#theatrical tragedy au

[inkyucu]

"People like to call me... Eclipse."

[inkyucu]

Sigh.....

You're not ever going to let me forget Theatrical Tragedy are you....

I’d imagine sun wasn’t too happy when he found out he was moved from fazbear theatre to the daycare.

[amethystarachnid]

I know it's very classic. Tony Stark x F!Reader. Office romance. Tony likes her and the reader is unaware of it. Tony gets very angry at a man who tries to flirt with the reader in the office and makes her uncomfortable, then informs him of his mistake. He drags his assistant to his room and while arguing, he lets it slip that he is in love with her.

OFFICE ROMANCE

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): little spicy scenes at the end, nothing too explicit

ᯓ★ Part 2

ᯓ★ yeah I know the title sucks I didnt know what to name it lol

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The elevator ride to Tony Stark’s office is uneventful—until the doors slide open, and you step right into chaos.

“Where is she? Where’s my assistant? Oh my God, I’m dying.”

Tony Stark is dramatically draped over his desk, one hand clutching his chest, the other extended toward the heavens like he’s in a Shakespearean tragedy. You barely have time to react before he twists his head toward the elevator, eyes locking onto yours with laser focus.

“There you are,” he groans. “Y/N, I think this is it. This is the end. You’re going to have to plan my funeral. Make it something classy, but also extravagant. Maybe fireworks? A Viking funeral? I don’t know, you decide.”

You sigh and step inside, the doors sliding shut behind you. “What is it this time, Mr. Stark?”

At the sound of his title, he frowns. “Really? We’re doing the ‘Mr. Stark’ thing today? Thought we were past that, sweetheart.”

You ignore him and set your bag down at your desk, flipping through the folders left for you overnight. Tony is still sprawled across his desk, his theatrics undeterred by your lack of concern.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “I might actually die this time.”

You finally look up at him, arms crossed. “Is it reactor-related, or are you just being dramatic?”

He gasps, placing a hand over his arc reactor. “I am never dramatic.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, maybe I’m a little dramatic. But you were late this morning.”

You glance at the clock. “I was not late.”

“You were late to me,” he says, pointing accusingly. “Do you know what happens when you’re not here? Bad things. Boring things. Pepper makes me do paperwork, and Happy refuses to let me take the suit out for a spin at seven in the morning.”

Your lips twitch, but you suppress the smile. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. I didn’t realize my presence was so vital to your survival.”

He lifts his head, expression serious. “Y/N, I don’t think you understand. You are the glue holding my fragile existence together.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Without you, I am but a billionaire genius playboy philanthropist adrift, lost at sea, doomed to perish in the harsh, unforgiving corporate world.”

“You are so full of it,” you mutter, grabbing your tablet to check his schedule.

Tony watches you, chin propped up in one hand. He does this a lot—just looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room, even when you’re doing something as mundane as scheduling meetings and reading emails. But you don’t notice.

You never notice.

And it’s driving him insane.

Tony Stark is in love with you.

Painfully, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you. And he’s not subtle about it, either. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He finds reasons to keep you around, finds excuses to talk to you, makes up the dumbest emergencies just to get your attention—and yet, somehow, you remain oblivious.

It’s almost impressive, really.

But also aggravating.

Tony sighs, rubbing his hands down his face before dramatically throwing himself back in his chair. “Okay, what’s on the agenda today, darling?”

You scroll through your tablet. “You have a meeting with Pepper at ten—”

“Cancel it.”

“You cannot cancel on Pepper.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “What else?”

“You have a tech demonstration at two, a conference call with the board at four—”

“Cancel that too.”

You sigh. “Tony.”

“Oh, now it’s Tony?” He smirks. “See, I knew you liked me.”

“I tolerate you,” you correct, setting your tablet down. “And you are going to that board meeting, whether you like it or not.”

“Fine, but only if you’re there,” he says, pointing at you. “I refuse to suffer alone.”

You roll your eyes but nod. “I’ll be there.”

Tony grins, far too pleased with himself. He’s made you sit in on dozens of meetings that had nothing to do with your job, just because he likes having you there. He tells himself it’s because you keep him sane. That you make the long, boring hours more bearable.

But if he’s being honest, it’s just because he likes looking at you.

He likes the way your lips press together when you’re concentrating, the way your nose scrunches up when he says something stupid. He likes the way your eyes soften when you talk to him, even when you’re exasperated. He likes you. God, he likes you.

And yet, you remain completely, utterly unaware.

Tony watches as you type something into your tablet, your brows furrowed in concentration. He wonders what would happen if he just said it. If he just leaned across the desk, took your hands in his, and said—

“Mr. Stark?”

He snaps out of it. “Huh?”

“You okay? You spaced out.”

Tony clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Are you sure? You look kind of—”

“Handsome? Dashing? Devastatingly attractive?”

“I was going to say pained, but sure.”

Tony groans and leans back in his chair. “This is agony,” he mutters.

You blink. “What is?”

You. You are agony. Being around you, loving you, wanting you, and you not even noticing—it’s torture.

But of course, he doesn’t say that.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Just this board meeting. Ugh, corporate politics. You have to sit next to me, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, amused. “Anything else?”

“Yes. I need coffee. Desperately.”

You snort but stand up, grabbing your purse. “I’ll be back in ten.”

Tony watches you go, his head hitting the desk as soon as the doors shut behind you.

He is so screwed.

The days pass like they always do—fast, chaotic, and filled with Tony Stark’s unique brand of dramatics.

Between meetings, tech demos, Stark Industries board nonsense, and the occasional explosion in his lab (which he always swears is intentional), you’ve settled into an odd routine with him.

A routine that involves not just work, but him.

It starts small.

At first, it’s just casual conversation in between scheduling his appointments and making sure he actually attends them. A random question here and there.

“Morning, sweetheart. How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Wrong answer. Completely unacceptable. I might have to fire you.”

Then, it becomes a daily thing.

He asks about your coffee order, remembers the way you take it without you telling him twice. He learns your favorite snacks, stocks the office kitchen with them. He finds out you love old Hollywood movies, and suddenly, his TV has a list of black-and-white classics queued up.

You don’t think much of it.

Tony Stark is friendly. He’s nosy. He likes to know things. It makes sense that he’d ask about your life outside of work.

But to him, it’s everything.

Because these little details—the things you like, the way you laugh, the way you light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about—are what keep him grounded.

Sometimes, he even talks about himself, which is rare.

You don’t realize what a big deal it is at first. You’ve worked for him long enough to know he talks a lot, but usually, it’s about his inventions or some wild new idea he has.

But with you?

He tells you about his mom’s love for classical music, how she used to play records while she cooked. How his dad was cold but brilliant, how he spent his childhood trying to impress a man who never really saw him. How he went to MIT at fifteen and spent half his time pranking professors and the other half building things he wasn’t supposed to.

He tells you about Afghanistan one night, when it’s just the two of you in his office, the city lights glowing behind him.

About the cave, about the first arc reactor, about Yinsen and what he’d meant to him.

You listen.

You don’t pity him, don’t give him some empty platitude about how it must’ve been hard. You just listen.

And Tony—who has spent most of his life drowning out his own thoughts with distractions—thinks maybe you are the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He also thinks you might never notice how much you mean to him.

Which is why he’s completely blindsided when it happens.

It’s a normal day.

You’re at your desk, typing away, while Tony lounges on the couch with a blueprint in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, pretending to work while actually watching you.

Then Happy walks in.

“There’s a guy here to see you,” he tells Tony, looking unimpressed.

Tony doesn’t even look up. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“He says it’s urgent.”

Tony sighs, pushing himself up. “Fine, fine. Send him in.”

Happy steps aside, and the guy walks in.

You glance up, offering a polite smile before going back to your work.

The man is tall, well-dressed, and carries himself like he’s important—which immediately annoys Tony. He hates people who walk into his space acting like they own the place.

“Mr. Stark,” the man says, offering his hand. “Nathan Ellis. Big fan.”

Tony shakes his hand but looks bored already. “Uh-huh. What do you want?”

Nathan chuckles, like Tony just made a joke. “I had a business proposition I wanted to discuss with you. Something that could be mutually beneficial.”

Tony gestures lazily to you. “Talk to her. She handles all the boring stuff.”

You roll your eyes but give Nathan a professional smile. “What’s the proposition?”

But Nathan isn’t looking at you like a businessman pitching an idea. He’s looking at you like a man sizing up a woman, and Tony immediately hates him.

Nathan smirks. “You’re much prettier than I expected.”

You stiffen just a little, but you keep your composure. “That’s not really relevant,” you say, your tone still polite but firm. “What’s relevant is what you’re proposing.”

Nathan leans against your desk like he belongs there. “Can’t I compliment a beautiful woman?”

Tony sits up straight, his eyes narrowing.

You force a tight smile. “I’d prefer if we kept this professional.”

Nathan laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that says he doesn’t really take you seriously. “Oh, come on. No need to be so serious, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Tony sees red.

That’s his word.

His fingers tighten around the screwdriver in his hand, but he stays quiet—for now—watching you, waiting to see if you want him to step in.

You shift uncomfortably, clearly trying to remain professional, but it’s obvious you’re not enjoying this.

Tony doesn’t give a damn about professionalism.

He stands up, moving toward you in a few easy strides before leaning down and planting his hands on your desk, effectively caging you in while staring Nathan down.

“You know,” Tony says, voice deceptively light, “I really don’t like it when people make my assistant uncomfortable.”

Nathan blinks, clearly not expecting that.

You glance up at Tony, eyes wide.

Tony doesn’t look at you. His attention is solely on Nathan, his jaw tight, his expression calm but dangerous.

Nathan chuckles nervously. “I was just making conversation.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s the thing,” Tony says, tilting his head. “She doesn’t want to have a conversation with you.”

Nathan raises his hands. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

Tony smiles, but it’s not friendly. “Oh, buddy, you stepped on mine, and I really don’t like that.”

Nathan shifts uncomfortably.

Tony straightens, taking a step back—but then he leans down again, close enough that only Nathan can hear when he says, “If you ever talk to her like that again, I will ruin your entire life before breakfast.”

Nathan swallows.

Tony claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Now, I think we’re done here.”

Nathan nods quickly, then turns and practically flees the office.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Tony turns to you, concern flickering across his face. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… guys like that make my skin crawl.”

Tony watches you for a moment, then surprises you by gently brushing his fingers over yours.

You glance down at your hands, startled.

It’s not much. Just the lightest touch. But it makes your heart stutter.

“Next time, just say the word,” Tony says softly. “I’ll handle it.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

“I—uh—thank you,” you murmur.

Tony smirks, his fingers curling around yours for just a second before he lets go.

Then, just like that, he’s back to normal, plopping onto the couch and stretching like nothing happened.

But something did.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve been missing something this whole time.

In the days after the Nathan incident, something shifts.

You don’t know what it is exactly, but you feel it.

Maybe it’s the way Tony watches you a little too closely when he thinks you aren’t looking. Or the way you replay that moment in your head—his fingers brushing yours, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Or maybe it’s the way you feel when you look at him now.

You’ve worked for Tony long enough to know he’s magnetic. People gravitate toward him, caught in his orbit like planets around the sun. You’ve always thought he was charming in an annoying way, a flirt by nature, someone who could talk his way into—or out of—anything.

But now, for the first time, you find yourself looking at him differently.

You start noticing things you never did before.

The way his eyes soften when he looks at you. The way he always saves the last bite of his favorite snacks for you. The way he makes excuses to keep you in his office longer, even when the work is done.

And it’s terrifying.

Because if this was anyone else—anyone—maybe you’d let yourself admit it. Maybe you’d let yourself fall.

