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thebowieconstricker · 4 months

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Stagedoor Sparks! (Matthew Patel x Reader) ✨🔥🔱

AN: OH MY GOODNESS YOU GUYS WERE FEELING THIS ONE OKAY-

I’m so glad to see people hyped up for my pathetic pirate boy. Please enjoy and if this goes well I may turn it into a series lol

We’ve got a gender neutral reader, idiots in love, I saw someone say pathetic x pathetic and YES, theater kid lingo, mild swearing, and your favorite cutie pie. ⚠️Also, this is heavily based on Scott Pilgrim Takes Off, so spoiler warnings for that if you haven’t seen it! ⚠️ Enjoy!

“Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Musical”, was what the bright lights of the massive sign on your local theater boasted. Recently, your coworker Julie had been telling you about the ridiculous life of this ‘Scott Pilgrim’, ranting about the conga line of characters that filled his (frankly, pathetic sounding) existence. She had also alerted you to this… musical. A musical that had been written about his life.

You sighed to yourself and adjusted your bag. Making your way to the golden, elaborately designed doors, just barely dodging all the paparazzi (why was there so much paparazzi?), you somehow successfully made your way into the main lobby of the theatre. Ivory and gold filled your vision as you observed the plush red carpet that lined each of the three floors. You had visited this theater before, and it’s gorgeous grandeur never failed to amaze you.

Now, you did not at all care about this guy. Yes, you had been silently internalizing every minuscule part of this random guy’s daily shenanigans, but that was because you were being a good friend to Julie! This Scott guy seemed like a tool, and you weren't particularly interested in listening to a…?

You checked the playbill the usher had just handed you.

…THREE HOUR MUSICAL?!? You almost started laughing right there.

But anyways, you weren’t here for this Scott guy.

You were here for musical theater. You had always been drawn to the fantastical world of lights and costumes and music. Plus, this was a community production with actors from Toronto, and you were always happy to support your local theater kids.

As you finally made your way to your seat, you sat down in the plush red chairs and opened your playbill to the cast section. You didn’t see any names you recognized, but one stood out to you.

Matthew Patel - Scott Pilgrim

Obviously, Scott Pilgrim was the lead role, but what really caught your attention was the picture attached to the name. Matthew Patel, you respectfully observed, was mad cute.

The lights suddenly began to dim and you settled in for whatever was in store, keeping a keen eye out for this ‘Matthew Patel’.

~~~ Holy shit, this is the best thing you’ve ever seen.

From the moment Matthew Patel walked onstage, you were absolutely smitten. He wore a bright orange wig that clashed horrendously with his dark skin, and an oversized jacket, but he was the hottest thing you had ever seen. Also, holy shit, Matthew Patel could sing. From the first line, you were completely enraptured by his high tenor belting. As you watched him onstage, you saw literal sparks in his eyes, his excitement and passion for the stage radiating off of him.

At the curtain call, you stood and enthusiastically clapped for each of the cast members, but hooped and hollered for Matthew especially. Even though you knew he couldn’t see you from the stage, you found yourself blushing at the thought of him looking at you.

That’s when it hit you: You’ve gotta book it to stage door to meet this guy.

~~~ Matthew Patel was completely exhausted. As the curtains flew closed, he sighed and turned around to smile at his cast mates. Although he was drained by his performance, he always took this opportunity at the end of a show to look to his fellow caste mates.

And hopefully someone would invite him with their group to an after show dinner.

He walked through the crowd, giving pats on the back and thumbs ups as he made his way to his dressing room. Lots of smiles, lots of “great job!”’s but… no invitations.

Slamming the door to his room he quickly took of his wig and put on his regular clothes, deciding that he would take off his stage makeup at home (aka the makeup he regularly wore but no one cared enough to know that). His room had a window where he could look down at the stagedoor line, the line that had been non-existent since opening night. He didn’t take it personally, since this musical was for a very specific audience of people and he understood that outside of them, no one knew or cared who Scott Pilgrim was. But still, he was onstage. He was singing and dancing and his art was being celebrated. Yes, he was lonely, still, but life wasn’t too bad right now.

As he did every day, he quickly glanced out his window to check for audience members at stage door and, sure enough, no one-

Wait-

Someone was there?

He did a double take and physically walked to the window, his hands placed against the glass and his now quickening breath creating a fog.

SOMEONE WAS THERE??!?!?

From high up in his dressing room, he saw a small figure holding the bright red playbill of his show. They seemed to be moving back and forth on their feet, bouncing excitedly. From so high up he couldn’t see their expression, but could make out what he thought was a smile.

