but I think I should ask anyways.

How do you get 'good' at magick?

For months, I've been studying different theories, creating and working my own spells, but it feels as though I'm going in circles sometimes. I mean sometimes a spell works, and it works well, and other times it doesn't quite work, and sometimes it fizzles out.

As much as I'd love to work with deities, I've been putting it off because I fear offending them / failing to treat them well due to the magickal mishaps.

Thank you in advance!

There is so much out there. So much. It takes a long, long time to learn.

An anecdote I often tell is that I was reading tarot for 6 years before I could do intuitive readings. I had always relied on book meanings before. I had never been able to just look at the cards and read, you know.

If you're less than a year in now and you are seeing that you're casting spells with good successes, you're very far ahead of me in the learning curve.

You get good at magic the same way you get good at any other skill. Follow your interests. Try things you're not good at and be a little better at them by the end of the project.

I think people have wack standards when it comes to self-evaluating their own magic. I think people have extreme and radical expectations for their own magic that they would never in a million years apply to any other skill in life.

I was quite impressed with a quote from @jbird-the-manwich from this thread, which has many excellent contributions and I recommend reading through.

As Mr. Manwich mused:

we're often applying a bare minimum metric of working miracles to ourselves, I think, when miracles are pretty difficult in general.

This post may be helpful to you.

Deity work is not a secret key to hidden power. It isn't the natural evolution of all practices. Evoking deities as part of sorcery is a skill you have to learn, it's not just going to dump a pile of power on your lap the second you agree to start doing it. If you're bad deity work it's not going to be helpful to you. If you don't want to work with gods you can just spend that time learning some other skill that interests you, like psychism, energy work, astral travel, or whatever.

Lean into your strengths. Discover your strengths by following your curiosities.

My #1 best tip for people who want to git gud at sorcery - like they want to train it the way an athlete trains for a sport:

Most of your practice is not going to come from casting spells.

Your practice, as in intentional repetition to acquire a skill, is probably going to be things like:

Energy work drills

Practice channeling information from the spirit world

Practice learning how to direct and channel power

Training yourself with classical conditioning

Pathworking, meditations, or inner work to reclaim and then intentionally modify inner places of power

Practicing trance

If you're a witch, actually accumulating power is probably going to look like:

Magical initiations into realms of power (of which you can go through many)

Obtaining familiar spirits

Making pacts with spirits for access to places of power or instructions to work with that power

Cultivating magical objects which link to or grant power

Developing a collection of spirit-given spells, cantrips, sigils, and names of power

An initiated witch who practices magic and spirit work every single day can go a long time without casting a spell.

[molsno]

I was living with my ex (already a harrowing start to this post) for about half of last year while I was unemployed, and every month I would drive up to canada to visit my (now) wife for a few days, which was usually around 7-9 hours of driving in a single day, depending on various factors. and so when I came back to my ex's house, I would usually feel some relief to be done driving for the day. you know, I think any reasonable person would think "phew! I'm finally home!" and it was nice, for maybe about an hour or so...

but then it would set in that I was sleeping in a windowless underground room in a mcmansion in the middle of the woods where I might go days at a time without seeing another person, and the people I would see were my ex and her extremely racist qanon mother who made me pay rent (despite having no source of income or savings) while also demanding I do physical labor for her. it was hard to think "phew! I'm finally home!" when it felt much more like I'd arrived in what was likely to become my tomb

I think one of the most shocking revelations about all of this is that I don't actually remember most of my time there. we finally started figuring out our plurality towards the tail end of our stay in that house, and the more time passes, the more I realize our dissociative amnesia was never worse than during those 6 months. that's... still something I'm trying to wrap my head around

that being said, I've been getting better, and so has everyone else in my system. I live with my wife now, and every day things feel just a little bit brighter. and you know what the best part is? I barely ever have to drive anymore

[cmchill]

Highly self-disparaging vent under the cut, regarding my productivity and effort and suitability for hiring.