But this is Tony Stark. Your boss.

And that means it’s impossible.

So, you bury it. You convince yourself you’re imagining things, that Tony is just Tony, and you’re reading into it too much.

Then Nathan Ellis comes back.

You’re at your desk, sorting through a ridiculous amount of emails when Happy walks in, looking unimpressed as always.

“Great,” he mutters. “He’s back.”

You look up, confused. “Who’s back?”

As if on cue, Nathan Ellis strolls in, his smarmy grin already making your stomach twist.

Tony is in the corner of the room, tinkering with something, but at the sound of Nathan’s voice, his hands still.

Nathan leans against your desk. “Miss Y/N,” he says smoothly. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last time.”

You keep your expression polite but distant. “Did we?”

He laughs. “Look, I’m not here to talk business today.”

Tony doesn’t like that.

His fingers tighten around his wrench, his jaw clenching as he subtly shifts closer to listen.

Nathan continues, oblivious. “I was hoping to make it up to you. Dinner, maybe? There’s a great place downtown. My treat.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Your first instinct is to say no. You don’t like Nathan. He made you uncomfortable, and you have no interest in him.

But then—Tony.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence. You feel the weight of everything unspoken between you, the things you refuse to acknowledge.

So before you can think it through, you hear yourself say, “Sure.”

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, a way to prove—to yourself, to Tony, to whatever this thing is between you—that you can still be rational. That you don’t have feelings for Tony. That you can move on, be professional, keep your life normal.

But as soon as the word leaves your mouth, you regret it.

Nathan grins, clearly pleased. “Great. I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”

You nod stiffly, and he finally leaves.

Silence lingers in the room.

You risk a glance at Tony.

He’s looking at his workbench, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t say a word.

And that, somehow, makes you feel worse.

—

Friday rolls around faster than you expect.

You dread it.

The moment you wake up, you regret saying yes.

You don’t want to go out with Nathan.

But backing out now would make you look ridiculous, and you refuse to admit—to yourself or to anyone else—why you really don’t want to go.

So, you tell yourself you’ll go. One date. It’s not a big deal.

Then Tony ruins it.

The day is insane.

More meetings than usual, a sudden crisis with one of Stark Industries’ overseas contracts, a last-minute tech demo that Tony insists he needs you to be there for.

By the time you finally look at the clock, it’s almost nine.

Your stomach drops.

You completely forgot about the date.

You grab your phone, wincing when you see multiple missed calls and texts from Nathan, all of them getting progressively more annoyed.

Shit.

You stand abruptly, grabbing your bag.

Tony—who is lounging on the couch, looking suspiciously satisfied—raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

You glare at him. “Did you do this on purpose?”

He blinks, all mock innocence. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture wildly at the stack of paperwork still on your desk, the mess of your day, the way you were so busy you lost track of time. “You knew I had plans tonight.”

Tony shrugs. “Did you?”

You want to scream.

“Tony.”

Something flickers in his expression when you say his name like that—low, almost dangerous.

You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You did do this on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but the smug look on his face tells you everything.

He did this.

He made sure you were too busy to leave, too busy to go on the date.

And for some reason, that makes your heart pound in a way you don’t want to analyze.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

Tony leans back, tilting his head at you. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a date.”

You gape at him. “That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is you manipulated me into missing it!”

He stands, stepping into your space, close enough that you have to crane your neck to keep looking at him.

And suddenly, the room feels too small.

“I didn’t manipulate anything,” he says, voice low. “I just gave you work. You’re the one who got so caught up in it you forgot about him.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You were the one who didn’t check the time. The one who let yourself get wrapped up in Tony’s world.

And maybe—just maybe—it was because deep down, you didn’t want to go.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he wanted this. That he made sure it happened.

You shake your head, stepping back. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Mess with my life like this. You don’t get to control who I see, Tony.”

He flinches.

For a second, you think he’s going to argue, make another joke, deflect like he always does.

But instead, he just watches you, something raw and unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then, he sighs. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard.

It almost—almost—makes you soften.

But you’re still angry.

So without another word, you turn on your heel and leave.

Tony doesn’t stop you.

And the worst part?

A small, traitorous part of you wishes he had.

You don’t make it far.

You storm out of the office, heart pounding, anger bubbling in your chest so violently you can taste it. You don’t even know where you’re going—just away.

Away from Tony and his smug little I didn’t manipulate anything face. Away from the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t the least bit sorry. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Like he had every right to do it.

You make it to the elevator before you hear him behind you.

“Y/N.”

You don’t turn around.

“Y/N,” Tony repeats, voice sharp now, edged with something you don’t recognize.

You stab the elevator button. “Go away, Tony.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not gonna happen.”

You spin on your heel, glaring at him. “Oh, what now? You gonna kidnap me? Make sure I never leave this damn building?”

Tony sighs like you’re the one being difficult. “I just want to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” You laugh, crossing your arms. “Because when I was trying to talk about how you sabotaged my night, you had nothing to say.”

Tony clenches his jaw. “It wasn’t sabotage.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “So it was just a coincidence that today of all days you gave me twice as much work as usual? That you suddenly needed me in meetings I normally don’t have to be in? That you—”

“I didn’t want you to go.”

The words come out quiet, almost too quiet to hear.

But you hear them.

And you freeze.

Tony exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His gaze flickers away for a second, like he’s regretting saying it.

But then he looks back at you, and there’s something in his eyes—something real.

Something that makes your stomach flip.

You swallow hard. “Tony…”

He shakes his head. “Just—come back to the office. Please.”

You should say no. You should walk away.

But you don’t.

Because even though you’re furious, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming at you to be professional—to keep things normal—there’s a deeper, quieter part of you that wants to hear what he has to say.

So, you turn. Walk back.

And Tony follows.

—

The office feels different when you get back.

Quieter. Tense.

You lean against your desk, arms crossed, watching as Tony paces the room.

“Well?” you say finally.

Tony stops. Looks at you.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks… nervous.

Not the fake, exaggerated kind he puts on for show, but real nervous.

He exhales. “I don’t want you dating him.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“I don’t want you dating anyone.”

Your breath catches.

Tony swallows hard. “Because I—” He hesitates, like he’s physically fighting the words. Then, finally, he just says it.

“Because I love you.”

Everything stops.

The air in the room shifts, like the world itself is holding its breath.

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process what just happened.

Tony looks like he wants to take it back, like he wants to shove the words back into his mouth and pretend they never happened.

But they did.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

The way he looks at you. The way he knows you—your coffee order, your favorite movies, the way you feel about things before you even say them.

The way he brushed his fingers over yours that day, like it meant something.

The way he sabotaged your date—not because he was being petty, but because the thought of you with someone else made him want to burn the world down.

And, God—maybe you do love him.

Maybe you have for longer than you realized.

You exhale sharply, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“Say something,” Tony mutters.

You don’t.

You move.

Before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let all the rules and expectations stop you, you grab him by the collar of his stupidly expensive shirt and kiss him.

Tony freezes for half a second.

Then he melts.

His hands come up, one gripping your waist, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses you like he’s starving for it, like he’s been waiting for this—for you.

And maybe he has.

Maybe you both have.

When you finally pull back, you’re breathless.

Tony stares at you, lips parted, looking so completely wrecked that you almost laugh.

Almost.

Instead, you press your forehead against his, inhaling deeply.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

Tony chuckles, breath warm against your skin. “No, you don’t.”

You sigh, closing your eyes. “You could’ve just told me.”

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You do laugh this time.

Because of course he’d say that.

Because of course it was always going to be this—messy, chaotic, inevitable.

And as Tony kisses you again—slow this time, like he never wants to stop—you know one thing for certain.

You’re never making it to another date with anyone ever again.

Tony kisses you like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s wanted this for so long he doesn’t know how to hold back anymore. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your blouse as he pulls you closer, eliminating the last bit of space between you. You feel the edge of the desk dig into the small of your back, but you don’t care. Not when Tony’s mouth is on yours, not when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, not when his hand slides up your back, warm and firm and impossible to ignore.

You gasp against his lips, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, and he groans in response. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, and suddenly you’re not thinking about where you are or what this means or how this is completely unprofessional. You’re only thinking about how much you want him. How much you’ve always wanted him, even when you didn’t want to admit it.

Tony shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, and before you can process what’s happening, he lifts you onto the desk. You barely manage to let out a startled breath before he’s between your legs, pressing into you, his lips trailing from your mouth to your jaw to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You tilt your head back, your hands moving on their own, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, sliding over the hard planes of his chest. Tony lets out a low curse, his breath hot against your skin, and you know this is getting out of control. You know you should stop. But then his fingers graze the hem of your skirt, and your heart is pounding, and—

A knock on the door makes you both freeze.

Your eyes snap open, and Tony’s lips still against your throat. For a second, neither of you moves. Your breath is ragged, and Tony’s grip on your waist tightens like he’s physically stopping himself from ignoring the interruption.

“Tony?”

Happy’s voice is muffled through the door, but it’s enough to jolt you back to reality.

You push at Tony’s chest, and he steps back with obvious reluctance. His eyes are dark, his hair is a mess from your hands, and his lips are swollen. The sight of him like this, completely wrecked, makes something deep in your stomach tighten.

You shake yourself out of it, sliding off the desk as you smooth down your clothes. Tony watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to get himself under control.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls out, voice rough. “Give me a second.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of footsteps retreating.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“That was—”

Tony smirks. “Hot?”

You glare at him, but it lacks heat. “Unprofessional.”

Tony sighs dramatically. “Yeah, that too.”

You shake your head, trying to ignore the way your entire body is still buzzing. “We can’t do that at work.”

Tony’s smirk widens, and you realize what you just said a second too late.

“So you’re saying we can do it outside of work?”

You groan. “Not what I meant.”

Tony grins, stepping closer again. His fingers brush your wrist, light and teasing. “Come over after your shift.”

You bite your lip, considering.

Tony dips his head, voice dropping. “I’ll behave.”

You snort. “No, you won’t.”

Tony shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Yeah, okay, I won’t.”

You roll your eyes but don’t say no.

Tony notices.

—

You don’t talk about what this means. You don’t sit down and define your relationship, don’t have some long, serious conversation about what you are to each other now.

But you don’t need to.

Because it’s obvious in the way Tony kisses you when you show up at his penthouse after work. In the way he pulls you onto the couch, his hands sliding under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours. In the way you spend the night tangled in his sheets, waking up to his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

It’s obvious in the way he looks at you at work, in the way he always finds an excuse to touch you. A hand at the small of your back when he passes by, a brush of his fingers against yours when he hands you something, a teasing whisper against your ear that makes you shiver.

You try to be subtle.

You don’t want anyone thinking you’re only with him to climb the corporate ladder, and Tony—surprisingly—understands. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t announce it to the world, doesn’t make some grand declaration in the middle of a meeting.

But he also doesn’t hide it.

Not really.

Because the way he looks at you isn’t subtle. The way he finds any excuse to keep you in his office longer than necessary isn’t subtle. The way he calls you sweetheart in private and Miss Y/L/N in front of others with a smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing definitely isn’t subtle.

And then there are the stolen kisses.

The ones in the elevator when no one else is around. The ones in the hallway when he tugs you into a supply closet with a grin and a just real quick, I missed you. The ones at his penthouse when you show up after a long day and he greets you at the door with his hands already on your hips, pulling you inside like he’s been waiting for you all day.

Because he has.

You find yourself spending more nights at his place than your own. It starts slowly—one night, then two, then three. Then, before you know it, most of your stuff is at his penthouse, and you don’t even think about going home after work anymore.

Tony never says anything about it. He never asks you to stay.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because the way he holds you when you fall asleep says everything.