He broke out into a wide smile. Running around his room, gathering his things and throwing them into his backpack, only one thought raced through his mind: He had to get down there.

~~~ As you waited, the cold Toronto air stung against your flushed cheeks. You were still high on endorphins from the show, the songs already worming their way into your head as you tapped your feet in anticipation.

Suddenly, and without warning, a man burst out of the dark black door you were waiting out, out of breath and panting. He was so hellbent on running out the door that he ran right into you, knocking you over!

“AH-“, you both made the same sound as you fell, the man directly on top of you.

“Oh- apologies, ma’am, I uh-“

You would have said a number of rude things to this man but, seeing his face, you were starstruck.

“Matthew Patel?”

His eyes widened in shock. Carefully, he got off of you and onto his knee in front of you. Gently, he took your hand and pulled you up, the both of you now back on your feet.

“You know me?”

You couldn’t help but notice the faint blush on his cheeks.

“Of course! Well- I mean, you know, you’re Scott Pilgrim! You were absolutely incredible up there, just amazing! My jaw was the floor the whole time! I mean, your voice and your dancing and the fight scenes-“

As you rambled on and on, Matthew was unable to snap himself out of the trance you had put him in. Visually, you were breathtaking, so much so he didn’t know how he had ever found anyone else attractive. But more so, you were genuinely complimenting him. He was never complimented on his theater work. He’d get the rare one from his cast mates, but never an outside fan.

Noticing his silence, you suddenly stopped talking.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to rant, it’s just- one theater kid to another, you were so amazing.”

He shook his head at your apology. “No, don’t be sorry. You’re- you’re very kind. Thank you. And I’m sorry again for… running you over.”

You laughed- a leitmotif to rival Sondheims to Matthew’s ears- and looked at him with a goofy grin.

“Would you sign my playbill?”

“Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

The two of you spoke at the same time, and one’s question made the other blush furiously. Matthew’s entire body tensed in embarrassment that he had been bold enough to ask you out like this, not even knowing your name.

You were absolutely over the moon.

“I- uh- yes. Yes, I would love to.”

Your smile got impossibly wider, and the sparks in Matthew’s eyes that you had noted during his performance returned. With a huge grin, he reached out his hand to take your playbill. You handed it to him and a marker appeared in his other hand as he quickly scribbled his signature.

“What’s your name?”

You told him and his blush deepened. He turned back to the playbill and scribbled a bit more, then handed it to you. You squeaked in excitement and looked at what he had written.

To my biggest fan,

(Y/N)

Looking back up at him, you were certain this was the start of something new.

“So… do you like Italian?”

~~~ HEY MATTHEW FANS TAKE THIS FIC! GO, FETCH! This’ll make a lot more sense if you like musicals, so have fun! Like I said at the start, if y’all want more and I’m feeling up to it, I’ll write more! Happy holidays, folks!

#scott pilgrim takes off #scott pilgrim #matthew patel x reader #matthew patel #scott pilgrim anime #Matthew Patel my beloved

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mimicmerchant · 3 months

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I bummed myself out thinking about how PiBE season 2 was never going to get playbills so I decided to be the change I wanted to see in the world...... then i realized graphic design is hard. Anyway, have some thumbnails of what could have been!

#play it by ear #pibe #dropout #zach reino #jess mckenna #my art #fanart #kinda?#anyway some of these are way stronger than others lol #if you have any thoughts or ideas about improving any of them please let me know lol #also wow tumblr just garbles that quality so bad rip #season 2 #playbill #playbills

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silky-nereid · 1 month

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— favorites

yandere!fan x celebrity!reader/you

Yandere! Fan whose obsession started long before you became even more famous and adored the small plays that you performed with others for the town.

Yandere! Fan who always felt that you were always speaking to them because you looked at them from the crowd; you chose them not anyone else.

Yandere! Fan who sneaks in and somehow goes unnoticed and always leaves your favorite flowers, snacks or drinks in your dressing room when you’re on stage performing.

Their eyes watched you turn and smile while the spotlight burned into your skin and the exhaustion that was engraved into your face underneath the theater make-up. Watching you hold hands with your castmates and bow before leaving the stage.

Their hands unfolded and folded the playbill, their eyes noticed the well dressed man who you were talking to while holding a bouquet mixture of your roses and baby’s breath; they would’ve your favorite flower. Seeing your smile widen and immediately going to your friend cast member to excitedly tell them new information.

Yandere! Fan who notices you gone from the town and worries because they haven’t seen you in your scheduled routine that they know like the back of their hand and they smile, seeing a movie poster with you.

Yandere! Fan who wastes all their money to buy every single one of your merchandise and if you are apart of a group, they will not hesitate to cut away the other members in the merchandise just to have only you because you were more important than the others.

Yandere! Fan who always updates themselves on your favorite things and will send gift baskets that are specifically designed for your liking which they will use a fake name like a co-star’s or a very close friend or an imaginary friend that you had.

Your smile widened with joy, taking the gift basket and heart fluttered with joy; a wonderful birthday gift. Your hands flipped open to see who gifted you the wonderful gift and the smile chipped away.

Trembling hands that grabbed the ringing phone and the ground underneath your feet felt crumbling with each self-soothing step.

“I-I did enjoy the gift.” You nervously rubbed the back of your neck. “Thank you for supporting me.”

Yandere! Fan who notices the sudden bodyguards that surrounded you and how you looked with the etch of worry with each glance at the cameras of paparazzi.

