#also what was their duo name again

[silli-illi]

math class so boring you draw yuri to lament the loss of ur computer that hold all the files for ur yuri week

[dailysolidarity]

You should compare grian and Jimmys wings if your grian is a little freaky lad and you feel confident in drawing him

Day 20!

It's hardly any competition.

[royaltea000]

if I had a nickel for every time some blonde guy inexplicably got a child I’d have two nickels but it’s strange that it happened twice

[nis-talks-qsmp]

Bad and Foolish being immortal makes their relationship make so much sense

That being said, Bad and Foolish's friendship to me is the same as the one this Colombian friend group I once met had

Let me explain...

I went to an exchange program once where 4 schools from 4 different countries would be given the chance to have 4 students go to Germany

The people from Colombia explained to us that in their country, most people go to public school, and a lot of private schools are extremely exclusive

Their school happened to be so exclusive that most classes had around 5 people

So for most of your life you saw the same 4 people at school

They seemed to always be either very close or genuinely hate each other. There was this one girl that the other 3 had at arm's length a lot of the time, but they would still hang out and talk casually

I didn't talk much with them myself, but the people I was traveling with confirmed that they seemed to be very toxic; doing things against the other, getting mad at each other about it, and then go clubbing together the next day as if nothing happened.

Because you kind of have to get along, you're gonna see them every single school day until you graduate. If you had more classmates, you could allow yourself to ignore them; but whether you like it or not, they're gonna be a constant in your life.

Now, imagine being immortal. You see most people around you die at some point (if you stay long enough for that), maybe you've even killed some people yourself.

They all come and go, in and out of your mind in a blink.

But there's this one guy you keep encountering. You've known him for a long time, which doesn't happen a lot.

Every few hundreds of years you'd cross paths and hang out. Because... why not? It's one of the only familiar faces you can think of

Sometimes, you get along. Sometimes you don't. Either way, you're still gonna gravitate towards each other and strike conversation every single time

Now you're forced to be in the same place. Of course you're gonna hang out!

You have the weirdest possible conversations (You've already talked about everything else)

You slap him with a fish for hours, you let him slap you with a fish for hours (you've got the patience for it, you've done worst things for longer and the gods know you have the time)

You electrocute him, prank him, flirt with him, offer him emotional support, set him on fire, compliment him, insult him, falsely accuse him of murder, you plan his murder right in front of him, you plan other people's murder together, you tell him your most secret plan, you know when he's hiding things from you

Because he probably knows you more than most people

Because he's your friend

Because he's your sworn enemy

Because what else are you supposed to do

[fredgar]

happened like around 2 days ago still thinking about it

[fudgecake-charlie]

sorry i havent been online i listened to one of my narrative playlists and ended up stuck down a fl Seeking plotline rabbit hole on the wiki. walked out there no longer normal, covered in wounds and wax and betrayal etc. don't talk to me about it. tag ramble

[4giorno]

wahhhh this little shit!!!!!!! fucking love this guy

[svtskneecaps]

you kids like your duo names so i'm dubbing ramon and dapper the "wrapper duo" i don't take constructive criticism

[youremyonlyhope]

I'm not a "new musical theatre style music" person. Never have been.

Even when I was doing voice lessons, I'd steer towards the golden age or jazzy musical theatre songs. My voice teacher would have to drag me kicking and screaming towards adding anything new musical theatre to my repertoire. For a while, the most modern song in my book was I Know The Truth from Aida, and I wouldn't count that as new musical theatre style since I mean more the Pasek&Paul or Joe Iconis type.

And now I have an audition coming up for a small production of a show in that style and I'm supposed to sing a song in a similar style. And I'm looking at all my sheet music like... let me do some Cole Porter... or Gershwin... at least Sondheim please...

[trashcreatyre]

me when they’re all duos, all of em, all the way down.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

oh the broadway world review of summer stock (a) loved it as much or more than anyone (b) has as much or more info than anyone and (c) generally has the most vivacity thus far

Summer Stock made its world premiere at The Goodspeed Opera House to a most deserving enthusiastic standing ovation. Based on the 1950 MGM film starring Hollywood legends Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, Summer Stock is a spectacular production with phenomenal dancing, feel-good music, and a sweet story, all modernized for today’s audiences.

Audiences will recognize and love hearing classic songs by Irving Berlin and from The Great American Songbook, including “Happy Days are Here Again”, “Accentuate the Positive”, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”, “It’s Only a Paper Moon”, “Me and My Shadow”, “Red Hot Mamma”, “’Til We Meet Again", and “You Wonderful You”. Summer Stock’s writer, Cheri Steinkellner, takes the original film story to a whole new level that both contemporary and classic theater goers will absolutely adore. Steinkellner provides additional lyrics to upgrade the story to first class. It’s hard to believe that she “got the call” to write Summer Stock in October, completed the workshop draft by March, and had the rehearsal draft ready by June for a July opening. Steinkellner clearly works well under pressure - Summer Stock is a diamond.

In the Writer’s Notes, Steinkellner elaborates on the restrictions of bringing the film to stage (like how heavy farm machinery wouldn’t fit up on the Goodspeed stage) and how she tackled answering the many questions that the original film glossed over: “Why is a Shakespearean matinee idol starring in a musical in a barn? What happens when you make show-people wake up at sunrise to muck out the stalls?” and more. She repositioned and repurposed the film’s original songs like “Howdy Neighbor” and “Dig for Your Dinner”, so the classic elements that film fans are looking for are still there - only, frankly, much much better. Lastly, she addresses the challenge of “crafting a [contemporary] story to support a diverse cast of characters with intention, authenticity, and care.” Steinkellner rose to the challenge, knocked it out of the park, and created a great musical in record time.