[softgothbabe]

I think maybe being a person is just really fucking hard

[passthroughtime]

as an update about the ever-changing chapter 7, all i can say is that i'm at the start of the 5th "scene" out of 7 total planned, and

it's not looking good

[wereh0gz]

Is my discomfort with my boobs gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, or just a general discomfort with the sensations of having a human body that comes with possible neurodivergency

[tokyoteddywolf]

22 isn't very much at all, I think.

[toastingpencils37]

Bruh, the ninja's aim with the cannon is fucking ass.

Every damn time.

Lowkey also going to vent in the tags for a minute

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[litchi-tea]

ngl this outfit has gotta be one of my faves

[painsandconfusion]

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[h1biscusgal]

I fucking entered the void.

Long post ahead!

@premiumbitch I owe u every shit wtf, your method was INSANE?

REMEMBER HOW I TOLD Y'ALL IMMA BE ENTERING THE VOID ON MY BIRTHDAY???? I did it, and guys it's literally the easiest shit idk why some people see it as smth big 💀

I didn't manifest anything, why? Because guess it or not I actually just wanted to be familiar with it, I love how I'm slowly knowing everything is mine, and yesterday I didn't want to manifest anything I just wanted to try the void out especially bc I have been studying sm these days, I wanted a break.

Now I've been eating up that mindset that I'm a master at the void, which let's be obvious, everyone is, they just need to get to the point and slowly realize it, it has to click.

Okay I'm going to stop yapping and fucking get into it 👍🏻, either way, yesterday night, at 1:32 AM or smth, after the day turned 6th April, I got in bed and made myself comfortable, and simply told myself I'll enter the void under 5 minutes, which actually and unsurprisingly, it was the case, I used a standard boring ass method too yk, the one where it's usually always what people do.

On my back, started slow breathing, and i set the intention of keeping myself awake when my body sleeps (best advice I got from idk who it helps sm) and then I let myself sink in the bed for some minutes, like I just laid there, and already I immediately was in the SATs.

So naturally I affirmed for the void, knowing I'm already in there, and mf I slipped in there after two or three minutes of affirming, just saying "I am the void." Or "I am in the void."

I think the reason I actually got out myself or sometimes used to slip in and back, is how I immediately focused on my body signs or anything connected me to myself, so I have a note to myself next time, to allow it naturally happen and focus just on the blackness behind my eyes.

ANYWAYS I STAYED THERE FOR LIKE I THOUGHT 2 OR 3 MINUTES BUT IT WAS A WHOLE WHOPPING 1 HOUR TF, and get that, how did I know it's the void? I just wanted to see stars there and I fucking did 🎀

IMMA GO CRY I FINALLY AM THE CREATER OF MY OWN REALITY.

anyone reading this, babes please don't give up, genuinely don't, I've been in this game for 6 years and I know a lot of people that'll leave for this long, saying they have no patience, girly you can do it if I did, I used to be in SUCH a bad place you can't even imagine, I pulled my shit and started living in the end for 2 months (and no it doesn't take two months, I just was stubborn af and kept slipping in and out my beliefs).

Special thanks to them for keeping my motivation up 💗

@joc3lynn @catherineaboutlife @salemlunaa @premiumbitch @prettygirl444sblog @mercifulstate @shimmershifts @littlemissprettyprincess @luckykiwiii101 @carlyshifts111 (I adore her oml her RAS thing? ATE the fuck up)

And of course can't forget @gorgeouslypink but idk if she's here anymore? And every old blog back in the 2022 and 2020, I adore y'all sm even though I don't have your blog's names 😔🎀.

[hedgehog-moss]

I need to confess something—my last post presented a deceptively idyllic vision of my hike in the snow. I only posted photos from the tranquil walk home at dusk and neglected to mention that I (once again) got lost in a featureless expanse of snow and briefly became convinced I would never find the road again and would have to dig a little den like an Arctic fox to spend the night.

You see, there's this place where Pandolf really loves to go for a walk on snowy days—it's on top of this plateau here:

^ see the fence in the middle, that curves to the left? Nothing bad can happen as long as you follow it. There are lots of landmarks in this direction, like trees, more fences, and a couple of houses.

In the other direction, however, lies The Nothing.