Yandere! Fan who notices your sudden downward spiral and begrudgingly buys the gossip magazines that involve you accidentally falling into the hands of those who seemingly caused more damage to your already ruined self.

Yandere! Fan who finally manages to weasel themselves into your actual life rather than slipping into the familiar sidelines. They first became a close acquaintance of your friend and slowly put themselves into your hands.

Their smile shrunk immensely, seeing the mess that surrounded every area of your now luxurious home. Designer clothes still with the tags on the floor or hanging off of the railing of a short-lived staircase.

You nestled in your bed, blankets acted like a shield from a world that left invisible scars on your flesh. Warm hands that cracked open the safety net of the warm blankets, a familiar face stared back; a great friend, right?

#yandere x reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #tw yandere #yandere prompt #yandere fanfiction

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rosanna-writer · 4 months

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Love at First Sight's for Suckers (2/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

We're back with Feyre continuing to unwittingly make Rhys lose his mind in second part of my gift for @the-lonelybarricade for @acotargiftexchange! Thank you to @itsthedoodle for beta reading <3

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent.

You can read the second chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

Feyre really didn't like the way that cop was looking at her. He'd already passed her corner once, and she'd forced herself to ignore him and just keep hawking papers. There were hundreds of lesser fae newsies just like her on the streets of Velaris—even though she was shouting headlines, she might as well have been invisible.

And when you were technically a fugitive, nothing less than invisible would do.

But something had made him turn around and come back. Lucien, at least, was long gone, back to his spot by the docks to finish work for the day. Feyre hoped he wouldn't come looking for her again; if she needed to bolt, Lucien couldn't travel through shadows, and Feyre would never, ever leave her best friend behind.

Recognition flickered in the policeman's eyes. He broke into a run, straight towards her. "Feyre Archeron!" he shouted.

Heads turned. Feyre's heart pounded. The faeries in the square turned their attention to her, putting it together that they had a criminal in their midst.

So Feyre became a shadow again.

To everyone else, it looked like she'd disappeared entirely. But Feyre had merely made herself impossible to grab, nothing more than a wisp of darkness, and she slid into the shadow that the nearby streetlight cast in the late afternoon sun.

She couldn't stay like this forever, so like a ghost, she passed through the solid walls and doors of the Rainbow. Feyre tried to ignore the pang of longing at the workshops and art galleries—there was no time to linger. The Rainbow had always been a safe haven, but there was one place in particular she knew she wouldn't be found.

Once she was backstage at Ressina's theater, Feyre let herself become corporeal again…only to be greeted by an ear-piercing shriek.

"High Lady! " Ressina cried. "Do you really have to do that right in the middle of my dressing room?"

"Sorry. Had a bit of an emergency, Mind if I hide out here for a while?" Feyre said.

Ressina smiled. "My favorite scenic designer can stay here as long as she likes."

Feyre leaned in and kissed the air just above both of Ressina's cheeks, careful not to touch the actress's heavy stage makeup. If Ressina hadn't been wearing an elaborate sequined costume, complete with feathered hat perched precariously on her head, Feyre would have given the female a hug.

"Painting a few trees hardly makes me a scenic designer."

"I made sure you're credited as one in the playbill. And we've been getting such good reviews, I can finally pay instead of owing you a favor. Rhysand and Morrigan are even in the audience tonight."

"Rhysand is…here?" Feyre almost didn't believe she'd heard correctly. As far as she knew, the prince spent his free time at parties and pleasure halls—not in small, lesser fae-run playhouses in out-of-the-way corners of the city.

Cauldron, did he even like musicals?

"Probably some arts patronage thing. Morrigan is on the board of damn near every charity in Velaris."

That made a bit more sense, Feyre supposed. It was common knowledge that Rhys and his cousin were close; perhaps she'd dragged him here. And regardless of why, the buzz from the prince's attendance would do wonders for ticket sales, and Ressina deserved that. In addition to performing, she owned the place, having built the business from the ground up herself. "That's fantastic news."

Ressina shrugged. "We'll see if anything actually comes of it. I don't count my dragons before they hatch. Intermission is almost over, but feel free to stay and watch the rest."

And with that, Ressina left. From previous experience, Feyre knew that backstage in the middle of a show was a busy place, so she crept up to the front of the house and hoped she could find an empty seat.

As she passed one of the private boxes, a familiar voice drifted through the open door. Feyre did her best to ignore the way her heart gave a traitorous little flip at the sound.

"Mor, are you positive that your contacts at the food bank will be prepared for the increased demand?" Rhys was saying.

That was…odd. Whatever this was about, he sounded deadly serious, not at all like a person who was out to enjoy a night at the theater. Feyre froze and strained to listen for Mor's reply, telling herself that obviously the matter was something of political importance if more people in Velaris were suddenly going to need assistance.

Yes, definitely that and not just her own inherent nosiness.

But Mor's reply never came. And neither did the chance to fade back into the shadows. When Rhys's voice drifted out from the open door again, his purr was unmistakably aimed at her. "Hello Feyre darling.

If he wasn't accusing her of anything, Feyre certainly wasn't about to apologize. "Twice in one day. Think it's fate?" she said evenly, letting her voice carry to him.