The story is simple and sweet. Set just after World War II, we meet Jane Falbury (Danielle Wade), a doting daughter working the family farm with her father, Lt. Henry “Pop” Falbury (Stephen Lee Anderson). The Falbury Farm is in trouble thanks to the devious and ambitious Margaret Wingate (Veanne Cox), who has grand aims for a monopoly over the Connecticut River Valley. Scheming with her naive son, Orville (Will Roland), they will stop at nothing to own the farm. Meanwhile, Jane’s showgirl sister, Gloria (Arianna Rosario), has moved to The Big Apple to make it on Broadway. She wins a spot in the chorus line of Joe Ross’ (Corbin Bleu) brand new show. With his sidekick and music director, Phil Filmore (Gilbert L. Bailey II) in tow and a Shakespearean star, Montgomery Leach, ready to take center stage, they hit a snag when they lose their rehearsal space. Gloria suggests uprooting the show to rehearse in her family’s barn. Jane, who is fresh out of farm hands, reluctantly agrees to let the actors stay in exchange for earning their keep. The company’s tight harmonies might not charm Jane at first, but they certainly had us swooning. I won’t spoil the entire plot, but will say that hilarity ensues, hearts flutter, dreams are realized, and it’s wonderful.

When I first heard about Summer Stock, I cynically thought that it felt too familiar. The show is set on a Connecticut farm whose owners have fallen on hard times and risk losing their livelihood. They turn to their Broadway friends, who are amidst the usual uphill battle of making it big in show business, and agree to put on a brand new production in the barn to raise funds to save the farm. It’s based on the film of the same name, features music by Irving Berlin, and includes incredible tap numbers, and spotlights America’s sweetheart Corbin Bleu. Hearing that alone, I’d think this was a copy/paste of Tony Award-nominated Holiday Inn: The New Irving Berlin Musical, which opened at The Goodspeed in 2014 and went to Broadway in 2016. We’ve seen a number of Irving Berlin musicals, including White Christmas, and the most recent Broadway production Nice Work if You Can Get It, starring Kelli O���Hara and Matthew Broderick. So, what more is there to add to this Broadway subgenre? If you’d asked me before, I would argue there’s “Nothing More to Say”. I was very wrong. Summer Stock raises the bar with phenomenal choreography, clever storytelling and humor, beautiful orchestrations, and unparalleled performers.

Speaking of unparalleled performers, the cast is perfection. There’s not a single throwaway line or character. They’re all exquisite gems and I’m running out of words to compliment them all. The “city mice” dancers and ensemble features Erika Amato, Hannah Balagot, DeShawn Bowens, Ronnie S. Bowman Jr., Emily Kelly, Francesca Mancuso, Tommy Martinez, Corinne Munsch, Gregory North, Kaylee Olson, Jack Sippel, and Cayel Tregeagle. Danielle Wade sweetly croons just like Judy Garland and swept audiences off their feet. As I left the theater, I overheard two ladies praising Wade for her stupendous performance, saying it was perfect likeness of Garland, yet even more meaningful. Arianna Rosario, as the sugary sweet sister, is absolutely delightful. Stephen Lee Anderson, as  the veteran and father, tugs our heart strings. Gilbert L. Bailey II and Will Roland had the crowd roaring with laughter as the feisty music director and innocent corporate heir. Veanne Cox, as the melodramatic mother and CEO of Wingate Agricultural Corporate, had the crowd roaring with laughter from the moment she spoke her first line. Not to be outdone, J. Anthony Crane, as the over-the-top Shakespearean star, brought down the house with his entrance alone. Together, Cox and Crane generate instant heat, which is especially appropriate since they rock the stage with Red Hot Mamma. The cheeky, interspersed Shakespearean innuendo is fast-paced, clever, and had the audience hooting and hollering. I would see the show again for this duo.

Last, but far from least, Corbin Bleu, as the show’s director, gives the performance of a lifetime. Bleu radiates pure joy and leads with heart, inviting his scene partners to shine with him. Audiences instantly fell in love with his gorgeous, velvety voice, and, understandably, swooned. Bleu previously won the Chita Rivera Award for Outstanding Male Dancing in a Broadway Show for his portrayal in Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn, and his transcendent tapping in Summer Stock shows he’s not stopping there. Bleu’s dancing is out of this world! You can’t miss his charming and virtuosic spin on Gene Kelly’s iconic solo dance, featuring the world’s most unexpected dance partner. Corbin Bleu is a national treasure.

The 8-piece orchestra, lead by Goodspeed’s resident music director Adam Souza, performs the remarkable orchestrations, by Doug Besterman, beautifully. The score is demanding, but the musicians don’t let us see them sweat. As much as I’m gushing, I would recommend shifting the show to one hour earlier and give it a little trim. Not a haircutter’s inch, but a discreet tidy-up. As it turns out, I was in slight agreement with the obnoxious subscribers behind me, who disrupted a precious moment to voice their complaints, “This is two hours and forty minutes? Way too long!” I nearly turned to fisticuffs in defense of this phenomenal cast, but chose to deliver an icy, yet effective, glare. I digress, but Goodspeed subscribers are truly spoiled with top-rate performers straight from the Broadway stage. In any case, we could use a couple more developmental scenes to fully flesh out the plot, and I’d be willing to sacrifice by shaving a bit off some of the longer dance numbers (“Everybody Step” and “Dig For Your Dinner”) and songs. (Not too much! Just an inch! And don’t dare recast any characters!)