Here's a photo of Pandolf (eagerly) standing near the edge of The Nothing:

Characteristics of The Nothing: it is vast, and white, and becomes more and more featureless the farther you go into it—

—and Pandolf really, really loves it.

Even when he falls into a surprise hole where the snow is suddenly three times as deep (another characteristic of The Nothing), he'll just push himself out in one great powerful jump and keep frolicking.

Or he'll remain in the spot where the snow is deeper and try his best to bury his entire self into it.

He sometimes gets crazy eyes in The Nothing.

We always start this walk with such good resolutions.

We're definitely staying close to the fence this time! With all the lovely landmarks on the left!

And then, inevitably,

Further notes from my studies: • The Nothing has some small plants and rocks, but using them as landmarks is foolish, as they will eventually disappear. • No matter how many foot-, paw-, and dog-headprints you leave and how deep they are, they will disappear before you are able to retrace your steps, probably because The Nothing is always so windy.

Pandolf thinks this is a great characteristic of The Nothing, as it means he never runs out of immaculate snow to dive into.

The wind and the resulting snow mist are the really treacherous things about this place. These photos were taken in roughly the same spot, a couple of hours apart. In the first one, the fence on the left is clearly visible; in the second one, it has started to melt into The Nothing.

There's always a moment when I end up standing in the middle of, well, nothing, with indistinguishable whiteness in every direction, under my feet, above my head, left, right, and I start thinking about writing poignant farewell messages in my Notes app for my family to find at some point in the future.

One last interesting thing about The Nothing is the way Pandolf reacts when I finally find my bearings again and start walking faster, determined to get back to the safety of the road before it gets dark.

Pandolf then just

It's very different than the playful, energetic way in which he normally buries his head in the snow. This second type of burying is clearly a form of protest—if I continue walking away Pan will reluctantly follow me for 20 or so metres, then flatten himself to the ground again, in the same despondent way.

Hypothesis #1: He is trying to play dead like a possum, hoping I will go "well, I can't lug a dead dog all the way home, I'd better leave him here." And then he'll stay with The Nothing forever.

Hypothesis #2: He is trying to lay as flat as possible so as to become all but invisible against the snow. It's unclear if he knows he is the wrong colour for this.

Hypothesis #3: He is trying to commune with The Nothing, burying words of devotion and friendship deep into the snow and promising to return soon.

Conclusion: I'm sorry, I know that's a very long post, but seeing as each of these photos depicts perfect felicity on Earth, I find it hard to delete any. I also like how I intended this post to be about my long disoriented trek through the snow, wondering if I was going to find the fence or the road again before dark—and then I got distracted by how happy Pandolf was. Which is exactly how I end up getting lost in The Nothing every single time!!

[yandere-romanticaa]

Seen the request, so I shall deliver. Could you pls write a drabble or hcs of a yandere sunday with an isekaied reader?

Good timing because I'm actually planning a non yan isekai fic for him, I wonder if you saw that post. Here it is in case you haven't.

Sincerest apologies if this isn't the best, this fic is 100% emotionally charged by my obsession with him and frankly with a little bit of a high for passing a tricky exam. This is a treat for myself.

EDIT: Please check out this wonderful comic that @danijaci made me based off this fic!! 😭🫶

Picking up the cup from the fine oak table, you gazed towards the eerie galaxy before you, hundreds upon thousands of stars giving you a constant reminder of just how far from home you truly were. Taking a sip from the little porcelain cup you could not help but to hum in delight, the soft notes of the tea soothing your nerves ever so lightly as you pretended to ignore the heavy gaze which lingered at the back of your head.

Even from this distance, it was easy to tell that Sunday was eager to approach you. Still, he kept his distance and made a silent offering in the form of the very tea you drank at the moment.

Anything is better than Himeko's coffee but you were never going privy her to that.

In a not so distant past, all of this was nothing but fiction. The Express, the story, the characters - it was all nothing more but fiction, something to pass the time as your days went on and on, the same monotony repeating each and every day.