He materialized in front of her, leaning against the doorframe. At some point since that morning, he'd changed into a formal black tunic embroidered with silver swirls. Feyre found herself wondering idly if the design matched the Illyrian tattoos she'd never seen for herself—the Herald ran plenty of headlines about Rhys in compromising positions, but tragically, a picture of him completely shirtless had never made the front page.

But of course, Feyre was only thinking about that because the plunging neckline he'd worn last Starfall had sold out papers in record time.

"If it is, then I'm the luckiest male in the world." Something in Rhys's smile was just a bit too knowing. Feyre didn't like it.

But still, there was something comfortingly familiar about hearing more of his teasing. "It's nice to see you, too."

His voice floated into her head, which nearly made her jump out of her skin. Rhys had never used his daemati abilities on her before. You shouldn't be out here, not with the police still after you. The box is secluded enough to hide, and there's an extra seat. Join me.

For a long moment, Feyre just stared at him, blinking in surprise. She'd merely stolen a loaf of bread for Lucien in a moment of desperation when he'd spent several days too sick to work and her own earnings hadn't been enough to support them both. Avoiding arrest by fading into darkness hardly made her a notorious criminal, not when any other shadow-wraith could call upon the same abilities.

But Rhys knew. And Feyre couldn't fathom who might have told him or why he'd care. She didn't trust it. "You'll want something in return, won't you?"

"I might." He gave her another one of those annoying feline smiles. She scowled back.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Draw something for me on the blank newsprint in your bag, and we'll call it even."

Feyre had never heard him sound so earnest, and his violet eyes had gone soft in a way she'd never seen from him before, either. She couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something. "I— What? Why would you want that?"

"My walls are looking a bit bare. What better way to fix that than with something you made?"

More teasing, then. They were back on familiar ground, and Feyre would have thrown a punch—mocking her art was a low blow—if Rhys hadn't praised her work before. When they'd met, she'd been sketching the skyline over the Sidra on a spare bit of newsprint leftover at the end of the day. He'd asked if she was selling newspapers to pay for art school, and she'd laughed in his face.

But after that, he'd returned to buy the paper from her every morning without fail.

"Alright. It's a bargain."

Magic crackled in the air as the bargain tattoo appeared on Feyre's arm, a swirling design that covered everything from the elbow to the fingertips of her left hand. She'd spent her whole life in the Night Court; she knew what bargain tattoos were. But by the Cauldron was this one elaborate. And beautiful.

Rhys was looking at her as if he could hear her thoughts. Feyre frantically double-checked that her shields were up—it was so easy to forget she was in the company of a daemati. "You have an artist's eye. I hope it's up to your standards."

"Bargains go both ways. Where's yours?"

"If you're that curious, undress me and find out."

It must be exhausting, Feyre supposed, to go through life unable to stop flirting for more than a few minutes at a time. But then again, Rhysand never looked tired. "Will you manage to keep quiet during the show? Or am I going to hear you blathering on about how my eyes are like stars the entire time?"

"That's something else you'll have to find out for yourself."

Before Feyre could get another word in, he took her hand and tugged her into the box. The door snicked shut behind her on a night-kissed wind.

A blonde female Feyre only recognized from newspaper photos turned and smiled at them. Morrigan, Feyre realized. She'd heard Rhys use his cousin's name, but after shouting so many headlines about her, Feyre was still caught off-guard by the sight of the Morrigan in the flesh.

"You must be Feyre Archeron. I'm Morrigan, but call me Mor. It's so nice to finally meet you," she was saying, holding out a hand for Feyre to shake.

"Oh. Um. Hello," Feyre said. There was an awkward beat of silence as she tugged her hand—which was still in Rhys's—back so she could shake Morrigan's. "Nice to meet you, too."

There was more uncomfortable silence as Rhys and Mor just stared at each other, and several different expressions cycled across their faces in quick succession. At first, Feyre didn't know what to make of it. But then she realized they must have been speaking about something mind-to-mind. Whatever the topic was, it seemed…contentious.

And that had almost distracted her enough not to notice that Mor had said nice to finally meet her. Feyre couldn't imagine who could possibly have been speaking about her to Mor so frequently.

Rhys indicated for her to sit, and Feyre did. He was right about the box being secluded; the seats were set far enough back that she'd be difficult to spot if someone came looking for her. It put her at ease.

"Do you need something to write with?" he asked, dropping into the seat next to her and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre always carried a pencil. She reached up under her cap and pulled it out of the messy bun it had been keeping in place all day. Her hair—light brown now that she was fully corporeal—tumbled down her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Rhys staring at her, mouth slightly parted.

Before he had an opportunity to say something cutting, Feyre said, "You left a loophole, you know. I could just draw a line on the paper, and I'd keep my half of the bargain."

He shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted to see what you'd do."

Feyre had no idea what to say to that. But at that moment, the lights dimmed, and Mor took a seat on Rhys's other side. Musicians began to play the opening notes of the entr'acte. Feyre tuned it out; she'd heard it enough times when she'd been painting sets during rehearsals.