That isn’t to say that the dance performances weren’t epic: Summer Stock has the best dancing I have ever seen, hands down. The virtuosic ensemble, lovingly called “city mice”, perfectly deliver wildly acrobatic displays all with impossibly high-energy and make it look easy. Director and choreographer, Donna Feore, has made an unforgettable, magnificent Goodspeed debut. Feore makes use of every inch of the stage, making it feel larger than life, and her attention to detail is unsurpassed. The choreography is out of this world! Wilson Chin, scenic designer, set the stage beautifully. The Technicolor New England farm-turned-theater is framed with classic red-sided barn, delicate florals climbing the walls, and hurricane lanterns lovingly displayed as accent pieces. Summer Stock is Goodspeed’s best original production ever. The 12, which opens next, has very big shoes to fill. Summer Stock has its eyes set on Broadway. Does Summer Stock deserve a Broadway run? Absolutely. In this critic’s opinion, it couldn’t get there soon enough.  Perhaps my favorite aspect of the production were the many comedic theater flourishes. Broadway audiences will cry with laughter when they watch the city mice (actors) learn how to play the part of farmhands: “What is the farmer’s motivation?” “E-I, E-I!” Frankly, I want an original cast album yesterday. Finally, when it opens on Broadway, you’ll wish you had seen it at The Goodspeed first.

[silli-illi]

ughhh i need to dig deeper into this. this episode is so interesting

[evoliravioli]

I need more Freda and Pris content....

Like please i need to know how Freda got that injury also what happend after that time they had that moment in the changing room and almost got exposed as echomancers??? Also also how do their powers work, are they realy just like in the game combat or do they work differently in the story?

I also need more stuff from Pris pov, like she is so interesting to me i need to pick her brain appart same with Freda tbh...

Do you guys think they visit eachothers apartments a lot since they aren't used to being seperated...

Freda coming over to Pris place because she had a nightmare and is used to Pris comforting her...

[nereidprinc3ss]

please don't say you love me

in which fwb!spencer reid and fem!reader get into an argument about the nature of their relationship.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: friends with benefits arrangement, it goes bad, reader is so clearly anxious avoidant, reader is so me-coded, self-loathing, difficulties with emotional intimacy, arguing, derek and penelope make an appearance woo, a little dramatic, no happy ending (a nereidprinc3ss first!) a/n: it happened guys I stopped writing for a few days and last night randomly was inspired to finish this fwb piece and it essentially turned into a vent and went a completely different direction than i thought it would but here we are!!! i hope you enjoy, I loved writing, ilysm

“Are you reading it? Did you get to the part yet?” You ask, buzzing as you peer around Spencer’s arm to see where he’s at in the book you’d handed him. Sometimes you think it takes him longer to flip the pages than to read them. 

He doesn’t answer, but you see the flickering quirk of his lip like something is amusing him. It’s been a few minutes and he’s maybe halfway through. He has to have seen it by now. 

You’re clinging to his arm, eyes darting pointlessly between the text and his face, searching for a reaction. It comes in the form of a furrowed brow, a disbelieving smile, and something between a barking laugh and an exclamation of, “what?”

“You read it?”

His eyes narrow and he flips back a page, taking a bit longer to reevaluate. 

“Our moans and grunts drowned out the screams of the dead and dying only a few hundred feet away.”

You giggle furiously, clapping a hand to your mouth when you snort, and you feel Spencer’s focus shifting to you, even with your eyes screwed shut. 

“And you read this whole series?”

At that you sober up some, still hiding the bottom half of your face and brows drawn sorrowfully as mirthful tears well. You’re slow to admit your guilt with a nod, and his expression is somewhere between horror and fascination. 

Your cheeks heat and you cover your face, laughing again and shaking your head shamefully as he ridicules you. 

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself? I don’t even know if I can be seen in public with you, that’s—” he’s haphazardly tossed the book back on its display table and grabbed your wrists, pulling gently and laughing too. “No, show me your face. This is—you need to explain yourself. This is unforgivable.” 

“No! I swear it was a morbid curiosity, I didn’t like it, I’m sorry! I—”

“Reid?”

You both freeze. 

It’s not the most dignified position, admittedly—hidden among the shelves in a bookstore, pressed too close to be friendly, his hands around your wrists. 

So you don’t mind when he drops them like hot potatoes and gives you a few inches of breathing room. 

“Hey! Uh—you’re—”

Spencer is looking between you and two other people at the end of the aisle—a quirky bespectacled blonde in a flouncy polka-dot dress and her taller companion, ripped and head shaved, sporting some impressive eyebrows. Right now they’re conspicuously raised—his eyes are also pinballing between you and Spencer. 

For a moment, everyone is just sort of… looking at each other. 

It’s a little bit… awful?

Finally Spencer clears his throat. 

“Um, what are you guys doing here? Just… looking at books?”

Something is off, and you feel like shrinking or running, but you just stay glued to your spot. 