It was hard to not think about your friends and family, what sane person would not? Lord knows how they must be feeling right now, worried sick out of their minds with indescribable sorrow. In their eyes you had merely vanished, not a single trace to be found. For all they knew you could have been left for dead in a ditch somewhere, beaten, bloodied and broken, never to see the light again or if they were even more inclined to be morbid, you had succumbed to a fate worse than death. Death at the very least grants you finality, that all is over regardless of what happened moments prior.

But that was simply not the case for you.

Here you were, lounging about in a comfortable chair as you pondered on your old life while enjoying tiny little luxuries, far away where none of your loved ones could reach you. However, life was funny sometimes because it had some fun games in store.

Sunday was very kind upon arrival. He made sure to always be there for you, always checking up on you, always there to keep you company. You were already smitten with him but now to actually witness him in the flesh was just... Indescribable. You got along like a house on fire, so much so that the crew liked to tease that you ought to just get a room. Sunday, ever the gentleman, would just brush their words aside and assure you to not take their playful little jabs to heart.

You wouldn't say anything, resorting to merely giving him a smile but not because of what he said but rather of what he did not - never once did he actually shut down those perverse accusations. Never, not even once did he deny them.

He became an emotional crutch, someone to whom you would come running to when things got tough and he would always welcome you with open arms. Sunday would hold you tenderly, his serene voice dripping with honey along with a tender drop of ecstasy, for his excitement with holding you would just show itself sometimes. His grip would be too tight at certain moments, never quite ready to let you leave. His hugs were warm and comforting, he always smelled so good too. He smelled like kindness and sweet wildflowers, always lulling you back to him no matter the time. In dark corners and perhaps even under the watchful eyes of the crew, Sunday would wrap his scarf around your head, securing the soft fabric in order to provide you with a sense of comfort.

It was humiliating just how much you would try to inhale his scent as much as possible. You wanted it etched deep inside your memory, you wished for it to linger on your very soul and for it to follow you everywhere you went, sticking to your being like tar. The fabric of the scarf would muffle your ears a little but someone was always chatting in the background. Be it March bickering with Dan Heng, Mr Yang scolding someone for doing something they were not supposed to, or just Conductor Pom Pom trying to give a speech, all of it was irrelevant.

You were ready to kill whoever would try to pry you away from sweet Sunday. That thought came often which had left you worried - just what kind of person had you become? Regardless, you kept your mouth shut and had no plans of sharing such violent sentiments with anyone, particularly not to the one you held so dear.

When it was time to part for the evening you would bid the crew farewell and wished them a good night. You always made sure to take a few extra seconds with Sunday, just to ease your aching soul. He would tell you to sleep well and would see you in the morning, ready to take on any endeavor that crossed your paths.

As everyone parted ways, Sunday would wander off somewhere dark and distant, somewhere no one could see nor hear him. He would fall to his knees and clutch his chest in agony, fat tears streaming down his face as he did everything he possibly could to steady his raging heart. In a rush he would reach for the scarf which clung around his neck, his grip tighter than iron as he would bring it close to his nose. Taking a large, deep breath, Sunday was greeted by your familiar scent which would promptly calm his poor heart.

He sometimes wondered if his heart would start bleeding from the pain due to the sheer intensity of his emotions.

This was wrong, everything about this was not right and it hurt. Sunday was obviously ill but he had no clue on how to fight this... This emotion, this white hot feeling of need whenever you stood by his side. He started to choke on the air around him and fell into an abrupt coughing fit but even then, he could bring himself to remove the scarf from the lower part of his face.

Sunday wept and sobbed, filthy snot coming out from his nose but he could not handle that now. He needed you, Oh Heavenly Aeons, how he needed you. However was he going to tell you how he felt? How, oh how was he going to express the sheer magnitude of his true thoughts? He would scare you off, he was sure of it.

Even with this pain, even with these clipped wings and bleeding heart, Sunday had never felt so alive, so harrowingly present in the moment whenever he was with you.

Perhaps, he was doing himself a kindness by just letting you be. Drink your tea, be at peace.

He can always just make you another cup if you so desired.

Without knowing, you both haunted each other in the most agonizing way known to mankind and neither was strong enough to face the reality of the situation.