The bigger question was what she was going to draw for Rhys. As a shadow-wraith, she could see perfectly in the dark theater, so there was nothing stopping her from spending the next hour perfecting a sketch. And uninterrupted time to work on her art was vanishingly rare.

But still, it was Rhys, so the temptation to draw the outline of a cock just to spite him was strong.

Even stronger, though, was the urge to sketch his face. Rhysand was without a doubt the most beautiful male Feyre had ever seen, and since the day they'd met, she'd been eager to try her hand at capturing his strangely sensual-yet-swaggering demeanor on canvas. But a prince could have his portrait done by any artist he liked, and Feyre doubted that he'd agree if he asked him to model for her.

So even though it was against her better instincts to do something that might inflate his ego, Feyre wanted to sketch a portrait of Rhys. To her surprise, he kept quiet and still, actually paying attention to the show.

It was the longest Feyre had ever seen him go without smirking. His features were soft, and she did her best to capture that instead of the smug mask he presented to the world. Something told her moments where he looked this unguarded were rare.

She finished just as the show ended and the lights brightened again. Before Rhys could see what she'd drawn, Feyre rolled up the portrait and held it out for him with a pointed look, daring him to unroll it and examine it in front of her. The bargain tattoo on her hand faded.

Wisely, he merely thanked her and tucked it into a pocket dimension.

"Feyre, the sets you painted look like dreamscapes," Mor said, brown eyes bright. If Feyre wasn't mistaken, that was admiration.

Feyre shrugged. "The actors just needed something pretty to stand in front of while they sing."

Mor locked eyes with Rhysand again, probably having another wordless conversation. Feyre took it as her cue to leave—she could easily slip into the crowd headed for the exit, then find Ressina backstage. But Mor let out a decidedly unladylike snort, squeezed Rhys's shoulder, and winnowed away.

Rhys looked at her, and something in his eyes pinned Feyre to the spot. "Will you allow me to walk you home?" he said.

***

Rhys wasn't entirely sure he was breathing as he waited for Feyre to answer. Not that it was the point, but he wasn't sure his already-bruised ego would survive slinking back to the House of Wind alone after he'd just urged Mor to leave him alone with his mate.

"Why?" Feyre said. At least it wasn't a no.

He slid his hands into his pockets, hoping he looked nonchalant. "Because I'd like to see you get home safely, and no one will bother you if you're with me."

She nodded once. "Alright."

"I can meet you at the stage door once you've gotten your coat."

"I— I don't have one."

He was pulling his own off the back of his chair and wrapping it around her shoulders before he knew what he was doing. This late in the year, Velaris was cold after dark. And perhaps it was reckless, but the risk of a few headlines about Feyre taking him home was worth making sure she didn't freeze.

At least she'd put her arms through the sleeves while she'd scowled at him, though.

Rhys looped his arm through hers and winnowed them outside to the street. Without thinking about it, he started walking towards the tenement she shared with far too many newsies crammed into the small space. Hopefully she wouldn't ask why he knew exactly where it was.

For a while, they said nothing, but to Rhys's immense pleasure, Feyre didn't pull away from him. The silence was comfortable, and for a moment, Rhys just let himself imagine that they were walking home at the end of a proper night out.

But he'd gone to Ressina's in hopes of finding Feyre there for a reason, so Rhys broke the silence. "In a turn of events, I have news for you this evening."

"Do you?" Feyre raised her brows expectantly.

"Starting tomorrow, the owners of Velaris's newspapers will increase the price they charge the newsies. Sixty cents per hundred."

Her hand tightened on his arm as Feyre's entire body went stuff. Their mating bond was still unaccepted—and therefore, faint—but Feyre's anger surged down it anyway. The force of it was nearly enough to knock him off his feet.

When Feyre spoke again, her voice was low and deadly. "Who told you?"

"I was there when they petitioned my father for assistance today. He said no, so they moved on to another strategy."

"And why are you telling me?"

"Because if this develops the way I anticipate it will, then I want to make sure you're the first to know that I won't be buying the paper from a scab. I'd publicly support a strike."

Feyre went quiet, and to keep himself from succumbing to the temptation to read her thoughts, Rhys forced himself to focus on the lights reflected on the river in the distance. Her fingers on his arm never relaxed.

"We don't have a union," she said eventually.

"Then consider this a head start to remedy that." If anyone could form one in a matter of hours, it was Velaris's High Lady. Rhys was sure of it.

"Thank you."

They lapsed back into silence again. Even if Rhys weren't a daemati, he'd be able to see the wheels turning in her head, just from the determined set of her chin and the way a muscle ticked in her jaw. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight.

All too soon, they arrived at Feyre's stoop. Before Rhys had a chance to insist she keep the coat, she shrugged it off and handed it to him. "I'm not a charity case," she said, as if she could hear his thoughts.

Rhys took the coat but didn't slip it back on. "I know better than to suggest you are."