In sync, they hold up copies of the same book—and it takes you not a second to place the author’s name, in imposing red font at the bottom like it’s important. Rossi. 

The pieces click into place. These must be Spencer’s co-workers—Penelope and Derek, if his descriptions of the team have served you well. Part of you is starstruck. Part of you is embarrassed. They’re clearly shocked to see Spencer with a girl in the wild, so you know he hasn’t told them about you—and why should he, you think, why should he tell his friends about the girl he’s been sleeping with for months now? 

Finally, the blonder half of the duo speaks. 

“You’re—this is a girl. That’s. Who is that? Hi! Who are you?”

She’s literally pointing at you, eyes drifting between you and Spencer like it just doesn’t make any sense. Derek gives her a look and gently pushes her hand down. 

“Hey. That’s enough.” Then he offers you a polite smile, though you sense a bit strained, and his eyes too keep wandering back to the man next to you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no! You’re not… interrupting…” Spencer trails off and you sense he’s looking at you and gauging a reaction but you’re just smiling idly at his friends and waiting for this to be over. He finally thinks to introduce you by name, and you offer a shy wave and a smile to your new acquaintances. 

Penelope points (that damn finger again) but this time it’s less accusatory, and stays below chin level. 

“Cool shirt. I love that band,” she offers genially. Your brows raise and you look down, trying to remember what shirt you’d tossed on before leaving Spencer’s apartment an hour ago. 

“Oh! Thanks,” you smile, and you’re relieved to mean it this time. 

Another frosty silence begins to descend, but Derek doesn’t let it settle so much this time, to everyone’s satisfaction. 

“Alright, well. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your date.”

There’s too much weight on the last sentence, and Derek gives Spencer a eyebrows-raised-meaningfully look you don’t understand. You’re just glad Spencer keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t immediately insist that it’s not a date, because it’s not, and that’s fine, but the vehement denial would bum you out. 

The pair walk away in the kind of clenched silence that means they’ll start fervently whispering as soon as they are out of ear shot. You watch their retreating figures and chew your lip, sensing that the carefree and playful energy of five minutes ago will have evaporated by the time you turn back to face your companion. 

“Strange,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, and you’re slightly jarred when Spencer replies from beside you. 

“Which part?”

All of it. 

Turning to face him, you smile, and it doesn’t reach your eyes but it doesn’t need to. 

“Oh—nothing, sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, only stares at a point somewhere above your head and narrows his eyes like he’s thinking unpleasant thoughts. 

“Was I an asshole, to you, just now?”

It’s unexpected. You don’t have an answer prepared, so you say something that feels like a lie because you can’t prove that it’s not the truth. 

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know. I get weird around them, sometimes. I don’t always know what to say, like, when my personal life and my work life intersect, because for a long time I didn’t really have a personal life. And I think they still think I don’t know how to talk to girls, so…”

“You don’t know how to talk to girls,” you remind him. “Let’s go look at the puzzles.”

Maybe you spend too much time with Spencer Reid. Maybe that’s the problem—too long in his presence and he’s eating away at your neural tissue like you’ve got cysticercosis and he’s the T. solium (a terrible thing he had explained to you a few weeks ago.)

Maybe you need a break from him, to stop breathing his air and sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothing, because you’re forgetting that he’s not the entire world and that is a very bad thing to forget in a situation like yours. The entire world cannot be the size of his apartment. 

But you also just like him so much. As a friend, of course. That goes without saying. You like his strange sense of humor, and the way he lights up when you ask him an obscure question. You like your legs across his lap while you watch his old shows. You also like being kissed by him, and hugged by him. You like being taken care of like no one has ever taken care of you, and you like the way he always touches you, soft and kind and so on purpose. 

You never meant to like him so much. 

This affection—it has grown, insidious and parasitic, and now that it’s been pointed out to you like a lump in your side, it’s impossible to ignore. 

What you and Spencer have works precisely because you’ve kept things platonic and casual. That way, there’s no worrying about emotional baggage or arguing about feelings because there are none to be found and no precedent that any such things should or need to occur. You can’t hurt each other’s feelings if your feelings aren’t on the table. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about earlier?

Why can’t you help caring that he’s been keeping you a secret from the people he loves most?

“So, essentially the book is his first deep dive into meta-fiction. It was pretty revolutionary at the time, and while not his most celebrated novel, I’d argue it was his most relevant and culturally pervasive. I’d actually love to hear your interpretation of the story—it’s truly different for everyone. It’s a little like… like a literary Rorschach test. Do you wanna borrow it?”

You’re a tangle on his bed—arms, legs, sheets—it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. All you’re sure of is his hand, tracing his fingers in chaste lines, feather-light up and down your inner thigh in the way he knows you like. Usually it’s so soothing you melt and fall asleep within minutes. Right now it’s only stoking some sparking electrical fire in your chest—the buzzes and bursts from which have you on edge. Ready to cave in at any second. You wish you could relax. You’ve been trying.

Spencer is in no hurry for you to respond, and so doesn’t seem to mind when it takes you a long while to find your answer. 

“I think I need to go home.”

It comes out too scratchy, as you haven’t really spoken for several hours. Not as casual as you were going for. He angles his head down toward you and his hand stops and you realize it’s actually worse like that. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything is fine, I just… I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight, I think.”

