#pantomime au

[eyenaku]

*sliiiiiides in* good evening

ooooo you wanna ramble about your pantomime au so bad ooo

I DO I DO I REALLY DO- here's a Very Long Ramble!!

let us meet our cast:

columbine (or columbina, as they're referred to in plays and promotional material)

harlequin (harlequin sun) and pierrot (pierrot moon)

Now these bad boys are the star actors (?) puppets! in a world renowned theatre specializing in Harlequinades, Melodramas, and other Pantomime-character-centric theatre.

(More accurately they're Commedia'dell arte characters, but people only know what pantomime is so. I'm calling it pantomime AU I guess LMAO)

The parent company (not quite a troupe due to their nature) also puts on other plays in other locations (with different characters and "tropes"/genres- like ballets, operas, etc. perhaps diff. fnaf characters in all of these).

The theatre is built like an opera house. The music is played by mechanical instruments- mainly a massive orchestrion housed in the back of the stage.

Now these puppets are entirely not sentient, manned by strings and puppeteered by a very advanced mechanical system of rails and the like in the ceilings (think similar to Moon's line thing in security breach- they move freely about a space, just with more lines to control each limb like a typical marionette). They're tall! Taller than the average human, Columbine included- they are very much life sized.

The characters are utilized much like human actors. They're used for meet and greets! They sign autographs! They gain fanbases and followings!

Columbine is marketed as Columbina the stock character. Female, with heavy make-up and vaguely promiscuous. Columbina is the target of affections. How attractive is she, in the eyes of the audience. How seductive. A soubrette- coy and cocky and conceited and saucy and a great deal of other descriptions.

However, just as the stock character was often the only Functionally Intellectual character in these plays despite all the not very demure connotations, Columbine, too, is multifaceted. Or perhaps single faceted, yet presented in a way that clouds the audience's perspective. Columbine is a puppet. Columbine is not female. People treat them as though they're female. People do not treat them well, especially in contrast to the followings of Harlequin and Pierrot

Columbine is pissed off.

Feeling a very strong emotion for the first time grants these puppets sentience. Why you may ask? Does it really matter? Its fiction.

Columbine's trigger so to speak was the issue of being perceived as female (and being treated in gross ways, thanks to the nature of theatre) when that isn't you. You are a puppet. Why is this happening? It's not so much being pissed off as being unbelievably frustrated. Columbine is frustrated!

So, in a huff, they carefully remove all their strings and just. Leave. Leave the theatre behind.

On the way to the exit they have to pass through a hallway with massive posters of the three of them illuminated. They see themself there and grimace.

So Columbine is gone now. And the theatre's management is sort of freaking out, after all this is one of the main three characters- arguably *The* main character. But they just try to cover it up, albeit poorly. Columbina is just under maintenance! Do not worry, audience! Harlequin Sun and Pierrot Moon are still here! Plays are still ongoing! They substitute in very basic clearly thrown together quickly "Columbine" stand ins for plays that are just. kinda sad. Blank dummies in an almost mockery of their costuming.

Speaking of sad, something is brewing within Pierrot Moon! Columbine leaving is kind of destroying him. He's sad, like really sad. Like... depressed. This is so strong that Pierrot, you guessed it, becomes sentient. Columbine being replaced is the final straw.

Moon becomes the kind of sad that drains everyone around him. He is not the only one suffering. It's not an uncontrollable thing either, he's just decided to not even attempt to manage his emotions, and everyone else has to deal with it. Anyone who is kind to him suffers for it. Moon's behaviour is not just disturbing to everyone, but is actively ruining plays.

Guess who this pisses off? Guess who else is sentient now? Harlequin Sun! He loves the theatre- a stickler for the rules and so very passionate about his plays. About his skills as an actor. Sun is incredibly unbelievably pissed off- Columbine is gone and Moon isn't doing anything right, and this stand-in dummy is godawful, and everything Was perfect, and now it isn't. and how incompetent! And so on and so forth. Sun is unabashedly pissed off. He is violent. When a play ends, he just about dismantles the stand-in dummies (more like rips them apart with his bare hands). A pile of "corpses" builds up, Everything is awful.

Moon decides it's all too much. He's going to leave. Maybe he'll find Columbine. He's desperate. He makes it to the exit hall, rips off his strings roughly with no care, and then!

Sees the same poster of Columbina from before.

Moon is just. stuck there looking up at it. Transfixed, he falls to the floor sobbing. He can't move. Sun finds him and *physically drags him* back. Hooray more violence 👍🏼

More plays, more Sun scrapping dummies, rinse and repeat. It just. Sucks. Human staff are quitting, it's too much for them. Dealing with either of them is just so horrible. Stage hands come and go and come and go and never stay.

Sun gets a turn to have a breakdown at the poster too!

He's not happy about everything sucking. Obviously he's not the issue, he loves the theatre, it's the other two. Why did you have to leave? It's not just anger but grief- he really truly misses Columbine, though he shows much differently than Moon. It's all too much.

(re)enter the new stage hand: totally not Columbine

ahaha what a nice welcome back! Columbine came back because they missed the two only to come back to. whatever tf this is that's going on. Violence from Sun, Moon's whole deal, The matter of the poster and littered approximations of their past self mangled about the backstage area. Yk how it is

Now at this point both Columbine and Moon don't have their strings (though Moon has stray bits still half tied to him). But Sun? Sun has his. They're Extremely Frayed though. His aggressive tendencies serve to have him work against the strings, even though he doesn't want to intentionally. Perhaps a lash at Moon mid-play, or pantomimed motions played out too rough. He's a touch too aggressive to be any kind of restrained. They're very close to just snapping- quite a feat considering they were made to support giant marionettes!

Anyhow, Columbine is back! They expect any sort of welcome but.. neither Harlequin nor Pierrot recognize them (and their dumbass didn't fkn think to... y'know... tell them? oh hey it's me?). They sorta assumed the two would recognize their face, or perhaps their oddly tall stature, or the remaining recognizable details (face paint, hairstyle (even with hoodie) eyelashes, etc) but nope! They're both blinded by their own selfish bitterness and can't see Columbine literally in front of them.

So the two are horrible to them, of course, since. Y'know! New stagehand! Ripe for Sun to be so passive aggressive to that it might as well just be aggressive to, and for Moon to be difficult and taxing towards.

Columbine is abhorred by this since, y'know. They missed them. And they take this as a sort of more messed up version of the silent treatment- surely they know it's them and are just acting like this out of spite! Fine, two can play at that game. Columbine can pretend they're strangers too.

They pretend they don't think Sun demolishing the faux-columbinas isn't a direct threat towards them. They pretend it doesn't affect them. They pretend Moon acting horrid and a type of sad so selfish it makes them want to leave all over again doesn't hurt. They, again, think Moon sobbing over heartbreak and abandonment is him rubbing their actions in their face. That him comparing them bitterly to themself is the same thing. They just do their job backstage. The two directly antagonizing them all of the time is hardly tolerable, but tolerable nonetheless since they do still care!

So it's horrible. At least it can't get any worse- WRONG! It can!

Sun went through too many stand-ins. The theatre can't just...get more. These are carved. They may have been simpler, and worse that Columbine, but they're still massive. You can't just get more like that. Management is freaking out- the public is getting even more upset. Where is Columbina? They need Columbina! A play is about to be put on, and the crowd is chanting for her. They're getting upset. They're demanding. But what can they do? There's nobody to put in the role- no human tall enough, no mannequins unscathed.

And then Management notices something- or someone. Columbine. Columbine is weirdly tall. Columbine would fit in the costume.

Before they know it, they're back on stage- stringless. In the same costume, the very thing they tried to escape.

The crowd goes absolutely wild- there she is! There's Columbina! The *real* Columbina! Columbine is distraught, they look around the stage for any semblance of help- Sun and Moon may be mad at them but they trust them! They know them!

And they make eye-contact with Sun. He's absolutely seething. He looks ready to rip them limb from limb. Does he recognize them? Nope! But this Stranger, this impostor is taking their place. A simple stagehand is taking Columbine's role, their spotlight, their fame, their cheering, their fans- He looks at them, who are identical in all but expression, and can't see Columbine. He's completely blind in his rage.

The bells begin to toll. The music starts to play. A final dance.

Columbine is passed between the two- spun in dizzying circles by Pierrot before being seized in Harlequin's crushing grip, and so on, and so on, and so on, again and again and again.

But then they see something change in Moon's eyes- recognition. It's actually them. He has no time to celebrate, to talk, to convey the overwhelming feelings bubbling in his chest. The dance becomes more fervor-ed- a true battle between Harlequin and Pierrot, one for Columbine's literal hand, for their safety.

The audience is oblivious to the ramifications, to the plight. They're mesmerized by the passion, the emotions so thick they can be felt in the air. There's tension, there's drama- it's a masterpiece of story and vehemence spinning and pushing and pulling and twirling about the stage.

Columbine can't tell if the snapping noises are from Sun's strings or from where his hands grip them in a stranglehold and splinter their limbs.

It's a struggle as entrancing as it is violent. The audience watches with bated breath- what will happen next? The three weave and lunge and with each forceful effort, Sun's strings making awful creaking snaps. The very system he's so desperate to maintain is working to subdue him, the two have a chance!

But just as Columbine manages to weasel their way out of his grasp-

SNAP

Nobody can do anything but watch in horror as Sun's strings feather limply at his sides, frayed like a violin bow gone sour. There's nothing stopping him now.

He's deaf to Columbine's pleas, to Moon's, to anything but the pure rage rolling through him. He lunges towards Columbine in a frenzied attack- a sickening crack ringing through the opera house.