Because the way he presses a lazy kiss to your temple in the morning when he thinks you’re still asleep says everything.

Because the way he looks at you—like you’re the most important thing in the world—says everything.

Tony kisses you like he’s savoring every second. His hands rest on your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. You’re sitting on his desk, legs wrapped loosely around his hips, completely lost in the moment. It’s a rare quiet afternoon in the office, just the two of you, and Tony has taken full advantage of it.

You hum against his lips as he trails his mouth down your jaw, then lower to your neck. His stubble grazes your skin, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. His lips are warm, soft, teasing as he lingers just beneath your ear. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Tony chuckles when he feels your breath hitch. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

You grab a fistful of his shirt. Tony responds with a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of your neck. His tongue flicks against your skin, followed by a light nip that makes you gasp. His mouth lingers there, sucking just hard enough to leave his mark.

A sharp knock on the door shatters the moment.

You both freeze. Tony exhales against your skin, shoulders tensing.

Another knock, this one louder.

Tony groans. "They have the worst timing, I swear—"

Then the door swings open, and your stomach drops.

Nathan Ellis stands in the doorway, his expression dark and furious.

The sight of him immediately kills any lingering warmth from your moment with Tony. He looks different from the smooth, arrogant man who asked you out—his jaw is clenched, his eyes cold, his posture rigid with anger.

You stiffen, already knowing this won’t be good.

Nathan steps inside without waiting for permission, eyes locked onto you. "You stood me up."

Tony straightens, immediately stepping in front of you in a way that makes it clear he has no intention of letting Nathan get any closer. "Big deal," he says flatly. "She didn’t want to go. Move on."

Nathan ignores him, eyes still burning into you. "You didn’t even have the decency to text me? Let me know instead of wasting my time?"

Your throat tightens. You don’t want to deal with this. "I got caught up at work. It wasn’t intentional."

Nathan scoffs. "Bullshit. You’re just another woman who likes to play games. You say yes to a date and then don’t even bother showing up? You think that makes you look good?"

Something shifts in Tony. His entire body goes tense, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Watch how you talk to her."

Nathan finally looks at Tony, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Oh, I get it now. This is why you didn’t show up, huh?" His gaze flickers back to you, sharp and accusing. Then his eyes catch something on your neck, and his entire expression twists into something uglier.

Your stomach sinks.

You don’t even need to look in a mirror to know what he’s staring at. You feel the lingering warmth where Tony’s mouth was just moments ago.

Nathan lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Wow. That’s just perfect." He turns back to Tony. "Guess I should’ve figured. Why go out with someone like me when you can just screw your boss instead?"

Your eyes widen in shock.

Tony moves before you can react.

His fist collides with Nathan’s jaw, the impact loud in the silence of the office. Nathan stumbles back, his hand flying up to his face, a stunned expression flashing across his features before fury takes over.

"Tony!" You grab his arm before he can swing again, your heart pounding.

Nathan straightens, eyes blazing with pure hatred. "You’re insane."

Tony glares at him. "Get out."

Nathan sneers, wiping his mouth. "Oh, trust me, I’m leaving. But you’re gonna regret this. Both of you."

Tony doesn’t even let him turn fully before pulling out his phone and pressing a button. "Happy. Come get this asshole out of my office."

Nathan’s jaw tightens, but before he can say anything else, heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Happy Hogan appears in the doorway, expression unreadable but posture firm.

"Let’s go," Happy says.

Nathan glares at you one last time, then at Tony, before reluctantly stepping back. Happy follows him out, and just like that, he’s gone.

The office is silent again, but the tension lingers.

Your pulse is still racing. You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down. Then you look at Tony.

He’s standing there, still tense, his hand flexing like he’s barely holding himself back from going after Nathan again.

"You punched him," you say, still a little in shock.

Tony shrugs. "He deserved it."

You let out a breath, rubbing your hands over your face. "I can’t believe this happened."

Tony frowns. "You okay?"

You hesitate. "I just—" You groan. "Tony, you gave me a hickey."

Tony blinks, then smirks. "Just now realizing that?"

You glare at him. "I have to work in this office. People are gonna see."

Tony tilts his head, completely unbothered. "So? Let ‘em see."

You stare at him. "I don’t want them to see."

He sighs dramatically. "Alright, alright. I guess I can be more strategic about my placement next time."

You groan again, turning toward your desk. "I need concealer."

Tony snickers. "You could just wear a scarf. It’d be very elegant. Very old-Hollywood."

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. "You think this is funny."

Tony steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder as he murmurs against your ear, "I know this is funny."

You shove at him, but you’re smiling despite yourself. "You’re the worst."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw before finally letting you go. "Now hurry up and cover it. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I need my very professional assistant to not look like she just had a makeout session with her boss."

You roll your eyes, reaching into your bag for your concealer. Tony watches you with a stupidly smug expression.

You shake your head, but your heart is still racing for a completely different reason now.

Because even after everything, even after the chaos Nathan caused, one thing is crystal clear.

You and Tony? You’re solid. And no one—not Nathan, not anyone—can change that.

[starssbythepocketful]

The Funeral Roast!

Spencer Agnew x Hecox!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k (why do I always write so much for him)

Smosh Masterlist

I'm so sorry that this took literal months! I'm not someone who is good at roasting people whatsoever, but I tried!

This fits in with my Ian's Sister AU! It can also be read as a standalone!

I use y/n a few times in this fic, I know it's not everyone's fave, it's just really difficult to write a funeral roast without using the "deceased's" name. Honestly writing this was just really difficult, but the horrors persist and so do I. I had help from some friends with the roasts.

Y/N Hecox Is Dead! The Funeral Roast!

FRIDAY 2 PM

INT - SMOSH FUNERAL SET

Your hands were already sweating as you held the bouquet of plastic flowers. Courtney had taken it upon herself to get a bunch of your favorite colored roses to hold during the shoot. On a small table next to you was a small heart shaped frame with a photo of Spencer, your boyfriend. Kiana must’ve been the culprit for that. It would probably end up on your desk at the end of the day. Another framed photo, this one of you and your older brother, Ian, at your first Youtube Convention. The photo was usually in your brother’s office–your own copy on your desk–and was definitely Ian’s contribution to the Funeral set. There was also a stack of arcade tokens, your Nintendo Switch, and somewhere around ten or more empty Dr Pepper cans. 

The “In Memory” Photo had made you laugh out loud when you first walked onset, someone had photoshopped a tiara onto you and added a sash that said “Princess of Youtube”. 

Ian, Anthony, Tommy, Spencer, Angela and Chanse sat in the audience. Anthony was dressed as Link from the Legend of Zelda, Angela and Chanse had matching mascara tears and looked like they were dressed for a night out–Angela even had a small purse. 

Angela and Chanse stood together, little cloth handkerchiefs in their hands as they fake sobbed and dabbed their eyes. As they walked past where you were propped up in the casket, Angela pulled a martini glass from the purse and nestled it gently next to you in the coffin. Chanse dramatically pretended to throw himself across you crying and Angela pulled him away. Behind the podium, Angela pulled out two notecards, handing one to Chanse before yeeting the purse offstage and into Alex’s waiting arms.

You snorted. 

“It breaks our hearts, this tragedy.” Chanse began, “This is the saddest day of our life.”

“The funeral of our Martini Buddy, I mean Y/N Hecox.” Angela continued.

You laughed softly to yourself. 

“The passing of our most famous drinking buddy,” Chanse began, “was sudden but not unexpected. Especially considering how she drives. Lead foot, anyone?”

“I’ll say.” Spencer said, grinning at you from the audience. 

A chorus of ‘oooooooooh’ was heard among both cast and crew while you simply continued to laugh quietly. 

“Who else will we have to drink martinis with at Sunday Brunch?” Angela said. “And listen to endless hours of her talking about her boyfriend?” She turned and whispered theatrically to Chanse, “What was his name? I didn’t write it down.”

They both squint off into different directions, pretending to not remember.

“Sp….Sp….Spike?” Angela guessed. 

“No, that’s the hot vampire from Buffy.” Chanse said. “I think it was Spengler.”

“The ghostbuster?” Angela’s eyes went wide. 

The bit went on for a few more guesses before they ‘gave up’. A few more friendly pokes and the pair sat back down. 

You looked down at the martini glass Angela had stuck next to you. “Ang, is this my actual glass from my house? How did you get this?”

You could hear Angela giggling as Tommy booped you on the nose as he passed. “Dead people don’t talk, silly.”

As he took his place behind the podium, he cleared his throat. “I am here before you all today to do what I always do,” he said, pulling the will from his inner jacket with a flourish, “read the will.”

Tommy paused for dramatic effect, making eye purposefully awkward eye contact with the camera. 

“We are gathered here today to read the will of our dearly departed y/n Hecox, the true nepo baby of Smosh.”

You, Angela and Chanse burst into giggles at the reference.

“We all love y/n,” Tommy began. “We loved her even more when she wasn’t the one driving. But, I’m not here to talk about that, so without further ado, the will.” 

“To Ian, she has left her collection of Pokemon cards in the hopes that he can finally catch ‘em all. To Anthony, she leaves a book of dad jokes in the hopes that you’ll be able to make the rest of us laugh eventually.”

“Angela and Chanse, two members of the dynamic trio of questionable decisions. When the three of you are together, who only knows what could happen. To Angela, the deceased has left her a bottle of wine that she bought for ‘funsies’ and then never drank because, let’s be honest, you would drink it anyways.”

Angela barks out a laugh as everyone titters.  

“To Chanse, the deceased has left behind a lifetime solutions of hangover cures as well as her thanks for you trying to counsel both her and Angela when they’re wine drunk on Sunday afternoons.”

“To Spencer, the deceased has left her Legend of Zelda collection, in the sole hope that someone will finally use all those darn cups.”

Ian and Anthony burst into giggles at that, having had been the ones to introduce her to the Legend of Zelda franchise back when she was still a kid. An ongoing joke with fans was trying to guess who loved the game series more, Y/N or Tim, their IT guy. 

“But truly, we will miss her.”

A round of applause followed Tommy back to his seat as Ian stood. 

“Alright. Tommy may have set the bar high with those burns, but don’t worry. I’m only gonna roast the one person who actually deserves it—my sister.” He paused. “Look I’ve been your older brother for your whole life, I’ve babysat you, I’ve protected you from weirdos, then gave you a job and surrounded you with weirdos.” Ian stopped to look at everyone assembled. “Like. Major weirdos. Growing up with her wasn’t easy. She was always trying to one-up me, most of the time successfully. Like, I’d play some Mario and go do something else and then I’d come back and she’d have beaten my high score.”

You laughed. “I did it better!”

Ian smacked a hand on the podium and pointed comically at you with the other, as if he were a character in a Phoenix Wright game. “That’s not the point!” He took a moment to collect himself. “She’s also the type of sister to always be like, ‘I’m so much smarter than you are’—as if that’s even possible. I mean, I was the one who started Smosh. Y/N was just…there for like a decade, just watching. But now we’re down an editor, so if anyone knows anyone, lemme know.”

You scoffed out a laugh as another ‘oooooh’ echoed. 

Ian took his seat and a few others went, Shayne, Courtney, and Anthony—who chose to only make sounds similar to Link’s ‘hyah’ sounds. Eventually it was Spencer’s turn. 

Spencer stood, pulling a paper from his pocket. He stopped in front of the casket, letting out a over-dramatic sigh that made you laugh.

“Alright, we get it, the only girl who’d ever agree to go out with you.” Shayne called from off-set.

Spencer whirled around and pointed his finger at Shayne with faux-aggressiveness. “Shut up and don’t steal my bit, you aren’t even supposed to be here!”