It’s late and you shouldn’t be making him drive you across town, but he’s always amenable to what you want. This is the longest you’ve ever stayed at his place, after all—a rare long weekend—and before that a few weeks had passed with no cases to speak of, during which time you’ve been staying with him more and more. Spencer seems to be completely content letting you eat his food and use his shower if it means you don’t leave. 

“I know the feeling well,” he admits, and your heart twinges with the care he takes to not bump or bend you or pull your hair as he shifts. He’s already been out of bed, and so is more dressed than you. Really, most people on the planet are more dressed than you, and you pull his nice sheet higher up your chest as he sits on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you and with a sort of worry in his eyes. He finds your knee through the fabric. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Stop paying such close attention, you want to tell him. And in the same breath, please don’t ever look away. 

“I’m… good.”

It is easily the least convincing performance of your life. Either you’re self sabotaging or you want him to push you further, and you don’t know which is worse. 

When his brow ramps just the slightest bit, you know you’ve fumbled it. 

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug. “I don’t need you to.” And then you sit up, still holding the sheet to your chest. “Can you hand me a shirt?”

Enough clothing has accumulated around the room recently that he could pretty much reach out in any direction and find something for you to wear.  He grabs a sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost and holds it out for you, and you pull it over your head, before dropping your feet onto the cool wooden floor and grabbing the first bottoms you see—a pair of floral pajama shorts. How have so many of your clothes ended up at his apartment?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

You scoop your bag up from a chair and flit around the room, haphazardly stuffing away discarded clothing to take back home. It’s true that it’ll be nice to get back to your stuff—your shower products and your closet and your silk pillow cases. You shouldn’t be spending so much time here. It’s not your space and you’ve been sacrificing your own needs to be closer to him, which is something you’d rather not do for any man. 

“You can drive me home. I’ll send you gas money.”

“You don’t need to send me gas money,” he says, tacking your name on to the end of the sentence in a way that raises your hackles instantly. 

“Yeah, I do. You drive me around constantly. I’ll pay you back and start taking the metro, or something.”

“I don’t want your money,” he scoffs. 

“Fine. Then I’ll call a car.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy to drive you.”

“Why?”

Silence hangs. Spencer has by this point stood up, and he’s watching you with a furrowed brow and slightly parted lips like he doesn’t understand where this animosity has come from. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure either. You didn’t realize you were harboring so much of it. 

“Am I supposed to see you as an inconvenience?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No. You’re not. We have a relationship and I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you sure as hell were thinking it. 

It feels good to say, like stretching a sore muscle beyond its limits or pressing into a bruise until you get past the ache. Sometimes when things hurt, it’s best to feel the pain and move on. 

He looks absolutely perplexed, the lines between his brows only ditching deeper. 

“Is that what this is about?”

“Oh my god, Spencer, no, I don’t care—”

“Because earlier at the bookstore I asked you if I was being an asshole and—”

“I do not give a fuck about earlier at the fucking bookstore!”

It’s too late to be yelling, but he doesn’t scold you. He just sort of looks at you, like you’re something mildly unpleasant. It makes you feel worse. 

A long moment goes by. 

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

You let him brush past you, nothing more than a breeze on your shoulders as he disappears from the darkened bedroom. For a moment, you can’t follow him. All you can do is stand there and try to contain that sour, stinging, crying feeling in your eyes and nose because there’s no reason for you to be crying right now. 

From the living room, he calls, rather abrasively, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” you huff, and it is as wavering as it is insolent, so obviously the only word holding back a full-fledged deluge of tears. 

One minute. One minute to sniffle and take deep breaths and wipe abashedly under your eyes because you refuse to be dramatic about this. Refuse to get over-emotional. You will not let it matter this much to you. 

When you decide you can show your face without making a scene, you march out of his bedroom and straight past where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, keys in hand, to the front door. 

He doesn’t move. You burn smoking holes into the dark wood of the door with your eyes, and the two of you are apparently at an impasse. 

“I’m ready,” you eventually snap, always the impatient one between the two of you, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. 

“I’m not.”

“You said you would—”

“I know what I said,” Spencer cuts you off and shuts you up, “and I changed my mind. I’d prefer to talk about it before I take you home.”

By the time he finishes the sentence you’re already wrestling your phone from the depths of your bag in search of a ride sharing app. 

“Okay, well I’m done talking because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, so—”

“No, you’re done talking because this is what you do. You can never admit it when you want something because that would mean acknowledging that you’re a human being with emotions, and that’s too scary for you.”

Surely you misheard him. You turn around, a deep frown contorting your features. 

“Excuse me?”

He only looks at you in that expectant, knowing way of his. 

“It’s too scary so you run away. You’d rather burn your relationships to the ground and rebuild them with a new person every time than actually let someone in.”

“You don’t know me!” You yell.

“Do you actually think that’s true?” Spencer says, pushing off his perch against the counter, voice shrilling and raised slightly as he gets visibly agitated. “You think I’ve spent hours upon hours with you and I don’t know you at all?”

“You have no idea what I’m like in a relationship because this isn’t one. You have no fucking idea what I want, so do not presume to,” you seethe. 

“You want a relationship. You wanted my friends to know you and you didn’t tell me that because you’re fucking terrified of the fact that I do know you. You can’t stand the idea that regardless of how many times you tell yourself it’s just sex, you have been vulnerable with me, and you’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone before, like why your last three relationships really ended, and how you constantly self-sabotage when you’re on the verge of getting what you want because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up!”