And the audience erupts in applause as he realizes what he's done.

[lenin-it-to-win-it]

rip spock you wouldve slayed the high school policy debate circuit like no other

[cantdanceflynn]

FOR ANYONE CURIOUS YES IM GOIN A LIL INSANE OVER THE POSSESION/DOPPLEGANGER/IDK WTF IS GOING ON BUT I LOVE ITTTTTTTTTTTTT STUFF GOIN ON W LIMITEDLIFE

[skeetlebeetle]

this was going to be a doodle..

(DONT MAKE ME TAP THE SIGN!!! if yr gonna use my art [don’t repost] u gotta credit me!!)

[enviedear]

you've picked some easter lillies !

— jason todd

! one shots ੈ♡˳

honey don't feed it, it will come back ━━━ in which working undercover alongside your ex-boyfriend feels like cruel and unusual punishment. like a feral hound—he keeps coming back into your life.

loving alone is what you make it ━━━ jason having (what he thinks is) an unrequited crush | requested

you should let me ride shotgun ━━━ in which jason todd shares in your dilemma of keeping this security arrangement professional. lines tend to blur so easily though. bodyguard!jason

you didn't see my valentine, i sent it via pantomime ━━━ could i request jason todd being jealous of dick and reader who is slightly older and he’s harboured a crush on since his robin days? AND jason todd/reader + jealousy | requested

the legend of gotham hollow ━━━ your small town is overrun with strange happenings. murders and deceit run rampant, so much so, that you're wary of trusting a single soul. superstitions have become as sacred as the holy book, delusions making up most of the townsfolk's minds. particularly that of the feared headless horseman. so when constable jason todd comes into town, impassioned to find an end to the madness, you vow to aid your mission. sleepy hollow!au

the ghost in your room ━━━ on hallows eve, jason todd undergoes his worst nightmare. death, or rather, the thin line between living and death. he's cursed to reanimate, walk the earth again—only as a malformed spirit, a mere shadow of life. a cruel fate, that he’s dead set on making enjoyable. for him, at least. ghost!jason

the beast of the unknown ━━━ there’s a known beast within the woods—the fearsome death of hope. he’s known to run amok every full moon, hunting for victims. searching for the last of their hope to steal away. how unfortunate for you to get lost in his woods tonight. eldritch!jason

baby it's cold outside ━━━ after a mission goes horribly wrong, you get snowed in at a safehouse (rickety old cabin) with jason. you're both blaming each other for the failed mission, but the discovery that there's no firewood or heating has the two of you begrudgingly sharing body heat and blankets.

christmas dreaming ━━━ when jason todd overhears your complaint about the town’s lackluster christmas trees, he takes it as a challenge. every day, he stops by your store with an update—always casual, always shrugging off your insistence that it’s unnecessary. but beneath the easy smiles and weather-worn jacket, jason is on a quiet mission. for weeks, he’s combed through forests and farms, chasing the impossible—your perfect tree. and while he won’t admit it, this isn’t just about holiday spirit. it’s purely about you—and the way your smile might make the coldest december day feel warm.

! hc's & thoughts ੈ♡˳

jason and never saying the right thing... | ...unless the helmet is on

jason owning a body shop / mechanic!jason

jason can't push you away

jason todd + scream

jason's views on domesticity (imo)

bodyguard!jason

jason + love letters | jason + post cards

jason and being shown off

jason todd is a man of action | nsfw 18+

jason is a yearner

jason mourning his youth

jason helping you control rent prices | nsfw 18+

jason's hair

jason steals your things

jason will always make your birthday special

jason loves to hear you talk

jason and getting the last word

college!jason thoughts

jason todd and control | nsfw 18+

farmer!jason | 👤ྀི 🎧ྀི 🧸ྀི 💋ྀིྀི

buying a home with jason

jason's big three and enneagram (imo)

babydaddy!jason

jason & drunk!reader

jason secretly loves when you’re equally as stubborn

jason convincing reader to get on his bike

fanart for this fic by @luffyadolover !!!!

[suzukiblu]

excerpt from a "Kara actually got to Earth on-schedule and now she's got a baby cousin to raise" AU:

Kara doesn’t understand the aliens’ language, which is fine. She didn’t expect to. She watches them interact and listens as they speak, familiarizing herself with the cadence and pitch and rhythm of their voices and doing her best to pick out individual sounds and patterns. She likes languages well enough. She did pretty well with Daxamite dialects in school last year, anyway. 

The aliens are kind, at least so far. They found her and Kal curled up in the remains of their smashed-up ships in their ruined field and brought them into their home despite the mess. Kara thinks they’re farmers, probably? So probably Laborer Guild, or whatever this planet has instead of Laborers. The House of El is mostly Thinkers, but Kara isn’t worried about that. She’ll figure something out, as soon as she figures out how to communicate with the aliens. Pantomime has not been all that helpful, at least not so far. 

They gave her a warm, unusually sweet drink that might have some kind of milk in it, with soft white pellets in it that are even sweeter. It’s not quite like anything she’s ever tasted before, but she likes it. Kal really liked it, though the aliens seemed to think he shouldn't have too much and gave her a little cup of just milk alone for him instead. Or she thinks it's milk, anyway. 

It's white. And very thick, and almost creamy? Though it tasted good too, when Kara stole a sip to make sure it wouldn’t upset Kal’s stomach if she gave it to him. 

"Pye," the alien that Kara is assuming is female announces in their weirdly simple-sounding language, putting a round plate with a slice of something on it on the table in front of her. Kal reaches for it from her lap with a burble. Kara peers at it too. The slice is triangular, with a crisp crust and an oozy red filling. She wonders why the plate is round, if the "pye" is meant to be sliced and served triangularly. It seems a little disrespectful to the cook–or baker? Or at least the artisan who made the plate, which was clearly painted with very dedicated care–painted by hand, even, not a pre-programmed design reproduced by a machine. That’s very luxurious for Laborers to be offering unexpected guests who just destroyed their field. 

Maybe they’re overcompensating, Kara thinks. Or maybe the aliens are really just that kind. 

Maybe. 

She thinks they’re little flowers, the designs around the edges of the plate. Or at least they look like they could be flowers. They’re flower-like, if nothing else, and all the weird colors of them might just be a stylistic choice. 

They’re pretty. 

She wishes she could show her mother. 

Kara crushes down the grief for the thousandth time and smiles at the aliens. They smile back. 

It helps, almost. 

Almost. 

The “pye” tastes very good.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 31

part 1 | part 30 | ao3

updating the rating to E. cw: recreational drug use/marijuana, foreplay, mild-to-moderate spit kink

“I feel like a water bottle,” Steve slurs. At some point he wiggled his way between Eddie’s legs to get a better look at his tattoos — starting at his ankles and working his way up, pointing at each piece and asking, "What's this? And what's that?"

Eddie explained each one in turn: the quotes, the lyrics, the silly art. "This one's the Elvish word for friend. That one's from an Iron Maiden song. Oh, the asterisk? It's supposed to be an asshole. No, I'm serious! That's how Vonnegut drew them in his books."

Now Steve’s lying flat on his back between Eddie’s splayed thighs, eyelids heavy, body warm. 'Go Your Own Way' plays softly on the stereo, and Eddie continues his tattoo tour, the fingers of his free hand weaving patterns through Steve's hair — lazy, twirling zig-zags that send skitters of sensation across his scalp and down his spine.

Steve feels like he could die right now. Happy. Held. Content.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

“This is fucking awesome,” he hums.

“Good,” Eddie grins at him, “I’m glad.” He scratches lightly at his scalp. “What were you, uh— what were you saying about a water bottle?”

Oh, right. Steve lifts a hand; pantomimes tilting a bottle back and forth. “Like, uh….. Sssloshy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie snorts. “You’re so high.”

“Mmmmhm.”

“And you look like you’re jerking off a ghost."

“I’ll jerk off your ghost,” Steve mutters petulantly.

"I’m sure my ghost would love that.”

Eddie reaches for the joint and takes another drag, and Steve tilts his neck, arching up to look at him. Bites his lip at the pretty picture Eddie makes: the sharp shadows and delicate lines, the shape of his full lips exhaling rings of smoke. Big for a guy's. He remembers thinking that a couple weeks ago. That they were big. That they looked soft.

And now he thinks: Kissable.

Steve licks his lips. “What about your, uh- not ghost?”

Eddie laughs like he’s watching a newborn puppy try to walk. “You want to touch my dick so bad.”

“S’probably a good dick,” Steve shrugs, unashamed.

He probably should be — ashamed. Guilty for the feelings stirring deep inside his chest; feelings weed brings to the surface, sends southbound, turns to need. He can imagine how the good, god-fearing Catholics who raised him would react if they could see him now, how they'd foam and froth and rage, red-faced and covered in spittle as they shouted that he's condemning himself to Hell.

But the thing is, he's already in Hell. He's been here since July.

And anyway, Hell's kinda nice. Gentle and warm, surprisingly kind. Hell smells like leather and tobacco, like weed and aftershave, and it sounds like Lindsey Buckingham, and it likes to braid Steve's hair.

Hell has endless, inky eyes and probably kisses him with tongue.

Heat spreads through him like molten honey at the thought, spilling hot over the edges, curling in his core, and Steve turns his head to the side and drags his mouth over a tattoo on Eddie’s inner thigh — a cartoon cloud over a curled-up snoozing fox. He noses at the edge of Eddie's shorts; pushes them up.

Goosebumps pebble under the warm press of his lips. "What's this one?" Steve whispers, nudging the fabric further up.