He finished making his way up and Spencer stood behind the podium, grinning. “What’s up, losers?”

The group lost it, with a loud and drawn out, “Okay” from Tommy.

“Yeah, I’m Spencer, I’m the boyfriend.” 

You laughed, the delivery of ‘boyfriend’ was somehow even more over then top than the rest of his words. 

“This is like, totally the worst. The first girl to agree to go out with me and she kicked it like, almost a year in? Yikes, that’s not looking good for me.”

At this point, most of the cast was giggling. 

“I remember when you first joined Smosh,” He continued. “There was this look in your eyes that was bright and excited for the future…then you figured out that that ‘future’ was just making Ian’s bad jokes seem funny. Anyways, let’s be real, the only thing more tragic than your passing is your IMBD page, babe. It’s just Smosh credits and that one Taco Bell ad you were an extra in.” 

He paused for everyone’s reactions, some guffaws and chuckles throughout the room. 

“Our relationship is beautiful, chaotic, and documented on way too many Pit and Games videos. Your legacy will live on, granted, it’ll be in all the clips of you absolutely just wiping out.” 

At this, his cool and aloof demeanor broke and he started laughing to himself. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do now without someone who constantly steals my food, my clothes, and occasionally my cats.”

That was true. The pair had an inside joke that she was only dating him for his cats, so, while the last part was confusing to everyone else, she appreciated the little bit that only the two of them knew. 

“Well, this is it. You’re gone. I’m single. And Ian is free from the nightmare of watching us flirt. Everyone wins… except me.” Spencer gave a dramatic sigh. “At least until I start sharing embarrassing stories about you for clout.”

At that you laughed out loud, Spencer made his way back passed you and tucked one of his note pages into your martini glass. 

The group grew silent before you sat up with a sudden gasp. “What’s a girl gotta do to get some fries around here?” You cleared your throat and pulled out your own notes, catching a glimpse of what your boyfriend had actually stuck in your martini glass. “Is this the Bee Movie script?” 

You looked at him curiously along with everyone else.

“Yeah, was thinking about using the Shrek script, but Bee Movie is easier to find,” Spencer grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

“Alrighty then! Moving on!” You looked down at your sheet of roasts that you had put together, “Angela, Ang, my favorite enabler and best yap-sesh buddy. I never trusted you. Anyone who can act like you can isn’t real. Your ability to go from charming to absolutely unhinged in 0.3 seconds will always amaze me. Angela, you are proof that theater kids don’t age. They just get sent to work here to make the rest of us look boring.”

“Chanse. I want to first say that the true tragedy of all of this is that you’re make a joke about this later, and somehow it’ll still be funnier than anything I did. Secondly, I would like to apologize,” You paused for dramatic effect as your friend squinted at you, trying to figure out where this was going, “I would like to apologize that I had to go and perish like the dinosaurs before Smosh could do something truly revolutionary and put you as a main character for a skit.”

“Ian, my dear, dear brother. You’re my hero,” You paused as a few ‘awwws’ went around the room before smirking.

“Oh no.” Ian sighed. 

“No, no, you are my hero…if a hero is chronically online, has owned waaaaay too many wigs, has something weird going on with donuts, and has absolutely zero control over his own employees. I’ve spent years trying to convince the world that I’m more than ‘the Smosh guy’s little sister’, but with my luck my literal funeral is gonna be called “Ian’s Sister is Dead!’ RIP me, I guess? Like, we get Anthony back, but somehow I’m the one that winds up dead?”

“Anthony. You left Smosh to go make deep and meaningful content and discover yourself…and then came back just in time to watch me fake-die for Youtube views. How’s it going? Is this what you thought was gonna happen oooooooorrrrr?”

Anthony laughed, throwing out a thumbs up. “It’s not what I was expecting, but it’s fun!”

You looked directly at the camera. “Funeral for Anthony, anyone? Tommy Bowe! I am dead and somehow you are still the most unwell person in this room. However, you’ve treated the reading of my will as a such a serious moment. To be honest, you sounded so uncomfortably honest that I was almost concerned, until I realized that you’ve probably been method acting your whole grieving process just for me. And I think that’s beautiful, love that for you, bestie.”

“And last, but not least, Spencer. Hi.” You smiled at him. “Anyways, I’m a little concerned. I’ve set you up a meeting with Ian’s therapist because I’m afraid that you’re gonna take this as an excuse to go full ‘sad victorian widow’ on Twitter and Kiana doesn’t need to deal with that. But, knowing you though, you’ve already got plans for the next Gentleman’s video where you’ve lost the love of your life and has some slow descent into madness.” 

You looked up dramatically, staring off into the distance for a moment as if having an epiphany. “That would’ve done numbers on BAF Legacy.” You continued staring off into nothingness for a moment more before collapsing back into your ‘dead’ position as the video wrapped up. 

=== 

SAME DAY

INT - SMOSH OFFICE 

The games pod was quiet at this time. It was almost time to go home, and you were just waiting for Spencer to finish up a few things before heading out, lounging in a beanbag you had dragged over and scrolling through your phone.

“Ready to go, pretty girl?” he asked a few minutes later. 

“Yeah,” you say, standing. 

Together the two of you make your way out of the building. 

“Well, how’d you think the funeral went?” You asked.

“From the onset side of things, I’d say it went pretty well,” Spencer stated. “Sad Victorian Widow was pretty wild.”

You laughed. “Thank you, I liked that one.”

“I’m also totally stealing your idea for a Gentleman gone mad.” 

You grin. “I knew you would.”

xXx

This was hard to write! Sorry it took so long, I might edit it some more at some point if it keeps bugging me. But anyways, my inbox is open. I can't do like full blown requests rn, but sometimes there's something that makes my brain go ooooh which is why I have so many markiplier fics

[phightingaus]

Okay okay AU i came up with while daydreaming about making skins for phighting(they will never make it in the game but anyways) Basically, all the phighters are part of a theatrical play group mainly doing medieval drama and tragedy, but sometimes do comedy things. Valk and Dom are the directors of the plays, with Firebrand owning the entire theater and Umbrella as a manager. Some changes are made to the characters and world, there's no deities but they're a folktale told among inphernals. Valk and Dom sometimes joke about Firebrand looking a lot like the deity of fire from that story, it was also adapted into a play.

Roles the phighters get(some are based off in game skins, some are of my own pondering):

Sword- The follower, Sunburst/The gladiator, Sir Edward Fencer(a government captain, used for pirate plays. Falls in love with Captain Dolphin eventually but they both fue a tragic death by hanging because dolphin is a pirate and edward betrayed his country)

Skateboard- Egobworder/The paladin, Hoverboard, "Surfer with wheels"(for pirate plays)

Biografts are characters in different plays, different skins are used for different themes(Biocarved for a halloween play, Cocoagraft for a christmas play, Floatiegraft for a pirate themed play, the rest are for the sci-fi plays) and are played by multiple actors

Katana- The ronin, The forest spirit, Cyber,

Banhammer- The kraken, The undeadman(basically frankenhammer), the demideity

Rocket- Prince Stargazer, Captain "dolphin"(named after the character tricked a government navy and taking their ship with the most firepower after getting in via pretending to drown)

Slingshot- The mummy/The pharaoh, The maiden(killer in a detective play)

Hyperlaser- The angel/The guardian, the mercenary

Shuriken- The dragon of the east, Silver Shadow(the vigilante thing I also adapted into a play with this AU), The merman(pirate play)

Scythe- The most wanted, the dutchwoman, Jessica Albertro(detective, main character in a detective play)

Medkit- The devil, Doctor Williams(character in a detective play),The bartender(side character from the pirate play)

Boombox- Eggsquerade/The butler, The musician(comic relief guy used in both the pirate and detective plays) He seems to really like playing comic relief characters

Vinestaff- The weeping angel statue, The goddess of flowers, the mermaid(pirate play)

Subspace- the scientist(from detective play), the capper(from the pirate play), the exorcist(main character in a fantasy phasmaphobia ish play, all the undead and mystical characters are also in it)

Coil- the hellhound(pirate play) and err iono, he's probably pretty new to this and does it as a side hustle from boxing

Extras:

Traffic is a janitor, Pwnatious are a sponsor of the theater and the finance manager, Zuka is the mechanic and practical effects guy. Broker is an accountant, there's no Church of the true eye in this, well, at least they're a lot more chill. Paint Buckét is the makeup artist. Spray Paint, Graffiti, Steampunk, Dollmaker and Rainbeau are all in the propmaking team. Mx Bot are the ticket person and SMM manager. Ghosdeeri is the fike manager, she has all the documents. Icedagger and Illumina sometimes get invited for propmaking when Christmas season hits and they need ice statues and paintings.

- star wars anon

holy shit sw anon

this feels so wholesome, so nice i love this

how about a sci fi play

what is scythe's vibe in this AU

the last part hit me right in the heart (yk ice and illumina making props)

wait should maybe coil, sub and steam work also as mechanics and prop guys all three of them know how to AT LEAST TINKER

SW PLEASE BRING YOUR MAIN OVER HERE SO I CAN FOLLOW IT YOU GLORIUS BASTARD, THIS AU IS EXACTALLY WHAT I NEEDED

[honestlyboringperson]

This alliance dissolved faster than sugar in hot water. (Persona 5 AU)

Also I know Bigb and Lizzie have similar outfits and themes and Ren is more red than Pearl, who’s codename is literally just another word for “red”. Eh, oh well.

Southlanders

Team B.E.S.T.

The Scottage + Gem

Magic Mountain + Cub

More under the cut!

Lizzie - “Flora” - The Tower Arcana - Carabosse/Persephone

Once the leader of a sorority and with sky-high academics, Lizzie has since fallen from grace after allegations of foul play were revealed. Even if Lizzie didn’t commit such actions, the label stuck and she has since been outcasted from the student body and now spends her days in the shadows, taking care of quite a few stray cats. Despite these setbacks, she still retains her gleam of authority and tries to help lead the phantom thieves, using some of her old connections & IOUs from her days as an honour student. She’s in an active and loving relationship with a certain former delinquent.

Within the metaverse, Lizzie uses Carabosse. Carabosse is more well known as “Maleficent” or the thirteenth fairy from sleeping beauty. As revenge for not being invited to a party, she curses the newborn princess to prick her finger and die, which another fairy changes to simply falling asleep after pricking her finger. I wanted to combine the two aesthetics and themes Lizzie finds herself in; cutesy fairy and supervillain mastermind.

Her Ultimate persona is Persephone. Persephone is the wife of Hades, and queen of the underworld and goddess of spring. Persephone is often equated and conflated with Despoina, who’s real name isn’t revealed to anyone but those who initiate her mysteries. She is noted to be so terrifying, one must never utter her by name out loud unless they want to catch her attention. This is heavily contrasted by the later interpretations of Persephone as a simple spring goddess.

Ren - “King” - The Emperor Arcana - Arthur/Fenrir

Ren is a prodigy actor at a local theatre, with his acting skills being matched by no one in the theatre. He specializes in dramatic characters with flowery speech and theatrical monologues, to the point whenever he’s in the metaverse, he LARPs as an Evil King. He helps hook the Phantom Thieves up with a weapons expert, who for some reason wears a goat mask 24/7. Upbeat and Loud, he and Skizz helps keep morale high in the phantom thieves. He’s very close with Martyn, despite Martyn insisting he’s just using them as pawns. Whether or not this is true or not is yet to be determined.

His persona is Arthur, namely King Arthur. He is a famed king, known for his sword Excalibur and his large entourage of knights. His story lives on through media, be it through simple books to as grand as whole stage plays. He is often portrayed as a well meaning king who defends the land from both human and supernatural threats. Although his legend has changed throughout history, his story is one bedecked by both tragedy and grandeur.