"Good." Despite the cold, Feyre made no move to step inside. Rhys was torn between urging her to go warm up and wishing that she'd stay out here with him forever. Something in her face softened, and Rhys could almost fool himself into believing she'd let him kiss her goodnight after a night at the theater as he courted her properly.

But Feyre, he reminded himself, didn't want him like that.

Rhys started to say goodbye, but Feyre added, a bit more softly, "For what it's worth, you're going to be one hell of a High Lord one day, Rhys."

Maybe Rhys didn't have Feyre Archeron's heart, but he did have her respect. And maybe that mattered more.

"My father's not a dreamer, and the Night Court suffers for it. Good luck tomorrow."

Rhys refused to waste any more of her time; unable to resist preening for her just a bit, he stretched his wings out wide, then launched himself into the air to return to the House of Wind.

When Feyre had shown up outside the box, he hadn't been able to avoid telling Mor exactly who she was to him. And now, Rhys could practically feel his cousin's mind vibrating with curiosity as he reached for it. She reassured him—not for the first time that day—that Velaris's charities were prepared to handle an influx of newsies in need, and Rhys pointedly ignored his cousin's request for updates on what she'd termed the moonlit stroll with his mate.

Alone in his bedroom with the door firmly locked behind him, Rhys finally pulled the newsprint out of the pocket dimension. And if Feyre's art hadn't been so precious, he would have dropped it in shock.

She'd sketched him. There was something soft about Feyre's portrait that had been missing from the stiff, official ones he'd sat through with his family. It gave Rhys the strangest feeling that Feyre had seen something soul-deep within him and recreated it with a pencil on a spare bit of newsprint.

If the next day weren't likely to be long and uncertain, he would have spent half the night staring at it.

When he woke early the next morning, Rhys could still feel Feyre's anger simmering in the back of his mind. He resisted the urge to tug on the bond for reassurance she was alright—the last thing he needed was for her to feel the pull just behind her ribs and realize what it meant. So all he did was keep alert as he dressed, ate, and made his way to his father's study.

And as if on cue, when the High Lord's daily briefing was barely through, Pulitzer himself burst into the study. Darkness swirled around Rhys's father, dimming the room, a clear warning that the interruption was unwelcome.

"My apologies, High Lord, but it's urgent," Pulitzer said, bowing politely.

"What, exactly, is urgent?" Rhys's father snapped.

"The newsies of Velaris are forming a union. They intend to strike, and I'm here on behalf of the city's newspaper owners to ask for your support with breaking the strike."

Rhys stilled. For a long moment, the study went silent. The slight deepening of his father's frown—and the fact that a tendril of darkness hadn't already thrown Pulitzer from the room—made it clear enough that the High Lord was weighing his options.

"Who's their leader?" Rhys said, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"An upstart shadow-wraith named Feyre Archeron. They call her the High Lady," Pulitzer said with a sneer.

Rhys felt a warm glow of pride—despite the darkness that rolled off his father in waves. The High Lord jealously guarded his power, and it seemed that even a poor lesser-fae female couldn't get away with a nickname he took as a threat or a jibe.

"You can't possibly—" Rhys said.

The High Lord cut him off. "What sort of support?"

"Police, if you can spare them," Pulitzer said.

Rhys stood so quickly, he nearly knocked over his chair. "There is no reason at all this needs to escalate to violence."

"As my heir," the High Lord said coldly, "you need to learn that in situations like this, it's necessary. If we make an example of the newsies, the rest of Velaris will hesitate to disturb the peace going forward. Pulitzer, you have all the crown's resources you need."

Pulitzer was bowing again and thanking the High Lord for his support, but Rhys hardly noticed. He was already storming off towards the Rainbow.

#feysand #acotar secret santa #love at first sight's for suckers

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garadinervi · 6 months

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'for colored girls who have considered suicide / when the rainbow is enuf' by Ntozake Shange, «Playbill», Equinox Theatre, Houston, TX, November 19, 1977 [Marjorie Randal National Women's Conference Collection, Box 1, Folder 11, UH Libraries Exhibits, University of Houston, Houston, TX]

With: Deborah Arceneaux, Laura Booker, Jan Crain, Dannette Johnson, Barbara Marshall, Leslie Mays, and Brenda Sers

Direction: Bruce Bowen

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ineffably-human · 2 years

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I can't get too mad about the Marwa thing. I can understand why it freaks people out, I understand the implications it could have and why instead of being something darkly absurdist, that hits some buttons for people they can't ignore. I can see where it failed, though frankly I haven't seen a single suggestion of an alternative that actually satisfies what this storyline is meant to do. And this storyline is very much meant to do something.

Maybe I was already ready to come out swinging about this because people have just flat out made things up about this character and this situation the whole season. I chew a little more drywall every time I hear a new statement that just never actually happened.

This has gotten very VERY long, please have a cut.

Let's look at pre-the Wedding Wish first:

Nandor did not 'slowly chip away' at Marwa's personality, he made one wish that altered it after she very barely had one to start with.