Eddie’s laugh is quiet and strained. "Something I don't want to discuss with your mouth this close to my dick. Stevie," he warns, but it's breathless, full of want. There's a wet spot on his shorts.

Steve pushes onto his belly, blows hot breath over the spot, liquid fire coursing through him at he stares at the bulge in Eddie’s shorts. Blistering heat, the sweetness dense, rich and thick on his tongue; in his veins. He mouths at the crease of Eddie's thigh. Eddie smells so good, like skin and sweat and boy, and Steve wants this. Wants it so badly he feels the ache inside his teeth. I dreamed the goddess poured ambrosia...

Steve feels it drip from head to toe.

"Steve." Eddie's voice is sharp this time, commanding and firm as he fists a hand in Steve's hair — not hurting him; not letting him move. Keeping him from putting his mouth just where he wants.

Steve makes a desperate sound and rocks his hips against the bed.

"Steve, stop," Eddie scolds. Pulls his hair a little harder, like he’s tugging on a leash.

"Eddie, please.” Steve’s eyes roll back, and he shifts his hips again. Just once; just a bit. Not nearly hard enough.

"No. Behave. Be good."

Steve freezes — tenses every muscle, holds himself so still, his face flushing with shame, because he didn’t mean to not be good. Didn’t mean to do anything bad. He blinks at Eddie with watery eyes and says he’s sorry, his voice cracking around the word.

"God," Eddie groans. His fist tightens in Steve’s hair, and his hips twitch off the bed, the curve of his cock brushing the tip of Steve's nose. Fuck. "Holy shit. Roll over."

"What?"

"On your back, like you were before." He’s panting when he says it, and Steve does as he's told; flips over onto his back, face bracketed by Eddie's thighs, the tent in his own shorts embarrassingly big. Obvious.

"Good,” Eddie exhales. “That’s- Jesus. Yeah, that’s good." He sinks back against the wall with a winded sigh.

And then he doesn't say anything else.

Doesn’t even move, just slouches down to catch his breath.

Steve kind of wants to cry; feels chastised and stupid, because of course Eddie doesn't want this. He already said he didn't, didn't he? Not tonight, anyway. And now Steve’s ruined things by being high and dumb and selfish, getting himself worked up over nothing and making it Eddie’s problem, and he'll probably spend the rest of this night miserable and blue-balled because he's a horny idiot, but that's—

It’s fine, if Eddie wants to cool things off; if he doesn't want to— he's allowed to not want—

"Here's what's about to happen.”

Steve snaps his head up to listen. Twists his neck around, sees Eddie lounging against the wall like a bored king on a throne, one ringed hand cupping himself loosely through his shorts. He squeezes once, takes another deep breath; lets it out long and controlled. Steve’s gonna fucking drool. "You’re gonna touch yourself for me.”

Steve moans. Guttural and loud, the sound punched out of his lungs, because Eddie’s voice comes out like gravel — husky, deep, the words authoritative and slow; like Steve needs to be punished; like Eddie’s merciful.

“You’re going to touch yourself exactly how I tell you to, and only how I tell you to. If I say stop, you stop. If I say faster, you speed up. If it's too much—" His hand moves to Steve’s cheek, slapping lightly against the bone. “—you tap out, or you tell me.”

Steve nods his head, entranced. Eddie’s thumb moves to his mouth. “And if you’re very, very good…” He tugs his bottom lip; presses in; lets him suck. “…then I’ll let you watch me come. How does that sound?”

Steve whines; hollows his cheeks, sucking harder, flicking his tongue. Eddie’s thighs clamp down around him, and when he pulls his hand away the spit clings to his thumb, a delicate string connecting them before it breaks. “Asked you a question, sweetheart.” He smears the spit over Steve’s chin. “Does that sound good?”

Steve nearly swallows his tongue.

—

part 32

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[meiieiri]

water’s edge | concept dump

₊˚.༄ pairing: crown prince!gojo satoru x f!reader | setting: modern royal au

₊˚.༄ summary: in a world where titles define their fates, gojo satoru, the crown prince of japan, and his wife-to-be, face a tempestuous court of deception and schadenfreude. as they waltz on the edge of ruin, can their love endure the treacherous waters that threaten to pull them apart, or will the whims of the enigmatic chrysanthemum throne prove strong enough to drown them both?

₊˚.༄ warnings: mean!gojo (but that’s not even the worst of it oh my god what monstrosity have i created), arranged marriage, illness, allusions to criminal activity that may include reckless homicide, physical battery and attempted murder. mentions of depression, cheating, physical and emotional abuse, trauma, adultery. fictional depiction of the japanese imperial family, etc.

LINK TO FULL FIC MASTERLIST HERE!

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who is the only son of the emperor and empress of Japan, the beloved and long-awaited child of his parents. As a child, he had been showered with endless praise and veneration as the one, true, legitimate heir to the chrysanthemum throne. The entire imperial household had expected the prince to inherit an unwavering sense of duty to the crown and to his people much like his fore-bearers, only to be severely disappointed when the prince turns out to be a pathological card shark with ambiguous morals, and a serial womanizer who has slept with countless women from aristocratic backgrounds during the height of his bachelor years.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who finally incurs his father’s wrath after a nasty bar brawl that leads to him getting unceremoniously arrested and is stripped of his title and properties as crown prince, favoring his half-brother, Prince Suguru Geto, who had been born of the emperor’s affair with one of the empress’s ladies-in-waiting. This incident has prompted his mother, the empress, to help in ratifying his public image by arranging Satoru to marry a commoner with an impeccable standing in Japanese society in a bid to re-portray Satoru as a responsible, married man. The empress, in turn, offers to grant you, Satoru’s future wife-to-be, anything your heart could ever desire.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who engages in a pantomime act of being a loving husband to you during a state banquet by showering you with endless praise in his speech addressed to all the world leaders in the Akasaka Palace’s reception hall. When he was asked to introduce you, his new wife, the honeyed words came so easily to him. “You see, the princess (Y/N) is no ordinary woman,” he chuckles into the microphone causing the guests to giggle at the sight of what looks to be a bashful newlywed.

“Other than being the first breath of fresh air our family has ever had the pleasure of knowing in so long, and the most active member in our family when it comes to supporting the many royal charities and foundations, she is…” he trails off. You dared to follow the wandering gaze of your husband, who seems to be searching for another pair of eyes in the room. His eyes eventually stop their search, softening at the sight of the one he loved. For a second, you think he is looking at you, and your heart naively skips a beat in your chest as if all these months of inattention and animosity were finally coming to an end.

“…My better half, the keeper of my own heart.”

Many of the ambassador’s wives who sat beside you nudged you in congratulations for being so blessed with such a devoted husband. You crane your head back to smile warmly at them for the kind words only to have ice coat your veins instantly when you see his Chief-of-Staff, Himiko Zenin, sitting about two seats behind you, staring directly at your husband with a wistful look in her eyes, exchanging words of love in a silent oath — one that is far more certain than the rising and the setting of the sun as each day passes with your husband hating you a tad bit more than yesterday, and one that is far more truthful than the wedding vows you shared.

Of course, writing this godforsaken death march-like speech was easy for Satoru, simply because these words of devotion and love were never intended for you anyway; this poetic spiel was written with another woman ensnaring his mind.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who sneaks out of bed during your wedding night, sparing one last cold glance at your sleeping form before he saunters out the imperial villa to meet his girlfriend in a nearby mountain resort, about half a mile away from the villa. His personal chauffeur had been sworn to secrecy, else, he would incur the wrath of the crown prince.

“I thought you couldn’t get away,” Himiko moans wantonly into his mouth as he roughly takes her from behind, the lewd wet sounds of their lovemaking echoing through the room. He had taken the liberty of secretly bringing Himiko along to your honeymoon, by booking the most expensive suite in the resort for her under another name.

“The bitch is too fucked out to even notice I’m gone— mmph—“ he throws his head back, releasing a pleasured groan when Himiko meets his sharp thrusts, grinding teasingly on his cock as she does so. He grips her hips tightly, readjusting his hips to pound into her from another angle, the muscles on his abs tightening as he gets lost in the feeling of her tight, luscious walls. “Sh-shit, ‘m-m gonna cum—“

“—Ah! S-Satoru,” she was close too, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as the fat tip of his member roughly prods at her cervix.

He half-expected Himiko to be angry with him for engaging in intimate acts with you, but she simply acts like she didn’t hear him. And even if she was upset, why should he, of all people, apologize? She should have known that becoming his mistress entailed having to endure these kinds of things as these were simply Satoru’s marital duties, and by extension, his duty to the crown.

His high washes over him like a tidal wave crashing into the rock shore, grunting as he involuntarily thrusts as he releases inside her, Himiko collapsing onto the pillows as he does. “O-oh, haaa- agh,” his deep tenor moans into her long black hair as his seed paints her walls, holding her close to his form, their heartbeats racing a million miles an hour.

He pulls out his flaccid cock, plopping down next to her, pulling her small frame for her head to rest on his chest. “I just need to have father reinstate me as heir apparent and return all my estates, then,” he kisses her once, his lips moving in sync with her soft ones.

“…We’ll get rid of her.”

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who blatantly and publicly humiliates you by bringing along Himiko Zenin to a state visit to the imperial family’s counterpart in Monaco rather than you, his rightful wife. And when asked of your whereabouts, Satoru simply replies with a casual shrug, his hand squeezing Himiko’s smaller ones as she usurps the banquet thrown in your honor by the Monacan royal family while you watch the horrific scene unfold on your television screen, your heart shattering into a million pieces as Himiko and Satoru uncaringly waltz with one another in front of the watchful eyes of the entire world throughout the evening.