His Ultimate Persona is Fenrir, a key figure in Ragnarok and killer of Odin. A child of Loki, he and his siblings were foretold to bring the end of the universe and in Odin’s attempt to escape this prophecy, he ends up giving them the power and motives needed to enact the tragedy. In Fenrir’s case, he was brought up the wolf in their home where only Tyr had the courage to approach him to give him food, which sparked a friendship between the two. However, due to his rapid growth everyday the gods made three leg cuffs and had Tyr helped trick Fenrir into putting the cuffs on. When he realizes the trick, he bites Tyr’s hand off. In Ragnarok,he breaks free of his chains and swallow Odin whole, killing him.

BigB - “Spectre” - The Temperance Arcana - Winchester/Eshu

A velvet room attendant who is currently abandoning his duties as an Attendant in the first place. Since the new velvet room manifested, he has since been shirking his duties to explore the outside world, never really returning to the Velvet Room. He still speaks in a somewhat strange manner but is polite and charismatic, making him well liked by the people around him. He initially joins the Phantom Thieves to keep Watch of Grian, as he is aware of his true nature, but eventually finds more reasons he desires to stay. He is especially gifted with persuasive speech and helps come up with alibis for the Phantom Thieves whenever they get into shady business. He has an odd habit of exiting rooms through doors that weren’t originally there.

His persona is Winchester, both the person and the mansion. Sarah Winchester was the wife of the inventor of the Winchester rifle. After she was widowed, she was told she would be haunted by those whose lives were stolen by the rifle her husband created. In order to prevent the ghosts from harming her as well as to possibly contact the ghosts of her lost loved ones, she turned her farmhouse into a strange, maze like mansion with doors and windows that lead to nowhere, stairs that end in ceilings, trapdoors, and barred windows.

His Ultimate Persona is Eshu or Èṣù, a Yoruba Orisha who specializes in divination and acts as a messenger between heaven and earth. He was known to have tricked Ifa out of his secrets of divination, and another where he frees Ifa from his imprisonment within a palm tree and casts him as a founder of the Ifa religion.

[hexcurors]

Harry Potter Bridgerton!au

Dear reader

Words fail this journalist when attempting to describe the scandalous events of last night. Nevertheless, I shall try to be as precise as possible. As you know, my arduous mission is to bring clarity to the facts, even though it seems that not a single citizen in all of London has failed to hear the whispers (or shouts) about what transpired. The unforgettable scene of Albus Potter falling to his knees before a perplexed Duke Malfoy will undoubtedly be retold for generations. Imagine the shock of those present in the grand hall of the Crystal Palace, illuminated for the first ball in honor of the triumphant return of the esteemed Duke Malfoy after four years of absence. After all, the music had barely begun when, suddenly, the youngest heir of the Potters—yes, the very one whose reputation is anything but spotless—threw himself at the feet of Draco Malfoy with a fervor bordering on theatrical. How many parents, I wonder, have already begun narrating this episode to their children as a cautionary tale? Ah, my dear readers, but that is not all. What followed was worthy of the most dramatic Greek tragedies: the powerful Marquess Potter stormed across the hall like a raging beast. And what of Malfoy? To everyone's surprise, the Duke, once known for his impenetrable coldness, grabbed young Potter and roared at the Marquess with a menacing intensity that made the windows tremble. And what was the cause of such uproar? Contrary to all expectations, young Potter (admittedly, not so young anymore) revealed himself to be an omega, and in the most scandalous manner ever witnessed in our society. I can confirm from reliable sources that Albus's sweet and irresistible scent permeated the hall, provoking every alpha present. Of course, such behavior would be an outrage if it came from any of the refined omegas debuting this season. But, considering that young Potter was until then believed to be a mere beta—the first in generations of remarkable alphas and omegas in the Potter family—it may not come as such a shock. After all, they say the poor boy was never properly educated. And it is well known that the youngest Potter is better recognized for his visits to London’s less reputable neighborhoods than for his decorum. Not even in my wildest fantasies could this journalist have foreseen destiny uniting Duke Malfoy with a Potter, especially given that his relationship with the esteemed family is anything but amicable. On second thought, perhaps it is merely poetic justice, as rumors abound that the Duke’s storied past did not exactly earn him divine favors. The fact remains that, if not for the intervention of Her Majesty, we would be reading this story on the crime pages. Two alphas in such a wild state could undoubtedly have been the protagonists of a tragedy. However, it was clear Her Majesty’s excitement as she summoned the royal guards to separate the quarrel, all while declaring that this was the first soul bond seen in generations, shocking everyone present. It is said that Marquess Potter, upon hearing the revelation, paled so drastically that many feared for his health. If not for his wife—whose authority is so renowned that, not infrequently, her designation is mistaken, a reflection of the unconventional manner in which the Weasleys raise their children, whether omegas or alphas—restraining him and reprimanding his behavior, we might have witnessed an even more dramatic scene. Nonetheless, Her Majesty's decision was clear: young Albus Potter is to remain under the guardianship of the Malfoys while the Duke courts him. This journalist cannot help but ponder the impact of these events on poor Scorpius Malfoy. My sources could not decipher his expression, but it is common knowledge that for quite some time there has been speculation about a potential union between Scorpius and Albus, provided their designations were compatible. How cruel fate can be, can it not? To witness his “best friend” presenting himself as an omega at the feet of his father, and to make matters worse, during the festivities preceding  his own wedding!

[aethon-recs]

HP Rec Fest, Day 13 ❄️

@hprecfest daily prompts running through Dec 31. Goal is to find lesser-known or underrated works, even by well-known authors, to feature here.

*

Day 13: A Fic >100k Words

One Year In Every Ten by @saintsenara (E, 165k, WIP)

Summary: A decade after the final battle, a serial killer emerges, with a message that proclaims the Dark Lord has risen again. Harry is assigned to the case. Why I rec it for this prompt: Casefic is a very underrated genre for the Tomarrymort ship, and Asenora absolutely delivers in this case, with a richly layered and complex murder mystery, as well as the beautiful unfolding of a tenuous working relationship between Harry and Voldemort and all the steamy tension that builds up in between them.

if we were lovers by @reggieblk (E, 143k, WIP)

Summary: When Harry arrives at the most prestigious theatrical school in the country, he doesn't have many expectations. The most unexpected thing he encounters is Tom Riddle, and subsequently, falling in love with the only other person who deals with feelings as well as him. But maybe, just maybe, he and Tom will find out that not all love stories have to end in tragedy. Why I rec it for this prompt: The character work is so rich and detailed in this coming-of-age story in a modern AU setting. There's so much thought that went into all the character interactions here, and I love the way that @reggieblk cleverly weaves in elements from plays and uses the theatre backdrop to develop in such a lovely and fraught and realistic way how Harry and Tom end up falling for each other.

*

Running list of recs:

Day 1: Favorite under 5k | Such a Noble Villain Day 2: Comfort Fic | In Somno Veritas | Ouroboros Day 3: Podfic | a taste so good (i'd die for it) Day 4: Fic with Art | A Soulmate Like You Day 5: A Non-AO3 Fic | The Anti-Midas Day 6: Unreliable Narrator Fic | Anabiosis Day 7: A Canon-Compliant Fic | In Your Soul is Sealed a Pleasure Day 8: A Canon-Divergence Fic | Thirst Day 9: A Rare Pair Fic | dust in your pocket | A Breed Apart Day 10: A Fest Fic | In Your Image Day 11: A Dark Fic | As Portioned from a Whole Day 12: A WIP Rec | Lover's Spit | Revolution of Configured Stars Day 13: A Fic >100k Words | One Year In Every Ten | if we were lovers

[the-liars-art]

Slip into the Tragedy

Konrad/Sevatar

Sweet treats, family business, horror movies. a modern AU

1

Almost two decades ago, before his adoption, Konrad had dreamed of this night. Maybe it would end better than he knew. Maybe he'd find something worth a look beside his current horror movie obsession. Maybe it was why he let Fulgrim take him to the club.

When they arrived at the “hidden gem” in the darker city streets, Horus’ words, he was most disappointed that Mort wasn’t with them. He had hoped to talk for a while, but apparently Mortarion fell ill and stayed at a private hospital. Perturabo left early. Said he had work, and somewhere more important to be. Though he did nod at Konrad before he stormed out of the private room reserved for this half-scaled family reunion. Horus and Alpharius called it a strategy meeting. Konrad was promised, next time, a quieter and more personal celebration just for him: their troubled brother, grown to adulthood strapped in mental institutions and padded cells, finally free.

Freed from their father. Or so Horus says.

Not an hour in and his brothers were drinking too much, laughing and blaming each other, their hands full with glasses of different colored liquids. Konrad wasn’t allowed to drink for too many reasons, and he had no problem with that. Fulgrim asked if he was hungry and ordered him a large strawberry sundae, fancy and pink like film prop.

The ice cream turned out most helpful; he needed the sugar for the rest of the night. Even the interior of the club felt too bright and he couldn’t relax a muscle at first. He wore Fulgrim’s designers’, a loose-fitting robe with fluttering feathery fabric at his back and soft slippers , silky black from head to toe. He liked the theatrical style of it.

Several other brothers left. Then Horus and Fulgrim, arguing intensely while Magnus somehow had Perturabo on the phone. They tried not to yell when Konrad sat in the corner staring at them, confused. In the end, they had to walk outside into the large bar area. They asked him to wait and not to worry.

He wondered for a moment where Fulgrim was, but didn’t feel like finding him chatting and laughing, quoting things Konrad never read. Fulgrim would ask him if he’d like some soft drink or snacks, or how was the atmosphere, and smile and try to lace up his feathery shirt collar again.

It wasn’t bad. But Konrad could do without it for a while.

He grabbed his sundae glass and left the empty table. Pink half-eaten ice cream had begun to melt, mingling with the syrups and frozen berries.

The bar outside hosted a dozen strangers. He wondered how many of them had committed a crime. Maybe all of them. None shall be spared, if he makes the decisions.

Strolling through the empty spaces of the bar, he briefly thought of drinking. Around him, several people were drinking. In the scenes from his recent movie obsessions, people who drink carelessly got their good endings. But it was often the opposite. Then he remembered the doctors’ notes. He had no idea if the new medications were working, but they didn’t make him throw up or pass out. He didn’t want them to.

Bored and frustrated, he swallowed another mouthful of ice cream. He wanted to return to Fulgrim’s mansion, hide in the projector room, and bar the door through the night.

As he walked by, a man at the bar table eyed him absentmindedly, holding a half-empty whiskey glass. A plain black turtleneck wrapped tighly around his muscular shoulders and arms. A well-worn leather jacket, also black, hung on the back of his chair. He could get a silhouette of heavy biker boots under the table.

Konrad ignored the gaze, and went on his way through an empty row of seats. But the stranger in black turned to face him fully and began to stare.

He prepared for insults and tried to remember what his last therapist had said. Deep breaths. What color is your current emotion? (Red. He said red.)

“You look like my favorite slasher.” Said the man with a lip ring and an uneven eyebrow slit. It seem like he was sneering when he wasn’t. Was it the strange angle or lighting, or both?

Konrad didn’t expect that at all. He had just watched too many horror movies in too short a period of time without sufficient sleep. Nevertheless, he searched his mind unconsciously, finding nothing to match.

“Which one?” He raised an eyebrow at the man, who was likely closer to his age than Fulgrim’s.

That was when he realized the lighting was dimmer in this part of the bar. The stranger occupied the darkest spot, like blood rinsed away by water, swirling redness gathering at the lowest corner of the bathroom tiles.