If this show is good at anything, it's giving us a very strong sense of who a character is over very little time. We can map out a history of Jan just from the photos on her wall. We get a sense of Shanice from her reading of a bottle of medicine and one small monologue about her Mosquito Collector motives. Gail, Meg, Charmaine, The Contessa, Coco, Nandor's wife answering questions by the gazebo with the name I forget, most of these female characters have fewer appearances than Marwa and varying degrees of plot importance but we have at least a half-decent sense of who they are.

But Marwa was the last wife standing after Nandor ruled out everything even slightly objectionable about the others because of how self-destructively insecure and selfish he is. She is never portrayed like a complete person with an inner life to begin with, all the better for him to project this obsession with a perfect past love that almost certainly didn't exist. (Or at least not how Nandor remembers them.) From a Doylist perspective, she could never have shown off more than a hint of who she was/used to be, by design.

The first thing we learn about Marwa is not her scientific space discoveries. The first thing we learn is that while she is first saying her name, Nandor cuts her off and she lets him do it without even blinking. She recites the one fact about her life like she's saying a bio in a playbill. She says she's grateful she found such an intelligent man, for some reason, so she doesn't really understand who she's marrying even if they've been together before. I've heard people observe in later episodes she stands like a Sim - but to me she seemed very flat and robotic in her first appearance.

You guys, learning about this plot I was ready for a person with a personality, I was ready for either wacky poly shenanigans or a whole-ass emotional affair, believe me. Do you know how many songs from Aida I had queued up? And I remember wondering why Marwa didn't feel 'real' to me, not even over-the-top real the way the vampires do. The people saying she was there to be an obstacle to Nandor and Guillermo baffle me, because the moment we meet her, the one thing that's clear to us is Nandor didn't find his great past love. He found a random person. One who is just off the radar enough that she was the last one left. The Baron flat-out refers to her as "the beautiful and charming what's-her-name."

Until the girls' night (which is post-wish), Marwa never exists outside the room Nandor is in. After her brief introduction, she never says anything in that first half of the season that's not about Nandor. There is almost zero difference between that and Go Flip Yourself's litany of "I agree with my husband." Meanwhile Nandor is constantly snapping at her, ignoring her existence, leaving her behind. So she's either a terrible judge of character or will allow fucking anything from this man from the start.

Why yes that is horrible! Pack your bags and escape, etc! But it's not a full, vibrant character who Nandor later whittles down to nothing. Nandor whittled the wives down to Marwa. Because this plot is about his inability to think about other people or have the maturity to be in a true relationship.

The wedding wish, the only one that explicitly makes a long-term change to Marwa's mind, Nandor makes because she voices the first preferences/desires we've heard from her the whole time. At the very least this is new behavior. But Nandor's trying to micromanage flower arrangements on a week of no sleep, not tame a willful person into a submissive doll.

He's a self-obsessed moron so his takeaway when she finally voices her doubts at the wedding is something like "oh shit, she didn't even really want to be with me" - but he's a coward and hey now she does! She even said so! At this big huge wedding he invited everyone to, and that no one believes in! So he doubles down. He has been convincing himself he's in love this whole time, now he's convincing himself it's going awesome with this person he feels basically stuck with.

---

Now, as far as post-Wedding Wish is concerned:

"Like all the same things I like," going by the exact phrasing, doesn't have to get rid of what she likes that Nandor is neutral on. It doesn't have to change anything else about her personality or behavior. It doesn't even mean she has to want all the same things he wants, it certainly doesn't mean she has to do the things he does or to robotically repeat that she agrees with him. I was ready for Marwa to take up sword fighting and bossing Guillermo around and teach Nandor how completely fucking insufferable he can be sometimes, but that isn't what happened either. She feels half there because she was always half there.

Yeah, there's a consent issue, and I feel like the show goes out of its way to show there's nothing sexual going on. The one time they talk about having sex, the Dick Wish screws it up. Nandor walks away in disgust from some very half-hearted dancing about their wedding night. Marwa sleeps in a separate bunk bed in the attic. Between the choice of a bedroom for the two of them and a place where he can be away from her completely (and get fucked by guys and watch Guillermo use the bathroom), Nandor chooses the man cave.

We have two episodes with Marwa after the wish and before 'Freddie'. Ironically, they are the most personality and agency she has had the entire time, they are the events people most often cite about how we "got to know her". (What exactly did we get to know?) And she doesn't seem to hate Nandor even secretly, they just are extremely awkward and bored together. She seems genuinely hopeful that Nandor likes the man cave but since she likes privacy just as much now, and she's not liking a marriage he isn't liking, she tricks him and makes it into her own space.

And the specific Freddie wish is that he wants to turn her into "an exact copy" of Freddie in terms of "looks, personality, everything." Freddie then proceeds to introduce himself to Nandor as if he never met him, and treats Guillermo as if he's a stranger. We could speculate Marwa is in there screaming to get out, sure, but...why would we? We are in a Ship of Theseus situation, where every part of her was replaced. There is no reason that she'd still be there. And there wasn't much of her there to start with.