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who crucifies you for your acts of sincere charity, believing you to be actively humiliating Himiko despite having no intentions whatsoever resembling his baseless accusation. “Did you honestly think your little publicity antics would go unpunished? I bet you were just itching for the attention, weren’t you?” he snarls at you the second you come back from a visit to one of the hospitals you had commissioned for the treatment of children with rare diseases, a compassionate act which had been heavily televised by national broadcasting stations and even international news agencies. “If you wish to compete with Himiko, wife, then, by all means. But I swear to you, I will do everything — everything I can — to make the entire world know just how much of an opportunistic whore you are—”

You gaze up at your husband with fear in your eyes. “…I was not competing with Himiko, can I not care for our people — your people? I’m sure they need someone to promote their interests when their own prince couldn’t be bothered to do so!” you retaliate but are quickly shot down when he throws his scotch glass at the wall, causing you to flinch when it shatters on impact.

“I will make sure this humiliation you dealt to Himiko will return to you tenfold, (Y/N),” he dangerously seethes, coming to the aid of his mistress. “Celebrate your victory all you want, wife, but make no mistake, this is far from over.”

₊˚.༄ Crown Prince!Gojo who indifferently scoffs when you crumble into a sobbing mess after yet another argument with him. “W-what can I do to make you not hate me so much? P-please tell me, Satoru.” The only response you receive is your husband dangerously moving closer to you, his eyes, dark with pure loathing. Instinctively, you step backward, only to be met by the cold wall of your shared bedroom. “S-Satoru—“

“—Here’s what you can do: do exactly as I say, without question,” he traps you between his arms, his breath hot on your skin, his lips dangerously close to yours, his voice dripping with the venom that could turn every silver thread in your heart into a hue that resembled charcoal black. “If I tell you to kiss me, you kiss me. If I tell you to get out, you get out. If I tell you to shut up, you sew your mouth shut or rip your tongue out, I really don’t give a damn. If I tell you to die…”

…

…

“…You drop dead.”

a/n: meh, just wrote this at the top of my head to get rid of this stupid writer’s block since hehe i have like eighteen drafts of jjk smut and drabbles in my tumblr folder rn help :’)

might turn this into a multi-chapter fic depending on how it is received. so lemme know your thoughts by reblogging, liking or commenting on this post!

[tracklessreason]

Back again with Hive Prime AU!

When Hive wakes up after falling into stasis, he is pissed. Everything hurts, he's tangled in support cables and the Primes won't. Stop. Talking.

Hive doesn't say a word. He summons Ratchet in and pantomimes like crazy until the medic understands that Hive wants him to send every bot they have in to see him, one at a time, and to bring him a dictionary.

The first bot goes in, and doesn't come out for breems. Every mech is concerned.

When she finally exits the medbay, she looks a frazzled mess, and reports that Hive had her recite the entire dictionary aloud several times, with different volumes and intonations. He did not explain why. No other Prime spoke.

This goes on for twelve cycles. Bots are shuddering and describing to one another how Hive just sat there glaring at them, servos interlaced, unmoving. When they finished reciting it one way, he would point to a list of emotions, and have them do it again in a different tone. No one is allowed to come in unless they are the one reading.

It's offputting. Some think Hive has finally lost it. Others are convinced he's screening for someone to pass on the Matrix to.

At the end of the twelfth cycle, Ratchet is called in again.

Its dark in the room, the only light being the soft pulsing glow of Hive's optics.

He's standing at Ratchet's desk, servos tapping on the table, lost in thought. He turns when he hears Ratchet come in, wings buzzing lazily. There's the distinct click of his recorder playing back, and in a vibrant, layered voice like the hum of a thousand insects, Hive speaks.

"Ratchet. Call everyone. I have something to say."

[generalluxun]

Half-Baked, An ML fanfiction.

So this comes out of my 'Chloe goes back in time' AU. set after she's stolen the black cat Miraculous, but before the repercussions of that have really gone full swing.

This AU came about mostly from asks, so the tag can be searched on my blog for getting up to date on our collective ramblings for it.

Super short Summary: Post S5 Chloe goes back in time into her Origins-timeframe body. She is angry at everyone and everything. She gets herself akumatized early on and steals the Cat Miraculous from Cat Noir(who wasn't taking things seriously, it's S1) Seeing it's Adrien she freaks, breaks akumatization and runs off before Ladybug arrives. Adrien is keeping who stole it a secret(though he tells LB he lost it) hoping he can get it back himself to make up for losing it.

Fic is under the cut because it is 4172 words. I'll also be posting it on AO3 tomorrow.

With the smell of fresh baked goodies taunting her nostrils, Marinette dodged between racks laden with hot trays and mixing bowls of fresh dough. She was already late for school, but seeing her parents frantically running around made her pause.

“Dad?”

Tom flashed her a big smile but immediately turned and fled into the back. Her mother turned from where she was scooping still-warm pastries off cooling trays and into boxes too soon. “Honey, your father and I are very busy today. A large catering order came in unexpectedly. It was extremely short notice, but you know your father.”

Marinette couldn’t help but puff up a little, “It’s the Egyptian opening at the Lourve, right?”

Sabine paused. “Why, yes honey. How did you-”

Marinette gushed, “I knew dad was bummed about missing out on it, so yesterday I took a few freshly baked pastries over to the museum before school. I managed to find a way back to the curator’s offices and wouldn’t leave until he tried one. You should have seen the look on his face! ‘Young lady I think that is the best confection I have ever tasted.’ It looks like it was worth being an hour late.”

Marinette froze mid-pantomime. Her story had run away with her again, perhaps to a few places her mother didn’t exactly need to know.

Whatever Sabine’s thoughts, she kept a gently serene face. “That’s… very clever dear. Only… perhaps you could ask before helping next time? This really is such short notice.”

Marinette winced. “Is it really? I could help! I can just call in sick, then I would be able to-”

Rushing back towards the kitchen, Marinette snagged her foot on one of the giant mixing bowls. She tripped and collapsed into it as it spun, coming to rest blinking up into her mother’s even more concerned looking face. Sabine reached down and helped Marinette extract herself, brushing some wayward flour dust off her backside.

“No, no, that’s quite alright, dear. Your father and I will handle it. It’s not as if sleep is necessary every night. On your way now. You don’t want to be late, again.”

That last word carried the only hint of maternal reprimand, but it was enough. Marinette let herself be ushered out the door. On the way to school she managed to convince herself everything would be okay. It would be fine. It wasn’t the end of the-

The Agreste Limo pulled up in front of the steps to the school, and ‘end of the world' took on new meaning. Adrien got out, but his walk up the steps had none of its usual spring. Even knowing the truth, it was hard for Marinette to overlap the image of him with Cat Noir. Hard, and maybe a moot point.

Marinette shook herself. No. Not a moot point. We will get the ring back. I will get it back. Anyone can make a mistake. She hop-stepped to catch up with Adrien and gave him her biggest smile, “Morning, Adrien!”

He might not know it, but he’d helped her become Ladybug. Now it was up to her to return the favor.

------------------------------------------------

Time was not on Marinette’s side though. Not even half the day had gone by when the school shook as if in an earthquake. Sirens sounded in the distance. Alya had her phone open to a news cast before anyone else even had theirs out.

“-eaking News. A giant man…monster…thing… has once again been sighted in downtown Paris. Police are on their way, but as we approach the presumed akuma I have to wonder, what can they hope to do? Will Ladybug and Cat Noir show up once again to save our fair city?”

Nadja’s voice rose clearly from the tiny screen. Marinette couldn’t make out the akuma clearly as the helicopter circled though. All at once the helicopter lurched.

Nadja turned to ask someone off screen, “What’s that smell?”

The camera jostled, the helicopter lurched again, and the image went dark.

Marinette jumped up, “We have to do something!”

“Do something?” Kim blurted out from the back before anyone else. “Ivan got turned into a giant monster and almost turned half the class into crepes! What are you gonna do? …No offense big guy.”

Marinette heard Ivan mumble something even as she watched Adrien’s shoulders slump in front of her. She had to think fast. “What am I gonna do? I’m gonna go to the bathroom! Can’t think on a full bladder, right? Haha. Ms. Bustier can I go please?”

Another rumble shook the entire classroom.

Nino scrambled to his feet, “It sounds like there won’t be a bathroom to go to pretty soon.”

Ms Bustier raised her voice clearly but gently, “Alright class, everyone out. We rendezvous at the park. Stay with your seatmates.”

Sorry Alya. Marinette bolted for the door.

It wasn’t until she set eyes on the akuma that Ladybug’s forebrain took control back from her reflexes. Fear grabbed ahold of her and queasiness dropped her on unsteady legs on the nearest rooftop. The akuma was huge, topping even stoneheart. It was visible head and shoulders above the rowhouses. The only saving grace was a strange familiarity. It was dressed like a baker, complete with toque on its head and giant wooden peel in its hands.

The combination of silliness and fear forced a nervous giggle from her lips. The giggle reminded her that she was alone this time, her partner couldn’t help her. That sealed her lips once more with fear. It’s all up to me, alone.

Doomsday scenarios pressed into her thoughts even as the akuma strode on in the distance. What’s its power? Why is it here? What is the item? Where is it go-

Ladybug’s brain did the math and drew the line from the akuma right through the school towards… Our bakery!

She was in motion instantly, vaulting two streets closer. She was crouched for another leap when her senses shoved another fact through her emotions. Screams.

Screams weren’t surprising, but the tone was wrong. The akuma swung its peel and something scattered below it. If only for a cat’s sight. Screams of fear turned to joy then fell silent.