“No. I’m not just going to let you walk away from me like you did everyone else who could’ve ever cared about you because I know once you walk out that door you’ll stop responding to my calls and texts and I’ll never see you again, which is a juvenile pattern and completely unsustainable if you don’t want to keep pushing people away for the rest of your life!”

“God, Spencer, stop!” You sob, staggering back like you’ve been stabbed. 

The urgency, the raw, desperate scratch of your voice, stops him in his tracks. 

Every place an arrow penetrated a chink in your armor aches, and it hurts so much worse because he knew exactly where they were. You don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. Despite your most valiant efforts, Spencer Reid knows you. Somehow he crept in and grew over every limb like ivy. It’s crawled over your feet and up your legs and it’s keeping you there, rooted in place in his apartment, sobbing silently into the crook of your arm because you feel utterly paralyzed with fear. 

Just as he’d said. 

It’s silent for a long stretch of time, unquantifiable the same way the distance between the beach and the horizon is unquantifiable. It’s sprawling and infinite and desolate. The only relief from the drowning quiet is the occasional gulp of air or gasp from you which furthers your humiliation. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer finally whispers, soft and unsure like rays of weak sunlight over staggered tides, in the grey morning after a raging storm. It’s an attempt. It’s earnest and afraid. 

The energy radiating off of him is so tangible that you can sense his desire to come near. To hold you. But that would be your worst nightmare come to fruition. This—this warbling and crying in front of him in silence in his dark apartment is god-awful enough. But to be comforted? For him to bear witness up close and personal to your humility and your ugly, jagged pieces—that inspires true catatonia. That is everything he said you were afraid of, and he was right. 

You resent your human nature, and the fact that you care how his friends look at you and that it stung when they did so with little more than apathy. You hate that you care that he hasn’t told them about you. You hate that you feel so unimportant—because more than anything, you want to be fine with being unimportant. 

You want to be fine. Constantly. 

You hate that you feel. You hate that you care. 

But you always have. And so fucking deeply. 

Somehow, Spencer Reid is the only one who has ever noticed. 

Eventually, his self-restraint snaps and he surges forward at the same time as you take a shuddering inhale and step back. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper. Afraid that if he did, his fingers would only sink into your flesh like decaying fruit. That you would disintegrate in his hands, and he’d finally see you’d been rotten the whole time. 

He speaks softly, holding his hands up to show you he’s not a threat. 

“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’ll—”

“No. I don’t want a ride. I’ll get a car.” You speak quietly. Efficiently. There’s no point in pretending this doesn’t feel catastrophic anymore. 

His brows furrow. Like a moth to flame, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he draws nearer again. 

“I’m not comfortable with you on the street at this hour.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” you insist, pleading, a wounded animal, because he doesn’t seem to understand how every casual notion of kindness is a violence, how he’s ripping into you and making it so you’ll never be able to put yourself back together. He can’t be kind like you’re easy to be kind to. 

If you’re easy to be kind to, you are just as easy to hurt. Accepting that kindness is a sort of vulnerability you feel you can’t afford right now. 

Another moment of silence, of stillness, as if you’re both bolted to the ground where you stand. 

When he speaks it’s a blow to the chest because you’ve made him cry too. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quietly, and a venomous self-hatred drips down your throat. Because you’re doing it again.

Maybe this is all you will ever be. 

You fail to stifle a sob and Spencer steps closer still, saying your name desperately and so quietly like it’s his last rite. 

And you try. You try harder than you ever have to stay in one place, to get a hold of your vibrating and to swallow all those slithery feelings and ignore every alarm telling you to panic when he reaches out to touch your arm because it’s never safe to let people in. But when his hand finally brushes you, it’s like a cow prod. You jolt backward. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper all in one harrowed breath, and there’s so much you’d like to say—you’re right, about everything, you do know me, you know what I want, I tried, I’m ashamed—but none of it matters. None of it is enough. He’s backed you into a corner of your own making, and the only way out is by pushing him aside even if it hurts you both. 

So you don’t say anything else. You leave him there, in the dark of his own apartment, and you disappear down the hall. 

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

[metalandmagi]

In honor of Women's History month, I just want to remind people that some of the most influential and popular manga in the anime community are written/illustrated by women. And I'm not just talking about groundbreaking shojo like Sailor Moon, Fruits Basket, Card Captor Sakura, or Black Butler (or things like Chihayafuru, Migi to Dali, Sakamoto Desu ga?, Nana, Natsume Yuujincho, Revolutionary Girl Utena, Violet Evergarden, A Silent Voice, and a million more). To be clear, those series are also amazing, and I'm not demeaning them in any way. They deserve just as much respect as everything else.

But right now I'm talking about shōnen series or series that are usually marketed towards men specifically or have appeared in shōnen magazines. I mean things like:

Beastars, made by Paru Itagaki (fun fact: she's the daughter of Keisuke Itagaki, the author of Baki! I guess it runs in the family 😆)

Gangsta, by Kohske

Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic by Shinobu Ohtaka (which I promise isn't what my screen name is a reference to, even though I love this show).

D.Gray Man by Katsura Hoshino

Dorohedoro by Q Hayashida

To Your Eternity by Yoshitoki Ōima

Mushishi, made by Yuki Urushibara (aka Soyogo Shima).

Noragami which is written by two women, collectively named Adachitoka, similarly to romance author duo Christina Lauren.