The 'real' Marwa lived hundreds of years ago, we have no idea what she wanted or how she felt about her life, we have no idea how long her life went on before she died. (Or if she's even dead! She could be one of those vampires in Nandor's village at this point!) But she had her life. It already happened. Anything that happened from the moment Nandor resurrected her (which is already kind of a horrifying act, it just wasn't played as one) was already, as AV Club brilliantly put it, an extension of his own selfish desires.

I could say the djinn's version of Marwa was sort of a doll reduced to her most basic traits. I could say as someone resurrected to be nothing more than the object of 'someone's wife', she was freaking delighted to have Nandor's preferences filling up an empty space for her to use as she liked. I could say she's a fake wife the djinn invented as a decoy. Or that she stops existing whenever she leaves the room. Or that the wish just basically re-deaded her and she'd have been fine with that.

Any of those things would have just as much evidence as what people are speculating instead.

--- I get why you can fill in the worst possible thing in the blanks. There's so much to fill in about exactly who Marwa was, exactly what got changed about her, and whether any aspect of her is left. I think they may have left so much ambiguous to make it less uncomfortable, and instead left everyone thinking about the worst possible version of events.

There also aren't a lot of female characters on this show, and no regular female characters of color, and that is absolutely a deficit the show needs to make up for. Because I truly believe they write great female characters when they're actually trying to write them. Having those other examples would have made a plot like this so much less uncomfortable to watch. But Marwa could have never been that representation, because of what this plot is meant to be about. This plot isn't about Nandermo, or even about Nandor's search for romance at all. This is about all of Nandor's worst tendencies, how he's his own worst enemy.

Because this is probably what Nandor has done his entire life. As a human being Nandor was more of a monster than he is as a literal monster. Like I keep saying, he pillaged, he violently took what he wanted and left the rest to burn. We're told in this last episode that he disemboweled tons of civilians for a tapestry. (A tapestry that, in a cut line from the leaked audition script, he didn't even really like much. If that isn't a metaphor for his shiny object syndrome...)

Even if every single marriage he had was someone in love with him who wanted to be with him, he probably did some version of this: was drawn in very suddenly by the parts he liked (or invented in his head), had a very selfish, empty version of a love affair, got annoyed when things were inconvenient or difficult, and then moved on to the next shiny object.

Freddie is Wife 38 with extra steps, compounded by the djinn lamp being a magic pleasure machine - the exact worst thing to give to a warlord used to taking what he wants (and then being praised for it by everyone around him). His feelings about both Marwa and Freddie are very shallow, and also very real to Nandor in the moment and take up a lot of emotional energy. The 'love' for Freddie would have faded and left him feeling just as hollow.

We just saw the vicious cycle of his life in fast motion, in a way that ends in disaster for everyone involved. (Do you think we'd have gotten Guillermo's horrified 'what the hell is wrong with you' if we weren't supposed to be thinking that right there with him?) The difference here is that we see Nandor made a change. He understands something about love, he thinks outside himself. He does what he believes would make Marwa, 'his' Freddie, and Guillermo happiest. This season is about change.

(I want to point out, also: there's no reason Nandor getting physically beaten up would teach him anything. As a warrior, if anything he'd double down. Guillermo's genuine pain and heartbreak in the midst of what he's done is the only thing that would have gotten through to him. And it did. The hard zoom in on "what I did was...wrong" is because we almost never see him admit those things or apologize in the first place, it's meant to both say 'no shit' and emphasize that this is pretty huge for him.)

Again, I'm not saying this is okay. None of this is okay. It's not supposed to be. It's played for absurdity but it isn't played as meaningless, when the show has been playing much more horrible things for laughs for years.

I'm just saying that a lot of what people are bothered by doesn't really support the facts. It takes everything to its worst conclusion and then acts like that's both supposed to be our takeaway, and we're supposed to find it just great. Of course we aren't. If we were, Nandor would have packed Marwa's bags and made a Freddie clone. He and Guillermo would have gotten into a competition about who could date Freddie the best that would be about their own sexual tension or something. There are many many ways to turn this into something feel-good, and they chose not to.

(Not least because any of those ideas would have left out a lot of what this episode says about narcissism, codependency, Guillermo's own concealing of his identity, the way love means seeing a complete person who exists outside yourself...)

And many, many different staff writers wrote this storyline across the entire season. A number of which were women, several of which were women of color. One of those women of color is Middle Eastern and another is the co-showrunner. Of course women can write misogyny and people of color can write racism, but that also means there's no monolith of identity where the right people with the right identity will feel the right way about something at any given time, and there's only one response to have. The fuckup here, however large or small you believe it to be, did not happen because of two white guys writing this one script secretively in the dead of night.

So, I don't know. That's me. Please consider what was actually being written here, and what we actually saw, and not your headcanons or your subverted expectations. Or the things that built up in your head during the months of leaked material. And if it still makes you too uncomfortable to keep watching, then don't! But I don't think it was thoughtless or pointless, at all. Plus, literally any character can come back in this show, and they often do. So who knows what we'll see as a result of this.

#fandom: wwdits #what we do in the shadows #otp: nandermo #nandor the relentless #char: king himbo #i am a meta gremlin

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