Ladybug balked again. She had to think. Emotion wanted her to act, but she couldn’t afford to be wrong. How close could she get? The akuma moved on and she followed from a distance, trying to pick up any clues she could. How close is too close? The akuma plowed through a building in its way. More screams of fear, a swing of its peel and fear turned to joy then silence again.

She needed to get closer. But-

Ladybug was stuck.

----------------------------------------------------------

“Go away!” Chloé stalked across the square, away from the class.

Sabrina trotted after her. “But, Chloé… we’re seatmates! We’re supposed to stick together.”

Chloé spun around and screamed, “Stick together? Is that what you call it? You sure didn’t stick with me when I needed it! Save me the trouble and go play with your new friends right now. Go!”

She jabbed a finger over Sabrina’s shoulder, but didn’t wait to see the results of her outburst. Her stomach felt hollow and sick. Her fingers tingled and her eyes itched. She wanted to scream until she ran out of air, but that hadn’t done any good before.  So instead she was getting away from the others as fast as she could. Chloé jogged across the street from the park and was around a corner in seconds. Sabrina didn’t call after her again.

For some stupid reason that made the sickness in her stomach worse.

Chloé stalked blindly, immune to the cracking of masonry and the heavy tread that threatened to knock her off her feet. Out of her tunnel vision a single figure resolved in the distance. Red, spotted, standing still on a rooftop. Ladybug.

She was just…standing there. The crunch of another building rang out but the hero didn’t move. “DO SOMETHING!” Chloé howled at her, unheard.

She hated Ladybug. Ladybug was lame. Ladybug was a loser. Ladybug was a failure. Ladybug was a traitor. Ladybug… was a hero. Ladybug was supposed to be saving the day. The thoughts rattled around and fought until Chloé squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into her hair in frustration.

With a sudden clarity Chloé’s eyes snapped open again. She whipped a hand around in front of her. “You! Come out now!”

The black cat kwami sparked into existence, anger evident on his tiny features.

“Tell me how to transform!” she demanded.

He crossed his arms smugly and replied, “hmmm Mm mffm Hmm.”

Chloé growled, “Talk! You can talk! Tell me!”

The Kwami gasped but still grinned, “That’s the one thing you can’t order me to do, Miraculous or no.”

“Rrraaaaaggh!” Chloé pointed at the distant Ladybug, “She’s not doing anything. Tell me the password or we’re doomed!”

Plagg crossed his little arms, “Give me back to my rightful holder, and she’ll have a partner again.”

Chloé stomped her foot, “No! I can do this! I know what to do better than any of them do right now! I’m the hero!”

Pagg seemed unimpressed. He rolled his eyes,”You? Nobody would make you a hero. What would you even do with a miraculous?”

Chloé's world narrowed again,to a haze of red with a floating black blob in the center. She advanced on him, “I’ll cataclysm the stupid  akuma. I’ll cataclysm stupid Hawkmoth. I’ll cataclysm everyone and everything that gets in my way. No one will take you away and nothing will stop me this time.”

She was seething. Memories of disappointment, failure, and humiliation broke down into the core emotions and blended into a hateful spiral. She waited for the next barb to come, but instead Plagg’s green eyes turned towards her with a spark of devilish curiosity in them.

“Really?” he drew the word out, “That just might be interesting to see.” One fingerless hand thrust at her face. “Don’t think I’m out of tricks though. You just watch yourself.  It’s ‘Plagg, Claws out.’”

Emotion spoke before thought could form, “Plagg, Claws out!”

----------------------------------------------------------

The akuma waded through the remains of the school and Ladybug knew she had to act. The bakery was at hand, and though she couldn’t see from back here, she could just imagine her father standing out front with a rolling pin. She still didn’t have a plan. She hadn’t risked getting close enough to get a good look. It had seemed prudent, but a nagging voice whispered she might just be too scared on her own. Had Cat No- Adrien been brave enough for both of them?

She tensed for a leap, but a sound like a thunderbolt stopped her. A black blur streaked at the akuma. It struck clean, staggering the giant, and clung before scuttling across the akuma’s bulk.

Ladybug was airborne before she had time to doubt. The blur had resolved into a person, a cat person. Her foolish heart leapt for a moment at the impossible idea her partner might have returned. No- it wasn't him. This person darted and leapt from point to point, tearing at the akuma. Buttons, hat, pockets were all ripped and torn. The akuma reeled and swatted at the attacker. One meaty hand connected and sent the black-clad fighter into the pavement in an impressive crater. Ladybug didn’t even have time to gasp before the fighter leapt from the cracked road and was back in the fight.

Ladybug landed, still one block away. In part she was still gathering information, in part she wasn’t sure how to engage with that black buzzsaw in motion. She had time now, her partn-

The other fighter was buying her time.

Ladybug was still trying to understand the ferocity of the assault. The -Ladybug mentally decided on cat hero just to organize her thoughts- was fended off time and again, taking blows that had to hurt. They were -she was- was relentless though, rebounding from being knocked clean through nearby buildings.The akuma’s apron fluttered to the ground like a torn parachute.

It clicked, akumatized object!, just as the akuma found space to swing its bakery peel. This time Ladybug could discern pastries showering down from the end of it. The cat hero was crouched for another leap but instead raised her head and sniffed the air. She reoriented herself and pounced… the confections.

Ladybug had her info. She raised her yo-yo, “Lucky Charm!”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The smell was irresistible. Chloé dove at the showering pastries, and she wasn’t the only one. Civilians swarmed out from everywhere, her classmates among them. Each and every one scrambled for the treats. There was no stopping it. Chloé bit down on a tart even as she scooped up half a dozen croissants. That she was aware of the compulsion made it worse. She growled around oozing jam and ground her teeth on buttery crust.

The too familiar feeling of helplessness was poison in her veins. Control, she needed to have some kind of control. She couldn’t stop so she pushed in the other direction. She crammed her mouth full until her jaw ached and she could barely breathe. It worked! She had a muffin in each hand but she could move freely again.

She launched herself at the akuma again.

A patch, no. A giant thermometer, no. She broke and broke. The muffins were goo, smashed against her palms. She couldn’t breathe but she wouldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t. Did. She bent double while crouching for another jump. Trying to inhale had dragged a chunk of her food-muzzle into her throat. She choked, coughed, heaved, choked again, and gasped for air. Her stomach twisted around the magical treats she’d already swallowed and dropped her to her knees.

Ziiiiip *thwip*

She was wrapped in a too-familiar away, airborne, grabbed, thumped on the back. She was spun again, free, something was shoved up her nose. Her overstimulated senses finally managed to focus. Her vision focused. Ladybug stood before her, with a tissue box in hand and polkadot tissues up each nostril.

Chloé hissed, “What do you think you're doing?”

“Saving you!” Ladybug grabbed her arm, “What do you think you are doing?”

Chloé pulled free and snarled, “He’s got an akumatized item on him somewhere, I’ll find it.”

Ladybug reached for her, “Do you have any idea what it is?”

Chloé recoiled and scanned. The akuma had turned away from them. It looked over the Dupain-Cheng bakery of all things. A petty part of her wanted to let it smash the place. That part of her became one more thing to be angry at.

She bared her teeth over her shoulder. “No, but I’m not the kind of hero who stands around doing nothing.”

She vaulted away with a protest lost in her wake. She landed and jumped again, elation mixing with rage. Her claws scored the doughy skin on the back of the akuma’s neck, checking the downward bakery-dooming swing of his peel. He swung it at her instead, showering her with sugary bait that no longer had any power over her. Her mouth was open, panting as a part of her breathing. What next? She picked a target and broke it. Then another, and another.

“The peel! Destroy the peel!” Ladybug’s voice rang in her ears.

Ladybug was a loser and probably wrong, but that wooden peel sure was big and this sure would be fun… “Cataclysm!”

She met the akuma’s swing with an outstretched hand. A grove’s worth of wood turned to powder at her touch. The butterfly flew free.

*Thwip* -snap- Ladybug caught and purified it. The akuma shrank to a befuddled looking baker. Chloé stood victorious in the center of a wasteland of violence and destruction.

Elation beat out anger, for just a moment. She threw her head back, spread her arms and, “Raaaaaaaaaaaaaggggghhhhhh!”

-------------------------------------------

The primal scream from right beside her made Ladybug cringe and fumble the lucky charm she had been about to toss into the air. Once she recovered herself the fact that the crisis had passed gave her a moment to actually evaluate her erstwhile companion. Evaluate, and remember that she was not a partner, she was a thief.

A ragged looking thief. Her blonde hair -did the cat miraculous make the user blonde?- was a voluminous mane down her back, bedecked with black metal hooks and barbs throughout. She turned post scream to give Ladybug a maniacal grin, revealing her needle-like fangs in place of incisors. Her heterochromatic eyes, one blue and one green, were feline as Cat Noir's had been, and her pupils were currently giant black moons swimming in color. 

“What are you looking at, Ladybum?” The thief drawled, raising the hand still dusted with cataclysm remains and flexing her fingers slowly.

Her gloved fingers ended in wicked looking black ‘claws’. She wore black leather, that much remained consistent too, but her V-neck collar was torn, not tailored.  Lastly, in place of Chat’s amusing belt-tail she had a razor thin wire wrapped around her waist with a heavy cat's paw pendant hanging from the end.

Ladybug narrowed her eyes, “You stole Cat Noir’s miraculous.”

The thief turned her hand, revealing the paw print ring with three toes left. “Finders keepers.”

Ladybug swapped hands and spun her yo-yo up, “Give it back.”