Blue Exorcist by Kazue Kato

Inuyasha (and Ranma 1/2 and Urasai Yatsura) by Rumiko Takahashi, which I know for a fact served as a gateway anime for a shit ton of people across generations (but especially for people my age).

I have to shout out Posuka Demizu, who illustrated The Promised Neverland, which is my favorite manga series. She may have given the characters weird looking facial proportions, but damn if she ain't one of the most detail oriented (and sneakiest) artists out there.

And finally, a little story you may know called Fullmetal Alchemist, written by Hiromu Arakawa (who also wrote Silver Spoon, the most recent manga version of The Heroic Legend of Arslan and lots of other stuff but I wanted to highlight those two specifically).

There's also been speculation that a small hidden gem called...what was it again?...Oh yeah, DEMON SLAYER is written by a woman. But Koyoharu Gotouge's gender hasn't been confirmed so it's still just a theory.

idk, I just love women.

[euphoria-looney]

My heart absolutely breaks for (name) in the ‘Hold me, console me’ au, like they’ve gotten the short end of the stick entirely.

If the Batfam do like try to reconcile, I don’t think it could ever end well at all. Of course, it never really does in Batfam aus, but in this one especially it’s just so tragic.

(Name) can literally never have a normal family, even in ‘reconciliation’ the family employ the same treatment they use on D/n and M/n but it’s even worse on (Name) because they aren’t some little kid or a mother, no they’re an emotionally unstable teenager who has no qualms with absolutely destroying anyone’s self-esteem.

It’d probably be difficult but also really eye-opening for Bruce as well, that he’s made his child feel so unwanted that they reject everyone and make absolutely no effort to reciprocate anything the Batfam do at all.

You made this so well I should give the story right to you frfr/j

Anyways

Let me just write this on my phone Grammarly.

"may you never forget me" By Temachii

Divider Creds: @plutism and @miuji

So much more.

Special

3rd POV

It would be hard to track the [name] [last name] down, even if their face is on all the billboards that could be seen across the world.

They had become very popular in a matter of three years, three years of leaving Wayne Manor.

No surprise to them that no one tried to contact them through messages only that mother-daughter duo that seemed desperate. However, they couldn't help but facepalm at their own stupidity of not leaving Alfred a way to contact them.

But after tracking bombs, bomb threats, and villains, well, tracking down one big face in the world shouldn’t be hard for the vigilantes of the most crime-rated city.

That's what Bruce Wayne thought, he never thought that his child would arm their security so well, that it might as well have two arms. (THAT DUDE)

However, through peer luck, they found a breakthrough (they found them and followed them home).

[name] was surprised when their doorbell rang, one of their maids offered to get it but she refused and made their way to the door, opening to a family reunion outside or something.

“It’s time to stop this madness and come home [name], you’re putting a bad name on us.” Damian huffed peeking at the interior of this massive apartment/penthouse complex.

He couldn’t help but be a wee bit impressed, not only because these apartments seemed so expensive, it’s also that on top of owning this place they also owned the whole building.

“I hate to admit this, but Damian’s right. Don’t be a child [name], so what if we didn’t give you attention? Shouldn’t you understand we’re busy? Even finding the time to come here and retrieve you has impacted our schedules” Tim scolded the 21-year-old like she had used a Sharpie to draw on the wall.

They seemed to believe [name] would fold just by their presence.

‘‘Did you guys come to bring me back or have the door slam shut in your face.” [name] seemed serene but the more these strangers blabbered in their ears, they couldn't help but feel as if nails were on a chalkboard just for the peer satisfaction for themselves to let out their own complaints on the victim.

“Don’t be like that guys, you'll have to forgive them [name] that's just how they are, you know? Listen, [name], mom and [D/D] are worried about you, you don't want them to be nervous you're out here gone with no one keeping an eye on you, let's forget about this and go home." Dick tried to calm the tension but it only increased when he once again covered for mistakes his family made.

[name] could only narrow their eyes at this pathetic attempt to convince them to return to the manor and lock away.

"Even now, it's always, 'you know how they are [name]. You'll have to forgive them [name]. They had a difficult childhood [name]. We had a difficult childhood [name]. Me, me, me. That is all I'm hearing from your "convincing stories." You're ruining our family name, [name]. Stop acting like a child, [name]. Just shut up!" [name]'s words were rushed out sparing them any words of argument. They were breathing heavily regaining their composure.

"That's enough, out of all of you. [name], at the end of the day, those are your brothers, and you, their sibling. Besides, you're too young to be able to leave the house. As your father, I'm telling you to come home. No punishment will happen. You're making [M/D] and [D/D] very distraught, hm?" Bruce stepped in playing the role that was left empty for years.

[name] could only scoff.

"When did you want to be my father figure? Wait- no-, who am I kidding, you're doing this for [M/D] and [D/D] right? This isn't about bringing me home, is it?" [name] could only huff before motioning for the maid and they went to the living room.

“Let’s do this somewhere more comfortable.”

The maid lined up slippers making the family that arrived slip off their outside shoes and glance at each other.

The maid led them to the living room they could only admire the expensive layout before a bulter set a set of tea down at the table making each a cup.

After that heated moment, the atmosphere became awkward with nothing to bring up to kill the quiet tension.

"What made you think I would come back home?" [name] decided to break the silence. Taking a sip of the tea.