“The one in my dreams.” Said the stranger, in all seriousness. His eyes were as black as Konrad’s own.

All of a sudden the sundae glass became unbearably cold in Konrad’s palm; he had to put it down somewhere. This felt new.

“Name’s Sevatar. You are?”

He hesitated, unsure which name to speak of. He was Night Haunter, always.

Sevatar nodded at his silence, intrigued.

“Ow, I get it. Who are you tonight, then?”

Tonight? Tonight he was Fulgrim’s brother. His father’s one of many failures. Proof that madness runs in the family.

“Tonight I am Konrad Curze.” He said solemnly. Sevatar’s expression remained unchanged.

He was glad Sevatar phrased the question that way. The answer tasted wrong on his tongue, though, like the one time he licked the inner side of his wrist to taste the atrocious perfume that made him grimace and itch.

“Konrad Curse’s hell of a name.” Sevatar blinked. “It’s not you.”

This time it was Konrad who stared. He noticed a thin but visible scar across Sevatar’s pale face which resulted in the inconsistency of his black brow and a left eye that appeared slightly smaller. For the first time in long agonizing years, he didn’t feel like a man named Konrad anymore. Not even for his brothers’ convenience. It was never his name.

“You already know me better than my therapists.”

He found himself grinning. He couldn’t help it. When he was a child, one of the doctors used to whisper stop that. He wondered where that little man ended up. It was difficult to return to his line of work without eyes.

A dull pain rose in the back of his head again. He had to bite his lip, suppressing the urge to bare all his teeth like a hissing feline.

But his cheeks flushed curiously hot, instead of cold all over.

Sevatar grinned back, giving his full attention. The silver ring in his lower lip gleamed.

“I’ll buy you a drink.”

Konrad shook his head. “Medication,” he explained, and tapped the ice cream glass with the long dainty spoon. “I’m here with my brothers.”

Sevatar shrugged, rested an elbow on the table, and downed what was left of his whiskey.

“Just a little taste, at least?” His voice sounded as if he was implying something, but Konrad couldn’t tell from the smile that never reached his eyes.

Konrad barely even tasted alcoholic drinks before. One night after he was brought out of father’s confinement, he attempted to get drunk just to know the feeling. He had half a glass of pale bitter wine from one of Fulgrim’s many cabinets and a few gulps of beer that tasted worse. He remembered an exhaustion that he never wanted to experience again.

“I do,” he said. “I do want a taste.”

TBC

(I’ll do my best to update in chapters, but it might be snippets only)

[jovenshires]

endless au edits: smosh theatre's seasonal lineup (2/4)

keeping up with the run of smosh classics, smosh's second production of the year will be a rendition of little shop of horrors in the spring, directed by the other esteemed smosh co-founder, ian hecox. as per usual, any hecox production is certain to be a delicious twist of comedy and tragedy, and this show fits that descriptor to the t. packed to the brim with bright and colorful costumes, elaborate props, and punchy dark humor, little shop makes perfect sense for a director well-known for finding the bright spots in the darkness (and vice versa). with his trusty stage manager sidekick and previous fellow director, spencer agnew, by his side, hecox is sure to make this musical a hit. as for the cast, fans will be delighted to see smosh's resident powerhouse courtney miller as audrey, a hopeless romantic with a heart of gold. miller is not only a vocal and theatrical legend, but also both nonbinary and queer, something they noted that they hope to bring to the role of audrey. miller shared the news on twitter earlier today, saying, "i cannot wait to bring to you this fantastic person i've gotten to know over these past few months. i've put a little piece of myself into her, and i just want you all to know this is our best, gayest show to date." smosh certainly leaned into this idea by making her leading man fellow queer actor and fan-favorite funnyman, tommy bowe. bowe has been with smosh for seven years now; over that time, he's gone from lighting director to bit-part actor to, finally, leading man. this will be the first smosh show bowe's ever taken the lead on, and as i know firsthand from working with him on several other theater productions, no one deserves it more. bowe also shared the news to his social media today, saying on his instagram that this is "a dream come true." we previously saw bowe and miller side-by-side in last year's production of les miserables as thenardier and madame thenardier respectively. as you may recall from my review, the two than proved that they have electrically fun chemistry and excellent comedic prowess, which is extremely promising for this production. i, for one, couldn't be happier for them, and i cannot wait to see how queer this show can really get. other than the two incredible leads, this may be one of the most interesting and unique casts smosh has ever assembled. starring in his first feature role at smosh is trevor evarts as orin scrivello, dds, audrey's controlling, masochistic boyfriend. known for his previous (and part-time continuing) work at the mythic playhouse, evarts is a mangenue on the rise to stardom, and this show is the perfect launchpad for his career. in an interview posted today with theater weekly, evarts said that he was "so excited to join the cast," stating boldly that, in his opinion, "smosh is the future of theater." as trevor's talent is so evidently rooted in his quick-witted, raunchy comedy, there is no doubt in my mind that evarts will make the perfect killer dentist. you know how the saying goes, though; something old, something new. thus, it should be no surprise that we will see two returning faces to the smosh stage, specifically mari takahashi (audrey ii) and joshua ovenshire (mr. mushnik). after nearly four years of absence, the two original cast members are returning for a much-anticipated reunion with the smosh crew. since their original leave, takahashi and ovenshire have worked together on several minor productions, as well as beginning their own podcast. today's episode confirmed that they would be making their re-debut on the smosh stage, discussing why they left and, more importantly, why they're coming back. as an actor, takahashi is known for her rich singing voice and commanding presence on stage, while ovenshire's specialty lies in physical humor and over-exaggerated personas. i can't think of better additions to this cast - although it will certainly be interesting to see how well the old blood blends with the new...

[divinecomedyproductions]

Fandom Woes: Self-Righteousness of Modern Tragedy

I think I want to explain my case better about my beef with modern tragic/more-bitter-than-sweet fantasy/sci-fi, such as RWBY, Code Geass, and D.Gray-Man and it’s not necessarily the stories in of themselves

It’s the Self-Righteous Martyr/God-Complex of toxic contingent within these fandoms, to me they seem to ultimately not care the message the tragedy and suffering of these stories are trying to convey, but rather enjoy them and flaunt them for their own self-righteous megalomania

And I know that sounds hyperbolic, but it’s the tone, attitude and behavior of these people that give me that impression

For example with Code Geass and RWBY and the tragic deaths of Euphemia Li Britannia, Shirley Fenette, Lelouch, Pyrrha, and Penny respectively

As soon as that happened, many among the fandom would come out and theatrically proclaim the necessity of these tragic deaths, how it is so realistic an shows “thats life”, and brag how ultimately hopeful the stories still are and how it taught them how to be oh-so hopeful despite the odds, and I can see them act that way towards the burden of Allen Walker if the fandom was still active today as it was back then.

In any these cases, these people act as if they themselves were righteous martyrs, prophets of God,Life,Reality, usually the latter two because they claim "that's life" or "that's reality" all in a tone that reeks of holier-than-thou arrogance and vanity...

"Of my virtue, I am justly proud..."

Or worse, they speak with ghoulish glee and bragging about it gives them a feeling of power over these fictional characters as if they themselves are God almighty and it bleeds into how they treat real people who didn't like it by passive aggressively or belligerently belittling, judging, shaming, gaslighting, and sneering at them, implying the worse reasons of their distaste, and tell them to go watch a sitcom or slice-of-life anime or something

Then they are quick to condemn other fictional characters like Suzaku from Code Geass for being such a SOB and cheer on Watts putting Cinder on Full Blast, all while implying themselves to be such better people than both

Then they brag about what story was told with these ideas and concepts to be the end-all-be-all of these concepts in any fantasy/sci-fi epics that have even the slightest tinge of darkness and conflict and, lock them down into little theories, formulas, dogmas, and rule out everything else as a corruption, heresy, or a worthless little parasite, because they themselves are the infallible, all-knowing, and all-seeing “literary experts” who got everything all figured out and everyone else, wether the majority or minority, as peon reprobates.

Which then they pressure onto creatives with less power than them, especially when they disagree. All while they themselves can do whatever they want and do whatever they want with things they are unhappy with because “we know better than you”

I have experienced this expressing my ideas of what RWBY could have been instead, AU and Original work and been told it could only work as a slice of life anymore or a sitcom, or otherwise what I do with this stuff is ultimately meaningless and heresy and spiteful

All while they supported things like His Dark Materials Trilogy which is the Anti-Narnia written by a Atheist who hates CS Lewis and Christianity with a passion because he made the concepts more “interesting”

Or how making a sexy magical Captain Marvel with her own sailor scouts like Kamen America and her Kamen Corps because the creators were unhappy with what was done with the concept of Captain Marvel is nothing but a "Porno Captain Marvel Rip-Off"

while making an evil superman like Homelander and other nasty rendition of superheroes in "The Boys" by a guy who despises superheroes is totally fine because he knows what's the "interesting" end-all-be-all of these concepts.

All these things I describe can be summed up to figures in the Bible, The Pharisees

“They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.”-Matthew 23:4

They brag about the virtues and necessity of tragedy at the expense of fictional characters and real people, and boss around other creatives on what they do with this stuff, especially when they are unhappy, all whilst they themselves do whatever they want because they are supposedly so “objective”, they don’t need to follow the rules like everyone else

These prigs will tell others to “broaden their horizons” and give them the benefit of the doubt, but will refuse to give others the exact same courtesy because once again, “We know better than you.”

These self righteous people seem to only enjoy these stories not because of the message the tragedy and suffering is trying to convey, thats just a shield for them, but rather for their moral superiority and the thrill of power over others and being the measure of all things, for they know how life exactly works for specific individuals in specific genres and they know how to carry it out exactly.

They know with a "G"(gnosis) what's the end-all-be-all of specific concepts in ideas in specific genres and how to carry them out and they alone are the alchemists who can turn lead in to gold and everyone else is subjective and suffer from false consciousness.

In fact, I compare them to Digory’s Uncle Andrew in The Magician’s Nephew who though he could control other people by using their values against them to get them to do what he wants, while he himself doesn’t need to follow the rules, and basked in self congratulation of being a “great magician”

“Men like me, who possess hidden wisdom, are freed from common rules just as we are cut off from common pleasures. Ours, my boy, is a high and lonely destiny.”

And while we’re at it and Code Geass is on the table, let me point to one of the antagonists of Akito The Exiled, Gene Smilas

He was the mentor and surrogate parent of Lelia Macal who sought to bring Europe to a brighter future, often invoking the tale of the venerable St.Joan of Arc.

But when the time came to supposedly save EU, did he bet on his own life like the Saint did?

No.

He decided to position himself as God and Lelia as Joan of Arc, planning for her to die as a martyr for his own gain and become Emperor of Europe, because she happened to be a young lady with good morals who wasn't afraid to fight alongside her troops.

Like Uncle Andrew, Gene was nothing more than a peddling magician, but worse, he saw himself as God who controlled Lelila's destiny all while basking in delusions of righteousness in his quest for power. While Uncle Andrew was at least scared straight by Narnia.

To use a description of the Pharisees from the TV Series Jesus of Nazareth(1977) but slightly tweaked,

He bowed before the Story of Joan of Arc, but violated the heart of it.

And that's why I am so irritable about Tragedy in these kinds of stories, it feels like they are no longer enjoyed out of humility, compassion, truth, goodness, and beauty.

But rather out of pride, vanity, power, cruelty, and moral superiority

and sometimes it tempts me want to write my inspired stories in a way that gives them all the finger rather than for what I saw these ideas and concepts could have been, just so I can give them a taste of their own medicine

I know that's wrong, but these people test my patience, especially when they keep invading other people's spaces, bypass other people's "curations" because "there's nothing subjective about this, I need to correct and educate you", and getting away with this kind of nasty behavior

Because they are perfectly “objective” and everyone else is “subjective” therefore “subjected” to their “objective” will.