“No!” The thief lunged, catching Ladybug’s yo-yo mid-spin.

Ladybug countered, wrapping her line around the other girl’s arm ensnaring her. The thief’s other hand went for Ladybug’s neck. Ladybug blocked the lunge with the remaining length of her string, but the other girl’s palm pressed within scant centimeters. They were locked taut. Whoever gave ground would lose.

Those wild eyes were narrowed to slits. No akuma had ever scared Ladybug this badly. The anger melted from those features but the fingers still stretched for Ladybug’s throat. Ladybug felt a prick against her skin. “It has to be a pun, doesn’t it? Of course it does. Call me… Purrge. I’m going to turn Hawkmoth to dust, and anyone in my way.”

Ladybug strained. Her own anger fueled a push that took Purrge’s claws from her skin. “You’re crazy! I’m taking that ring back. You don’t deser-”

*Chirp* *chirp*

The overlapping sounds cut across the tension. Purrge’s eyes darted to Ladybug’s earrings. Ladybug’s were drawn to Purrge’s ring. Her mind raced. Has it been three or four?

Purrge’s lips curled into a sharp fanged grin, “You used yours first. You think you can take me down in time?”

Ladybug wanted to, oh she ached to, but there was more riding on this than personal satisfaction, but how to- A very slight easing of the pressure against her line; was it a ceasefire? Ladybug took a chance.

She pulled back, letting the line go slack. No claws cut off her breath. She didn’t wait. She scooped up the lucky charm and turned, “This isn’t over!  Miraculous Ladybugs!”

Ladybug tossed the charm even as she began her swing. Triumphant cackling bubbled up behind her. She didn’t look back. Paris rebuilt itself as Ladybug swung further away, seeking out a quiet spot and settling for behind a dumpster.

Marinette burst from the shadow of the dumpster at a run. If she got back quick enough maybe she could catch a glimpse. Maybe there would be a clue. Maybe she could get her partner back.

There wasn’t, and she couldn’t. Not yet at least. All that awaited her was the rest of the class. Alya almost knocked her over, grousing and shaking her by the shoulders while delivering a friendly but stern dressing down. At least she wasn’t the only one gone. Chloé had unsurprisingly run off and still wasn’t back. It took some of the heat off at least.

A few of the class, plus her parents, were gathered around a baker who sat head in hands on the curb. Marinette recognized him immediately, from even before the akuma. She scooted into the semi-circle.

“Mssr. Levure?”

He looked up in confusion.

Marinette gave him a guilty smile, “I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

She saw surprise, anger, then guilt pass over his features.

She continued, “I’m sorry. I think I’m at least partly responsible for all this. I convinced the curator to switch bakeries. I just wanted to help my family… but I didn’t stop to think about how doing it this way would impact them, or you. I know my dad and he’ll run himself into the ground to do all this work. Not only that but our bakery will probably be closed so he can do it. All our other customers will suffer.”

Marinette looked at her parents, who watched her with proud curiosity. She looked back to Mssr. Levure.

“Maybe… both bakeries can share the catering? I’ll make signs. We can promote both and have an even better, more varied selection for our guests. Would that be okay?”

Marinette held her breath. Mssr. Levure, her dad, and her mom held one of those ‘glance and head tilt’ conversations adults so often did. Then he stood and brushed his hands off before holding one out to Tom. “A temporary partnership?”

Tom shook hands, smiling. “Done.”

A small cheer erupted from the half dozen onlookers, and Marinette had the satisfaction of righting at least one wrong today. Still, there was one other… She looked around and spotted Adrien sitting by himself.

“What a day huh?” She announced her presence.

She might be right next to him, but he was still sitting far apart. “Did you see? Ladybug’s got a new partner.”

“Partner?! Oh no no, that’s not what it looked like to me at all. More like a new enemy, or a stray cat, or an enemy cat, or a stray enemy. There’s no way Ladybug would just replace her partner.”

Adrien turned to face her for the first time. The hope on his face was heartbreaking. “You really think so?”

Marinette fidgeted. Instinct said he needed a hug, but, but… he was… and she was…  Nervous laughter bubbled up without warning, “Ha! Sure sure No way! Oh look! It’s Alya! No one knows Ladybug like her. She runs the Ladyblog! Why don’t we go ask her together? I’m sure she’ll know! Come on!”

She waved her arms frantically to signal Alya, kicking herself internally the entire time.

---------------------------------------------------

On a rooftop balcony nearby Purrge landed hard. What should have been a hero landing turned into a stumble, a stagger, and a few lurching steps. A flash of green enveloped her, then Chloé collapsed face first onto the pavement.

Plagg zipped in a wide loop through the air, “What a debut! I think you broke three whole blocks before Ladybug put it all back together. Crack! Boom! That was fun, and you still beat the akuma, so Master Fu can’t yell at me!”

Chloé’s persistently prone repose caught his attention.

“Kid? Kid?”

He floated over, sitting atop her head, no response.  He turned an ear down against her skull, then floated to her back to do the same.

“Tsk, You gotta let the timer run out when it wants to, kid. You’re still pretty small.”

This got a response. The fingers of one of Chloé’s hands curled into a white knuckled fist for the space of a breath before uncurling again.

Plagg hmphed.

A CCTV camera, set up for security footage but never watched, recorded something odd that day.  The blanket from Chloe’s bed lifted itself by a single point and dragged itself out to the balcony(after one of the balcony doors mysteriously rotted off its hinges) The blanket was spread haphazardly over the recumbent heiress.

A little later the trashcan in the suite tipped itself over, and trash began emptying itself onto the floor.

------------------------------------------------

“Master Please! Calm, Master! Here, your beads.” Wayzz hovered nervously with the prayer bracelet in his hands.

“Calm? Calm!” Master Fu paced between the gramophone that hid the miracle box and the small TV in his room. He would stare at the TV, then go reach for the gramophone, then pace back to the TV.

When he turned to Wayzz his face looked pained and afraid, not angry. He pointed at the TV, “How can I be calm when… that?!”

Frozen on the TV was a still frame of Ladybug and a Black Cat wielder who was obviously not Cat Noir, locked in a struggle.

“The Cat Miraculous is out there in an unknown holder’s hands. It could be in danger. The Ladybug could be in danger. If Hawkmoth were to get his hands on the Ladybug…”

He went back to the gramophone again and laid his hands atop it,

“We must get it back. We must be careful, but we cannot delay. Ladybug will need help in the meantime, someone she can rely on, a power that can aid her when there are so many variables in play.”

“Master, do you mean…?”

Fu keyed in the secret combination to open the antique player, and reached for the Miracle Box hidden within. “Yes Wayzz, him.”

[eyenaku]

anotha palette challenge w @cero-sleep!! this one of my pantomime au y/n (👁👁 columbina) cero be pickin the cool palettes hsjkjshdahjds i dont rlly like this one as much as yesterday's,, there's no dark colour in this pallette so I couldn't get any good contrast

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 57

Part 1 Part 56

The dark, it turns out, is better than sunset. Sunset turns the sky pinks and purples and reds. Will can’t be sure where he is. At least in the dark, all he has to worry about is a Demogorgon taking him.

Still, every shadow is a threat that Will’s running from soon enough. And once he starts running, there’s no way to stop. Will’s panting and breathless in the 2 a.m. darkness by the time he’s crawling through Eddie and Steve’s bedroom window.

It sticks briefly when he opens it, making an ungodly screch but then he’s up and through, and falling on and then over Eddie’s dresser with a loud clatter.

“What the fuck, Byers?” Eddie says, bolting out of bed to click his lamp on.

Will looks around the carnage that surrounds him – Eddie’s knick-knacks and books all over the floor and looks up at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“You should be!” Eddie replies, arms pantomiming a punch in Will’s direction. “I could’ve killed you!”

Steve, still laying down on the far side of their bed, snorts. “Like you’ve ever fought anyone in your life.” His voice crackles with interrupted sleep. He doesn't roll over, just keeps his face smushed into his pillow.

Eddie squawks. “You got something to say, Harrington?” he demands, finally standing up and putting his hands on his hips to loom over Steve where he’s still lying prone in the bed. Not that Steve notices, seeing as his eyes are still closed.

“Weak ass bitch.”

As Eddie gasps in affront, Will feels the sickly panic he’d felt upon waking slowly start to fizzle out.

Eddie kneels down beside Will to pick up his belongings, grumbling about his strengths, and how Will’s lucky he could feel him coming, and thank fuck Wayne’s not home. He doesn’t mention the spilled objects, doesn’t try to kick Will out. Will helps him pick up his belongings and hopes he can stay.

“What’re you doing here, baby Byers?” Eddie asks, flopping back onto the bed.

Will follows, burrowing into Steve’s side until he groans and slides over just enough that Will can fit. He turns his head on the pillow, opening one bleary eye to squint at Will.

“Can I stay here?” he asks, not looking away from Steve, living and breathing beside him.

Steve blinks a few times rapidly, clearly trying to wake up, before shifting his gaze past Will to look at Eddie. “Does your Mom know you’re here?” he asks.

Will turns onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He bites his lip, doesn’t respond at all. Not that they seem to need it with the way he can feel them having a silent conversation above his head.

“She’s gonna freak out,” Eddie says gently.

Will slumps further into Eddie’s sheets. He can already feel the nip of the cold night’s air when they kick him out. Only, he doesn’t want to go. “She doesn’t get up until six.” He says it like a prayer. If he leaves this bed right now, Will thinks he might just explode.