"[name], this isn't about [M/D] and [D/D]" Bruce decided to bring up the point they made at the doorway. They didn't give a reaction though, reverting back to the kid that was once hidden in the manor's wall not seen nor heard.

Guess they did learn one thing being there, poker face.

"We all want you home, we came here to apologize, we do want you home. We do. Didn't you love the house? When we go back all the attention will be on you-" Dick was about to approach them, holding their hand like a comforting sibling's, eyes that would convey 'it would all be okay.'

Tim was nodding his head, and Damian was just watching this all go down as he was advised not to speak at the moment since he was driven to say things that would make the situation worse, but can't [name] just see? It's because he also wants them back home.

"Do you think I'm still that child that would beg for a scrap of attention?" [name] wanted them to snap out of their delusions just like they had to, years back.

"For the longest time, I had believed I deserved to be treated like I didn't exist. I was known as [name] Wayne, only by name, only to myself was I even known by that last name. No matter how hard I would tug at someone's sleeve to come to a recital or a performance, and even competition I would only get to see my other competitors get something I didn't even if I was first or the best. familial love." They sat their teacup down.

"So I thought 'they're busy' since that's always the excuse right? I resorted to leaving card invites, and flyers, which didn't work so it may have been the event I was doing. No matter what I switched to, it never mattered. I only stopped when I took more notice of how many invitations I would see in the trash, thrown away like a candy wrapper. You couldn't even imagine how I had such a degrading mindset for myself at that young age."

They looked down at the hands of their lap. Finding it an old habit when they sat alone at the very center of attention of the event they were doing after scanning the crowd just to be disappointed each time.

"Did you even look at what was on the piece of 'useless' paper or did you just see my name and know it was a waste of time?" They stared at all of them, not expecting a response.

Their words sunk so deep into four of the most respected and influential people in the world, the four hero vigilantes.

"I think I've spoken enough for the day, so you'll have to understand my reasoning for not wanting to forgive and reconcile with you and your family, or wanting to go back with you and that those simple words of 'I'm sorry' doesn't fix anything. I'm sure you all are busy. You always are, aren't you?"

"Do see them out." [name] handed a maid their finished cup of tea.

"[name], we do care about you... no matter how many events we missed. We came here for you... didn't we?" Tim crossed his arms.

"How old am I?"

"What?"

"That might be a hard question. Let's give this another go, how old was I when I entered the manor?"

"I don't-"

"That's shocking that Tim does not know something for once."

"Well, that's not fair. I wasn't there when you first entered the house." Damian tried to make a point.

"You're right. When's my birthday."

"..."

"What's the first sport I tried."

"... Soccer? No- wait, ice skating."

It was ballet.

"No. What's the first instrument I played?"

"What's my favorite activity to do?"

"What's my favorite food?"

"When did I get into business?"

"When did I get into the medical field?"

Question after question was left with no answers just blank stares and idiotic guessing attempts.

"How long has it been since I've moved out of the house?"

"... a year at most?" Dick guesses again.

"Three years, I left on my birthday, since you don't remember when that is I'll just tell you it was on my 18th birthday when I became legally of age."

[name] turned to Bruce who kept silent the whole time during this trial, maybe it was because he didn't know the answers, but maybe it was also that even with the question he learned facts about [name] that he brushed aside before.

18th year of age? No. That couldn't be, you, who was once so little roaming around the halls with those small steps?

And that was three years ago, so that makes you what? 21? you could be drinking any day without him knowing.

"So Bruce, am I still too young to be throwing a "fit" running away, are these guys really my siblings and the others while I'm at it? Did you really come here for me? Or are you still lying to my face that you didn't only come here to make [M/D and [D/D] happy?"

They could only sigh at the sight in front of them, the Waynes acting shocked like this information came out of someone's left ass cheek.

"Send my regards to Alfred and I guess [M/D] and [D/D] I can see why they don't like it there, you're treating me like how you would with them, acting as if I'm incompetent, unable to do anything for myself. I pity them, I do."

With that, the mission was deemed a failure.

Escorted out of the building with the Valet driver handing over their cars.

Originally this was supposed to be a chapter before I started putting more ideas for my So Much More series. There will probably be a chapter like this but different as the chapter 3 I'm making is a major plot twist.

Also, I wanted MC to be calm in any situation and level-headed so that is also why this wasn't going to become a chapter until I saw this really amazing request!

I hope the request was done correctly halfway through writing this I was like 'Is this even right?' as if I didn't know what was going on in my own story.

I also didn’t include all of the family members bc that would be to many so we’ll just say they had missions and didn’t want anything to happen to [M/D] and [D/D] which making Alfred watch over them.

Also they didn’t sedate [name] as they weren’t able to with the amount of maids and butlers around and [name] is too smart and rich not to hire some sort of security or protection.

I will be working on my SG x DC series next chapter after this but also on fanfiction for another account, I have on Wattpad that I haven't updated in months and wouldn't want my readers over there to be too starved.

Anyway, with all that said and done tysm for reading!

(The interior of the penthouse/apartment I was imagining- can you tell I like K-Drama?)

(I'm not sure if you guys wanted to be tagged in this since it is not another part but just a special but here's a tag list)

@cozmie @nxdxsworld @overcaffeinatedfreak @strwberryglass @leiiasurez @randomlyappearingartist @sirenetheblogger @a-lurking-fae @darktrashpoetry