@beatricehawthorne @vitamaeternum

[inkyucu]

So... I got showed a website where you can pose a model for characters, and I planned on making a sketch.

This.... This was not the game plan, and yet I don't mind what happened, because I got to work on my horrible abilities when it comes to working on perspective AND full body Eclipse I will totally use as reference! Two birds with one accidentally thrown stone if I do say so myself

(Transparent version)

+ A little bonus

[blakebow]

For me, what bugs me about the tragedy of Arkos, the darkness of rwby, and Bumbleby over BlackSun is the Self-Righteous Martyr/God-Complex of toxic contingent within these fandoms, to me they seem to ultimately not care the message these stories are trying to convey, but rather enjoy them and flaunt them for their own self-righteous megalomania

With the deaths of Pyrrha, and Penny respectively.

As soon as that happened, many among the fandom would come out and theatrically proclaim the necessity of these tragic deaths, how it is so realistic an shows “thats life”, and brag how ultimately hopeful the stories still are and how it taught them how to be oh-so hopeful despite the odds.

In any these cases, these people act as if they themselves were righteous martyrs, prophets of God,Life,Reality, usually the latter two because they claim "that's life" or "that's reality" all in a tone that reeks of holier-than-thou arrogance and vanity

Same with the Wasps over Bumbleby because “BEST SAPPHIC REPRESENTATION EVAR!!!” and taunting BlackSun fans for being “heteronormative”

They’re like Claude Frollo in a sense

"Of my virtue, I am justly proud..."

Or worse, they speak with ghoulish glee and bragging about it gives them a feeling of power over these fictional characters as if they themselves are God almighty and it bleeds into how they treat real people who didn't like it by passive aggressively or belligerently belittling, judging, shaming, gaslighting, and sneering at them, implying the worse reasons of their distaste, and tell them to go watch a sitcom or slice-of-life anime or something

Then they brag about what story was told with these ideas and concepts to be the end-all-be-all of these concepts in any fantasy/sci-fi epics that have even the slightest tinge of darkness and conflict and Representation and, lock them down into little theories, formulas, dogmas, and rule out everything else as a corruption, heresy, or a worthless little parasite, because they themselves are the infallible, all-knowing, and all-seeing “literary experts” who got everything all figured out and everyone else, wether the majority or minority, as peon reprobates.

Forgive my Catholicism talking, but it reminds me of the Pharisees

“They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.”-Matthew 23:4

These self righteous people seem to only enjoy these stories not because of the message the tragedy and suffering is trying to convey, thats just a shield for them, but rather for their moral superiority and the thrill of power over others and being the measure of all things, for they know how life exactly works for specific individuals in specific genres and they know how to carry it out exactly.

Or with Bumbleby, how they are righteous champions of queer culture against eeeeevilllll heteronormative culture which reeks of resentiment

And that's why I am so irritable about Tragedy in these kinds of stories, it feels like they are no longer enjoyed out of humility, compassion, truth, goodness, and beauty.

But rather out of pride, vanity, power, cruelty, and moral superiority

While Bumbleby over BlackSun and the whole Adam fight enrages me because it feels like some sick power fantasy of LGBTQ+ Revenge against “Heterosexuality” while Sun is supposed to be kind of humble cuck

and sometimes it tempts me want to write my rwby au fanfic and original stuff inspired by it in a way that gives them all the finger rather than for what I saw these ideas and concepts could have been, just so I can give them a taste of their own medicine

I know that's wrong, but these people test my patience, especially when they keep invading other people's spaces, bypass other people's "curations" because "there's nothing subjective about this, I need to correct and educate you", and getting away with this kind of nasty behavior

you totally lost me on all the religious stuff, i don't subscribe to that by-weekly at all, fam.

on that note though, i do agree for the most part with the idea that the wasps have taken advantage of the canonization of bees to appoint themselves to some kind of sainthood, like they're holier-than-though over the rest of the fandom. and frankly, i can't stand those insufferable type of people.

they over project themselves onto terrible ships and even though people tell them how toxic and dysfunctional it is, it goes in one ear and out the other. they don't listen. they live in a detached bubble in a separate reality.

sad to say, that's not the first time that i've encountered fans like this in a fandom. some people really should be on a no fly list because they're clearly mentally unstable and a danger to others, but i don't get to make that call, unfortunately...

i want someone from crwby to come out and tell them that bees was never planned, because i think it would utterly shatter their delusional reality if they felt so betrayed by the hand that fed them. they should be soundly slapped several dozen times until they lose all coherrence.

[pixies-and-poets]

Well, well! What have we here! If it isn't your girl Bramble "I'm going to write fanfics but ONLY RARELY" Scramble with another fanfic!

I don't know if I'll ever continue this story directly, but I thought up a starting point for the Divine AU and haven't been able to stop thinking about it for a couple of days. Enjoy my attempts at "localizing" things into Greek! Phantom is also literally Dionysus here, but it's strange to call him that, so I did what we in the business called "cheesing it" to get us back to his familiar name.

As always, thank you for putting up with my Phandrow obsession lmaaaooo. And now enjoy...

An Appeal to the Heavens

It was mid-morning of a bright day in early spring, and the city streets bustled with activity. Children and adults alike ran about wearing colorful togas or tunics. Street vendors shouted from the sidelines, or pushed their carts straight through the crowd. The drinking was heavy, and wine stained the lips and tongues of many a mouth.

It was the middle of a festival, after all.

The Dionysia lasted for a whole week, and mostly celebrated theatrical productions both grand and small. But today there were also competitions for poetry: theatre’s cousin, and also much beloved by theatre’s God. There were different categories for original poetry throughout the day: epic, tragic, comic, romantic. It was an hour yet before they began, and every adult was preparing themselves with the appropriate amount of inebriation to survive the more tortured of verses- and purchasing fruit to throw, if need be.

Through the mass of pure white or brightly-colored clothing pressed a man who stood out from the rest in his somber long tunic, so dark brown as to be almost black. The only spot of color on his form was the vibrant pink ribbon that tied the cloth around his waist. More notable than his clothes, however, was the way he literally stood out amongst his fellow rabbids: his tall, slender but top-heavy form being so unusual that it drew plenty of rudely curious gazes.

…Or at least, that’s what he imagined they were looking at. More likely, they were staring at the tiny raincloud that followed in his vicinity, bobbing here and there as if to observe the festivities, and occasionally giving off a little thunderclap of excitement.

The tall man carried a bundle wrapped in white cloth close to his chest, protectively but not too tightly, as delicate and guarded as if it were a newborn child. He weaved through the crowd with extreme care, so as not to let anyone bump him and his precious cargo too hard.

Finally, he reached his destination- a grand temple, richly decorated above and among its pillars with carvings of grapes and their vines and leaves, and the masks of comedy and tragedy, and harps, and musical notation. Atop the pillars, its triangular pediment was carved with a relief depicting actors upon a stage. 

For a moment the visitor stared up at the building in awe. He could have spent hours taking in every detail. It was so large, so ornate, compared to the temple in his home village! There was only one, which all the gods had to share, their little shrines jumbled up against one another inside. This one was so huge, despite its dedication to a single god alone! But it only made sense- this was THE main temple to Dionysus, in the city that was holy to him.

And yet… hardly anyone was around. The wide set of stairs leading up and inside were the least crowded space the tall rabbid had seen for a while. This surprised him a bit - he had expected others to have the same idea as him, to come to pray. Perhaps most people saw little use - or little fun - in being pious at a temple, when the whole city was transformed into a shrine for the god’s honor.

The visitor slowly approached the doorway, and then turned around. He noticed his cloud hanging back- the little thing rarely came into buildings to begin with, and certainly not temples.

“I won’t be long, Katára,” he addressed it, with a gentle smile. Then he turned back and entered the structure.

He found himself in a massive hall. On the left side was a large dias - a stage, in fact - and on the right, rows of seating, raised up in tiers. Here plays were sometimes performed, but right now they were elsewhere, all over the city. And at the far end of the hall, which the visitor was now walking towards in the space between the stage and the audience, was a statue.

The newcomer's green-blue eyes, which were often somewhat squinted due to his poor eyesight, widened in amazement. The statue was larger than life, much much larger than even the largest mortal rabbid he had ever seen. And it was an incredible piece of workmanship. At its base, a large harp - which the god’s body was said to contain - was delicately rendered and covered in gold. This was subtly part of a pillar, which supported the statue’s upper body - the god with one hand at his chest and the other stretched out, his hair flowing, his eyes closed and his mouth open in divine song. All of this was carved in stone, but painted in vibrant color: the purple of his toga, the green of the grape leaves in his hair, the red of his mouth, and even more purple on his wine-stained lips, which were said to be a near permanent feature.

Most astonishingly of all, however, is that his giant round belly was made entirely of glass, through which the harp could be seen.

Never before had it been more obvious why the god had earned the colloquial name of the Phantom. He usually kept his stomach transparent, like a ghost, so that all might see the glorious instrument inside. Most statue depictions, of course, could not capture this detail, or had to attempt it in the most rudimentary of ways. He also went without legs most of the time, his body culminating in a ghostly tail- although legends claimed he could give himself legs, if it was more fun to have them.

There was another reason he'd earned that name, of course. He was infamously elusive, appearing before mortals extremely rarely, at least in this age. Some gods, like the hero Perfectus or his less heroic brother Augustus, dwelt among mortals almost full-time; others appeared rarely, but at least sometimes... and the Phantom was almost never seen at all, at least in his own form outside of some disguise.

"So that's what you really look like, eh?” said the newcomer as he gazed up in wonder. How different this was from the simple wooden carvings in the temple of his village! Those certainly couldn’t pull off a trick of transparency like this. Before he knew it, he was at the base of the statue, which was raised up on a huge pedestal of its own. His eyes were at the level of the harp, and he could see his own reflection- a poor, tired poet, gazing at a form of divine magnificence. Embarrassed by his own awkward reflection, he looked upward again, at the face of a god who was rapt with the joy of performance... and without thinking, he reached out a paw and touched the glass.

He stood like that for a moment, before suddenly coming to his senses, embarrassed and ashamed. He took his paw away, and saw that it had left a faint print. At this point he was more relieved than ever that not another soul was present in the temple. He must clean that off in a moment. But for now…

He looked around the edges of the statue’s base. Various tributes had been left here recently; sumptuous costumes and props; bundles of papyrus that were probably play scripts, piles of coins, and more. The newcomer found some empty space and sat his own bundle down, gently unwrapping it. Out he pulled a bunch of grapes.

It was a healthy group - each individual a rich reddish purple, as full and round as the god’s own belly, with no bruises or wrinkles or rot. The ideal representation of the fruit. He had spent far too long at the market this morning, picking out the absolute most perfect bunch he could find. In fact, he was pretty sure the vendor had charged him extra for it after seeing how long he had agonized and deliberated.

Now he sat them tenderly at the base of the statue, and used the freed cloth to wipe off his paw-print. He stood back, looking at his tribute nestled in amongst the others… and felt shame. They were only grapes, after all. Nothing compared with the expensive clothing and masks and other offerings on display. He sighed. Still, it was about all he could afford to give. …That, and his endless devotion, of course. If the god would have it.

But no one seemed to want it.

The visitor tucked the cloth away within his tunic, and then knelt before the statue, his ears flopping forward over the top of his head. He brought his long arms together and clasped his hands and shut his eyes.