Eddie blows out a breath. Will can’t tell without looking if he’s exasperated, or resigned, or just done entirely. He doesn’t look. Not until he feels Eddie slump into the bed next to him, bracketing Will between his and Steve’s warm, protective bodies. “What happened?”

He turns his head, not toward Eddie but to look at Steve, who’s looking back, breathing and alive. “I had a nightmare,” he says. The word doesn’t seem loaded enough for the way his breathing had ticked wrong through his lungs.

Steve turns his head, finally uncovering both eyes. There’s pillow marks on his cheek. He looks sleep-rumpled and soft. “About me?” he asks.

Eddie sucks in a quiet breath behind Will. Neither of them look his way. Will nods, chokes out, “you were back there,” through his dangerously clogged throat.

Steve’s eyes soften further, and he smiles sadly. “It’s alright, Will,” Steve says, ruffling his hair the way he always does. “They got me out, remember?”

Will nods. He doesn’t correct Steve; doesn’t mention that he woke up thinking of Steve’s quiet voice – it’s like, sometimes I blink, and it’s like I’m there – or how when he woke up, he was sure Steve’d been taken again, until he crawled in through the window and spotted two snoring lumps.

“Yeah, they got you out,” Will says, trying to convince himself that out means back.

They hold eye contact for a while, until Steve's eyes begin to droop. None of them have been sleeping well lately. Guilt curdles in Will’s stomach that he’d interrupted both of their sleep. But, he might’ve died if he’d stayed at home; just shriveled up like a raisin in his own worry.

“How about you stay for a little bit, and we drive you back before your Mom wakes up?” Eddie asks.

Will finally turns away from Steve. Eddie looks sad, and worn, and worried. Still, Will takes what’s on offer with both, greedy hands. “You won’t tell her?” he asks.

Eddie shakes his head, glaring over Will’s head when Steve makes a protesting noise. Steve sighs. “Fine, fine, we won’t tell her,” Steve mumbles. “She’d flip out anyway.”

Will settles into the warmth, lets it soak through his bones, and closes his eyes. He tries to fall back asleep, but the darkness behind his eyelids is where the monster’s live. He opens his eyes.

“What are you guys doing for Halloween?” he asks. The guilt surges again when Steve snuffles like he’d almost been asleep, but Eddie answers readily.

“Fuck all, I imagine.”

“Language,” Steve murmurs around his pillow, cutting the G and making it sound more like lan-wah. Will snorts.

“What about you?” Eddie asks, ignoring Steve entirely.

Almost vibrating with excitement, Will replies, “we’re going as the ghostbusters!”

“Haven’t seen that one,” Steve mumbles, making Will gasp, outraged, even as Eddie chimes in, “me neither.”

“You’re both dead to me,” he says on instinct. Then the memories of all the times he thought Steve really was dead trickle through his mind, and his intestines prickle. But then Steve and Eddie laugh quietly – alive alive alive. “Anyway, we’re going to dress up for school and I get to be Egon!”

“Gesundheit,” Eddie replies.

“Wait, you’re wearing them to school?” Steve asks, sitting up like this news is enough to invigorate him. “Bad idea, Byers.”

Will glares at him, brow furrowed. “Uh, why?” he asks, in that same tone that gets Jonathan to call him a brat.

Steve just rolls his eyes, and ruffles his hair again, this time much more violently. “No one dresses up in eighth grade, dummy. You’re gonna get like, beat up.”

Eddie reaches over Will to smack Steve on the head. “That’s terrible advice!” he says, shoving Steve back into the pillows and looming over Will with intense eyes. “You gotta embrace the whimsy of childhood while you still can, baby Byers.”

Steve scoffs. “Yeah, if he wants to get picked on.”

“That’s going to happen anyway,” Will says without thinking. When both boys’ eyes narrow, he continues hurriedly, “so I might as well have some fun with my friends!”

Steve grumbles his unintelligible complaints while he settles back into his pillow. Eddie wraps his arm around Will and shakes him around. “That’s my boy!” He says it like a proud parent. Will preens, ignoring the way his cheeks are warming at the praise.

Eddie yanks him down so they’re all three horizontal, cramped together in his small bed. “Now, sleep!” he demands.

Will dutifully closes his eyes, but even as the breathing of his two companions evens out, Will doesn’t fall asleep. He doesn’t mind, just revels in the warmth of being where he truly belongs.

Part 58

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect

[glassofapplejuicee]

quick prom modern au bc these fellas have rotted my brain

“Robin you’ve got this all wrong!” Steve whined, pacing around his room.

“If I’m so wrong then why are you all worked up about this huh?”

Damn that was a good point, why was he so worked up about this? It wasn’t like he actually liked Billy or anything like that. It was just a funny bit that Robin liked to play, the classic ‘Steve and Billy are super gay and in love with each other’.

Which was utterly ridiculous, yeah sure they were gay but that didn’t automatically mean they were destined to be with each other. 

Steve scoffed, in lue of a real answer. 

“I dunno.”

“Always Mr. Helpful.” Robin sighed, turning back to her phone. 

“Didja do the Wordle today? I’m on my third try and I have like one letter.”

Steve thanked whatever god was out there that Robin had the attention span of a gnat, really helped out when there was a topic he didn’t want to discuss. 

****

The lunch room always had a distinct smell of mold to it, which irked Nancy to no end, so the group often found themselves eating in the library. Nancy sucked up to the librarian enough that she didn’t even bat an eye when the usual four to five teenagers would follow Nancy around like lost ducklings.

“So, you guys have a date to the prom yet?” Jonathan asked awkwardly as they settled into the soft chairs in the back corner of the library. 

Everyone knew he wanted to take Nancy, and that this was his not so sly attempt at figuring out if she had a date yet or not.

“Hell no, you think I’m going to prom? I’m like, way too old for that shit.” Eddie chuckled. 

“But you’re our favorite super senior!” 

“Swear to God Hargrove-” 

Billy just cackled to himself while Robin interrupted him.

“Ok well I DO have a date to prom, so suck it losers.” 

“Oh yeah right Buckley.” 

“Nah I’m serious, I have hoes out the wazoo.” 

Steve let his head fall and hit the table, letting out an over exaggerated groan at Robin’s latest and greatest sentence. 

“Ok laugh it up but I am taking the drop dead gorgeous Heather Holloway and you’re taking…” she trailed off, pretending to think, “Oh that’s right, nobody!” 

Steve lifted his head and scowled. 

“It’s ok pretty boy, I’ll take you if no other upstanding citizen volunteers.” 

Steve consciously ignored the blush that rose up the back of his neck and grumbled out a response. 

“My hero.” 

“Hey you could put that shit on college apps! ‘Takes bitchless losers on dates’, I can see the headlines now.” Eddie quipped, dramatically pantomiming to the group.

****

“Yo Steve-o!” Billy called, jogging up to Steve’s car.

“What, need the chemistry homework again?” he smirked. 

“Dude, that was one time, and no.” he huffed, leaning up against the passenger door, looking over the roof at Steve.

“I came to ask you something actually.” he continued. 

“You know that, uh, joke? Like the bit that Robin always does?”

Steve narrowed his eyes. 

“Like you know that one, well anyways, I just. That’s all to say, or I guess ask, I’m here to ask something-” he trailed off again. “Dude just spit it out.”

“Do you want to go to prom with me?” 

“I mean yeah sure, I assumed we would go in a group together anyways.” 

“No no no, goddammit Steve, I meant like together. With me. With me as your date. With matching boutonnieres and dumb pictures and all that horseshit.” he waved his hand flippantly at Steve. 

“Holy shit really?” 

“Yeah really.” Billy answered wearily, he would never get used to the painfully slow processing speed of Steve Harrington. 

“Huh. I did not expect this. How long have you…” he trailed off. 

“Too fucking long Steve. Now answer the fucking question will you?” 

The corners of his mouth perked up without his permission, “Yeah, I’ll go with you. Matching boutonnieres and all.” 

“Oh thank fucking God, I was so worried you were gunna say no and then I’d have to kill all the witnesses.” 

Steve snorted a laugh. 

“Ok, I got practice so I gotta run, but I had to ask that before I lost my mind. See you later.” 

Steve watched as Billy jogged off back towards the school, he couldn’t stop the dopey grin from showing. He grabbed his phone from his back pocket and shot a quick text to Robin.

ok mybe u were right… on a totally unrelated note, what color should billy and I’s ties be?? 

[tiger-shrike]

Pantomime

The devil in my ear: You should have more WIPs Anyway here's a Rook x Emmrich arranged marriage AU. ------

Amara Savani ('Rook', to her sister) is the disgraced eldest daughter of a Tevinter magister who has spent the past fifteen years in the Necropolis after an incident in Minrathous made her a political liability. She's carved out a life in exile - throwing herself into her research, she's come to enjoy her time in Nevarra, even with the ever-present shadow of her family never far from her mind. When her younger half-sister Ursa finds a love match in the youngest son of a prominent Altus family, Amara's unmarried status is the only remaining barrier to their engagement in the eyes of the prospective groom's traditionalist family. Unwilling to submit to a life with the political candidates her father has procured, she strikes a deal with Emmrich - come to Tevinter to marry her, and receive her dowry as funding for his research.

Unable to see his friend trapped in a loveless marriage, he agrees - and the two of them embark on a journey to Tevinter, determined to keep up the ruse long enough to make it back to Nevarra... but Minrathous has other ideas.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62247403

[adarkrainbow]

Cinderella on the 19th century French stage

As I said to @princesssarisa previously, there was one article I wanted to share here but forgot to post about... It is from the fourth issue of the "Féeries" publication, the same one which contained the article from which I made this post about 18th century stage adaptations of Beauty and the Beast. The original article is called "Cendrillon mise en pièces ou la seconde immortalité de Perrault au XIXe siècle": written by Noémie Courtès it is about various 19th century adaptations of Perrault's Cinderella.