“My Lord,” he began. “It's been a while. It's me, Tristan of the Woods, from Chróma Próta… do you remember me? I’m very far from home. I used to pray to you in rhyme, but… well, I think you must not have liked it, because you never answered my prayers. -But I don’t hold it against you personally! None of the gods ever do.”

He sighed, feeling like he was messing this up already. “-So anyway, I thought I might try something different this time. I thought I should be more casual. Perhaps you’d like that better…”

Tristan paused here. His knees were already hurting from kneeling on the stone floor. He opened his eyes and looked up at the statue, at the torchlight reflecting off its glass, making the god seem to glow.

“You know,” he said, “if I’m going to be casual, I should go all the way. Commit to it. I hope you don’t mind.”

He went around the side of the statue’s dais, where there were no tributes laid out, and heaved himself up onto the platform. This was the side where the statue’s ghost-like tail snaked around, and the visitor settled himself into the crook between the tail and the statue’s body, resting his back on the glass, curling his legs up behind the tail.

“Well then.” He began to speak once more, looking alternatively down at his knees, or the statue’s tail, or the decorated walls around him. “I’m here today because - I need your help. Desperately. If there’s ever a prayer I need answered, if you only answer one in my whole life, let it be my request to you today.”

He shifted, slouching down even further against the statue. “You see, My Lord… I am a poet, yes? Or at least I call myself such. But in my hometown, they do not like my poetry. I don't blame them, because neither do you, it seems- the gods, I mean.

Well, despite everything, I care for my hometown. I want to give back to them. It just so happens that they're holding elections soon, for the archon- you know, that’s someone who’s sort of in charge of a town, among us mortals. A lot of decisions, and a lot of responsibility. The only thing is, it’s only open to people who can pay a certain amount of money… to prove we’re financially stable, and responsible, and well-to-do.”

The poet took a deep breath, then exhaled sadly. “The problem is… I’m NOT. I have hardly any money. I barely scrape by. And that’s why… that’s why I came all the way here, to the poetry competitions. I entered myself in all four of them, you know! It’s going to be a busy day for me. But just winning one… that would be enough. The prize money would be all I need to enter the election.”

The rabbid turned his upper body around, to look up at the statue once more, though from here he could only really see the side of his toga, his elbow and his flowing locks. “So… since this is your festival, I was hoping… maybe you could inspire me today, to do extra well? Or… perhaps convince the judges to see the virtues of my work. Whatever you can do, as a god, to help me win. Just one little competition! I… I would prefer it were the tragic poem, as I’m always most proud of myself in that regard. But any will do. That’s all I ask. Just one, my Lord. It’s for a good reason, I promise you.”

He turned back around, put his hands together once more, and was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, it was softer. “Even if you don't like my poems.... maybe you can pretend, just this once. And in return… if there’s anything you wish of me... just let me know somehow. Send me a vision, a divine message in a dream, however you wish to reach me. I will do whatever you ask.” The poet suddenly had a feeling that he might dream of the god that night, and for other nights to come, divine vision or no. He felt very warm, and blushed. Could the gods tell what a mortal was thinking? Especially if they were in the god’s own temple? He desperately tried to suppress the thoughts that had been bubbling up inside him since he first laid eyes on the statue, on the god’s fair face. Absurd thoughts.

“There are, perhaps, better deities to pray to,” he continued quickly, drowning out his thoughts by speaking, “for poetry specifically. But… I have always been drawn to you above all gods, My Lord. I know you have never answered my devotion with any reward, but… well, you are busy, I’m sure, granting the wishes of playwrights and actors from the cities. And who am I but a humble poet from a town buried in the forest? I… would like your assistance, My Lord, but above all I simply… I simply pray that you hear me. I have come here, to your grand temple, and although I have little to offer…I do have myself. And I want you to know that I am ever your faithful servant. I am yours, body and soul, if you will have me. …Thank you for listening.”

During this last bout of speaking, he had closed his eyes, clutched his hands together, and bowed his head once more. Now he opened his eyes and stood up. He got down off the pedestal and walked back to the front of the statue. Trembling, he looked up at it one last time, and felt the warmth rise again to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He was so beautiful, and the lowly poet so unworthy…. How dare he ask for anything?? And what’s more, how dare he dream- how dare he entertain the thought even for a moment- that the god would take notice of him as anything more than yet another wish to grant, or more likely, to ignore?

Ashamed of his whole endeavor, the poet turned and left in a hurry, to rejoin his cloud and prepare for his first oration.

—

But the poor mortal did not know the terrible truth! His prayers had not been ignored on purpose. In fact, they simply weren't reaching the long ears of the gods.

They never had.

The poet was well aware of his own ill luck and misfortune. It was a reality he lived with every day, with every verse he spoke. But he had been taught as a child that the gods heard everyone out, no matter how pious or fallen, no matter how glorious or meek. Little did he know, so complete was his curse, that the Fates blocked his messages from ever reaching the holy realm.

Today, though… in that realm, far above the land in which mortals struggled and died…

The Phantom’s eyes opened. He opened his mouth, too, very wide - not in song, but in a mighty yawn - and he stretched his arms and shook his silver hair. 

Then he groaned and flopped backwards again onto his bed. He really needed to stop having drinking contests with Augie. The god of wine always came out on top, of course, but it was a close one, with the sea-god just barely passing out when Phantom was at his limit. The constant beach parties in Pharos Philia, where Augustus made his home among mortals, had trained him well.

The god of theatre, wine and merry-making was feeling anything but merry this morning. Under the dull pounding of his hangover - something to which even the gods were susceptible - he felt a prickling in the back of his mind. He had prayers to listen to.

Of course he did; it was the third day of that damned festival. He had ceased to care about it decades ago. Mortals always followed trends in their work and their lives, and their trends repeated in cycles, each generation thinking they were the first to discover some grand theme or unifying truth about existence. For a short-lived mortal, their little dramas, both those on a stage and those not, always seemed important and new. For a god, it got boring after a while.

And yet… today he had woken up with a strange feeling. A premonition he could not shake.

Perhaps, for the first time in years, he should visit his own festival. In disguise, of course. It wouldn't help his headache, but… he had nothing better to do.

The god closed his eyes, and the eyes of the statue in his grand temple opened, and glowed. He was looking through them.

….But there was no one around to notice. The temple was completely empty.

Of course, Dionysus thought. Of course it was empty. No one was at the festival to actually celebrate or worship him. They were there for their own entertainment or their own glory, as actors and writers, directors and choreographers. Well, he supposed he couldn't blame them. He knew the feeling.

At least this was a choice spot to manifest into the mortal world, then. In a sparkle of gold, a body materialized before the statue- the guise of a mortal rabbid, although notably larger and more rotund than the average. He had given himself legs, and was dressed in an unassuming blue toga, and even transformed his hair into fancy curls and a neat little ponytail, quite different from the messy locks he was normally depicted with. Still, he did not want to alter his inborn beauty too much. He hoped no one would catch on.

He turned around to give a brief glance over the tributes at the base of his statue. There were some finely-wrought objects and pieces of clothing, but still, nothing compared to what he saw every day in the land of the gods. Some mortals had even offered him their mortal play scripts- eurgh, no thank you. But just as he was about to turn away again, his eyes caught a small spot of purple.

He walked over and saw… a bunch of grapes. They looked delicious, and clean, and very fresh. Someone must have left them here quite recently! As far as he was concerned, this was the only useful gift in the collection.

With a smile, the Phantom picked them up, and strode out of the temple, eating the succulent orbs one by one.

[reggieblk]

what's If We Were Lovers? I was scrolling on the Tomarry tag and I'm so curious now! I love longfics. What's the concept?

hi! thank you for asking!!

if we were lovers is the second long fic I've ever written, and I'll try and explain the concept to you though please keep in mind that I am so bad at explaining the premise of this fic and I rarely do the actual fic justice when I explain it lol

but! basically it's a no magic AU that takes place in the 90's (so same era tomarry) with some timeline mashups when it comes to secondary characters. the premise is that Harry gets into a very prestigious and selective school for the arts (he attends for theatre) and his arrival sparks a bit of controversy because students are only accepted at 12yo or never at all, and he is 18, so joining the last year theatre students. his arrival is not taken well by Tom, whose class he is in, because students get cut every year, and by arriving in their last year Harry has subverted that threat that the others faced every year. there are five other boys with Harry and Tom in seventh year that i love a lot. I'll put the list of tags I have up until now at the end of this post to give you an idea of what's gonna feature in this fic!

concerning the actual writing of the fic, initially it was heavily inspired by the book If we were vilains by M.L Rio, if you've read that. though the inspiration kind of dies out after the first Act of this fic, so it doesn't resemble the book plotwise at all, merely in vibe. as such, I decided the write this fic in 5 Acts, each comprised of 12 scenes (the fic will be posted in Acts so each update will be very long, and there will be a total of 6 "chapters"; Acts 1-5 + an interlude for a rough total of 260k words).

Additionally over the months I made this post, this one, and more recently this one about this fic if they can give you a vague idea of what's gonna be going on.

And, here's the list of tags I have so far :

And here is the summary (which may change bc i literally just wrote it now for this post) :

When Harry arrives at the most prestigious theatrical school in the country under very suspicious circumstances he doesn't have many expectations. The most unexpected thing he encounters, however, is one Tom Riddle. Amidst peers of great talent, his worry for his Godfather, unconventional professors, and a vague sense of unworthiness, Harry falls in love with the only other person who deals with feelings as well as him. But maybe, just maybe, he and Tom will find out that not all love stories have to end in tragedy.

Okay!! sorry for going on so long, like I said I'm really quite bad at explaining the premise of this fic lol. I promise the fic is actually good, and with so much divergence from the canon works, there's quite a bit of world building and stuff.

thank you again for asking!! i hope my answer piqued your interest, and feel free to ask anymore questions I will be more than happy to answer! I'll come up with a posting schedule some time this week and post it but the whole fic will be going up in December!

[marzipanandminutiae]

Can I ask some random headcanons for our blorbo(lucille, obviously) for no reason?

Does she keep a diary? What's inside it? How many hours does she usually sleep a day? In modern AU, what's her favorite movie or theatrical piece? What are some significant objects in her room, other than what we already saw in the movie(like butterflies, books, wood carved animals)?

Sure!

I don't think she keeps a diary, but I can see her writing out her whole sad, sordid life story over and over, tearing it up each time, and scattering the pieces to the winds. A la the movie Byzantium. Because she can't tell anyone. She can't even tell Thomas everything; that wouldn't be Shielding Him from the worst of her pain and darkness (how well does she actually do that otherwise? shhhh). So she gives her story to the howling winter tempest instead.

On a good day, eight. On a bad day- and they are not infrequent -two if she's lucky. I don't think she slept at all the night Edith and Thomas were at the depot.

Modern-day favorite movie...not sure I've seen enough movies to say! I definitely don't think she's a horror fan, though the more lyrical side of the Gothic might appeal. She's seen enough horror in the real world, thank you very much. Something beautiful and sad- weirdly, I can see her enjoying Titanic or something similar. Thomas (and Edith, in OT3) is totally baffled by this. Meanwhile Lucille just doesn't understand why such a bittersweet tragedy about True Love has the reputation it does.

Significant objects in her room? You covered a lot of the bases, I think! I can see her having a very fantastical jewelry-box made by Thomas, though. Are there like four items in it? Maybe. But that's not the point. She deserves things like this, in his mind- beautiful, exceptional things to make her happy after so much darkness.

(the novelization version of her room, with definitely-not-in-the-movie preserved animal fetuses, and witchcraft paraphenalia from all over the world- the actress said she doesn't believe in ghosts; why would she have any interest in that? -can fuck off)