Here is my info-mining for those unable to speak French:

The article opens with a commentary on the stage genre of the "féerie" per se. It compares the history of the féerie, from the Romantic era to the eve of First World War (where the féerie was replaced by cinema) to the literary continuation of fairytales, starting with the first fairytale anthologies (madame d'Aulnoy, Perrault), ending with the "fairy perversions" of the fin-de-siècle, and passing by the "simplifications for youth" and the "foreign additions" of Grimm and Andersen.

The "féerie" genre was born after the French Revolution, out of authors who didn't want to either do the "théâtre révolutionnaire" (about actualities and current-day politics) or the "drame romantique" (about History) ; searching for magic and wonders, but not those of classical myths as they seek a simpler story and easier-to-create special effects. It was not just something theater-related, all the genres were swept by this wave of innovations under the cosntant changes of freedom and censorship - in the 1820s the "pointe" movement was introduced in the ballets to give the impression that the dancers float or fly, a movement tied to the production of stories with elf-like characters (La Sylphide, Giselle, La Péri). The "féerie" proper started as an aesthetic category - it was understood as a "style" of production between the Directory and the July Monarchy, a time of full freedom and experimentation for the theaters and when writing techniques mingled with each other. However, from the 1840s onward, as censorship and privileges returned, theaters became more formal, productions become more schematic, plots petrify themselves, and the "féerie" becomes its own, proper genre. The "féerie dramatique" (fairy drama) gave birth to several thousands of plays at the heart of a crossroad between various "liminal" genres (vaudeville, pantomime, ballet, opera) - and its purpose was to go beyond the simple "theater illusion" to reach what was called the "fairy illusion". Courtès offers a brief example of the féerie genre by studying its variations on the story of Cinderella.

I/ Cinderella, or how to find a fitting shoe

Perrault's fairytales had a HUGE, HUGE success, from 1697 to the end of the 19th century. Already in 1697 you had the Italian Comedians of the King making a comedy in the Hôtel de Bourgogne called "Les Fées, ou Les Contes de Ma Mère l'oie" (Fairies, or the Tales of My Mother goose, in one act) ; and for the end of the 19th century we can mention Méliès' 1899 Cinderella. A famous work in-between those two is MM. Clairville's and Jules Cordier's 1854 "Les Contes de la Mère l'Oie", a "great féerie" in five acts and twenty-two tableaux (théâtre de l'Ambigu-Comique).

However, such a huge success can lead to baffling things... To take back Clairville/Cordier's Contes de la Mère l'Oie, in there all of the fairytales are mingled and mixed together under the whims of a good fairy and a bad fairy, who switch between human form and animal form: Mère l'Oie is the good fairy/goose ; Serpentine the evil fairy/snake. Their battle is to allow or prevent the wedding of Simplette with Riquet with the tuft, who is turned at the end into Prince Charming, through the intermediary of grandma-eating ogres and enchanted slippers. This féerie is filled to the brim with references to the theatrical actualities and dreadful puns. People of the time often wrote in an ironic way to point out how, if Perrault was still alive, he would have made a fortune with all the plays, ballets, operas and vaudevilles made based on his stories.

While between 1810 and 1899 numerous adaptations of Perrault's fairytales were made, Cinderella stays the number one adapted tale, with thirty different versions in the 19th century all from different genres. The very first Cinderella of the century is from 1806, but the trend only really starts in 1810 by the opéra-féerie of Etienne and Nicolo. It is a huge success, with a hundred of successive representations, and in just one year, eleven different shows imitated it (one in Montpellier, Les Pantoufles de Magdelaine, and one in Lyon, Le Mariage de Cendrillon). This series is at its core a parodic one, but it is very interesting to see how intertextuality is very, very strong between these creations. For example, the song "compère Guilleri" is first found in the Cinderella ballet of 1809, then is moved to Etienne's work in 1810, and is then almost always referenced or reused by all the imitations and parodies that would follow (sometimes the song is played for a vaudeville act, other times it is merely the name of a character). Etienne's text influenced other plays for nearly twenty years, and it was adapted in all the genres. Etienne's Cinderella heavily inspired the 1823 ballet, and the vaudeville-féerie of 1838, as well as of Rossini's "La Cenerentola" of 1817, which takes back Etienne's plot. The glory of Etienne's play was finally concluded by two revivals in 1845 and 1877, with bigger and more spectacular stagings.

In 1810, every new Cinderella play takes into account all the plays that came previously, and the references pile up playfully - to the point that the number of "Cinderellas" augment within the plots. "La Famille des Cendrillons" offers four Cinderella, "La Fête de Perrault" five, "Le Rendez-vous des Cendrillons" six. In fact, "Le Rendez-vous des Cendrillons" pushes the joke even further: as the play comes to an end, a servant announces the arrival of three more Cinderellas (two from the Boulevard, one from Italy), and it is decided the doors shall be closed shut to avoid an invasion of Cinderellas... Already in "La Famille des Cendrillons" a similar joke was made; the four Cinderellas try in vain the slipper because, unlike Perrault's shoe, it is too big - deformed by "how so many people tried it on". And the final vaudeville act blatantly sang on how Cinderella's name appeared on coins, hats and candies everywhere, used to make money everywhere.

What is very interesting with those rewrites is how the adaptations reveal the constraints of each theater, and the burden of censorship. The Odéon Cinderella decided to be a pure comedy ; Séraphin's Cinderella uses puppets ; other plays rather explore the possibilities of the Vaudeville. Because in 1810, by imperial law, each theater had to have its own specialization, and if they wanted to enter a different genre, they needed to be cunning. Cinderella was everywhere, even within the prestigious Académie royale de musique, where they had a Cinderella theme with Albert Decombe's 1823 ballet, with a Ciceri-decorated stage.

The diversity of all these plays is truly striking today. Every little detail that can be changed is changed. The place can be Bordeaux, Turkey, Italy. The era can be the Middles-Ages, the 16th century or the era of Louis XIII. The number of characters change: is there a stepmother with two stepsisters, just two stepsisters, or a stepfather with one or two stepsisters? The onomastic also changes, though always upper-class and meanngful: comtesse de Hauntainville, Uranie de La Houspignole, Mme de La Haltière... The prince can be a sultan, a king, or a child-prince. The identity of the fairy constantly moves: it is a genie, a great astrologist, a supernatural white cat... The hour of the spell's end can be midnight or two in the morning. Even the slipper changes: glass or green, when it is not replaced by a bracelet or arose... The magic itself can be removed, like in Etienne's text where the fairy is replaced by a knowledgeable preceptor named Alidor who "knows many extraordinary things", "speaks all the languages, can read into the stars, and is rumored to be friend with genies". However, there is still an "aerial choir" supposed to be sung by genies during the second act, and to maintain appearances a fairy is introduced in the final moments. Outside of Rossini's adaptation, which stays very faithful to Etienne's play, all of the other productions influenced by Etienne refuse to keep the lack of magic: they rather highlight the supernatural aspect of the tale.

The main focus of the story can also be changed, especially if new characters and episodes are added. Already Etienne was placing first and foremost the switch between the prince Ramir and the ridiculous lord Dandini, to test Cinderella's feelings ; and Massenet's version includes a very poetic scene of prayers to the fairy, sung simultaneously by Cinderella and the Prince Charming, separated by a magical wall of roses imitating the situation of Pyramus and Thisbe.

II / The féerie ingredients

The story of Cinderella has all the elements needed for a good adaptation. Outside of a quasi-unity of place and time (compared to Sleeping Beauty), the heroine is a touching character and the subject is not perverse (unlike with Donkey Skin). However, in the 19th century, the staging of the fairytale adds more elements - though they are not the same elements as literary adaptations of the fin-de-siècle. No "modernization" in present-day, no outrageous erotic subtext, not even political ideas on women's life in the 18th century.

Since the stage only wants to seduce its audience and make it feel, it stays faithful to the misery of Cinderella and plays on all the possible variations, of genre and of technique. Indeed, Cinderella's success spans over an entire century, a century VERY rich in theatrical experimentations and scenic inventions: it was an era of eletricity and pyrotechnics, of light tricks and optical illusions, of trap-doors of all sorts... As such it is impossible to synthetize all of the Cinderella variations, that go everywhere from the parody to the féerie to the ballet to the opera. Yet, there are three main elements to explain this success in the 19th century. The humor, the music, and the spectacular.

All of these dramatic adaptations contain at least one comical element. More or less obvious, in the parodies it is a burlesque humor - for example, the heroine can be played by a man. In "La Chatte merveilleuse", the audience sees Cinderella played by Brunet, an actor famous for his role of "Jocrisse". Other times the symetry of the stepsisters is exploited (especially in ballets), or a grotesque rival is added (Guilleri, Dandini, Bambini) - this has a precedent with Etienne, who writes a scene of seduction between Dandini and Cinderella's sisters (Clorinde and Tisbé), by basically copying the seduction of ths two peasant women in Molière's Dom Juan. All of these comical elements are here to balance the misfortune of Cinderella.

Second element: the music, very present in the adaptations. The authors can use a "ringing episode", during which the sisters abuse Cinderella by calling her to the opposite ends of their house (on a model imitating the first scene of the Wedding of Figaro). But usually it is the ball scene that is used to insert dances - of course, ballets and operas had a lot of fun with the ball scene. [Henri Cain, for the second act of the opéra-comique of Massenet, staged five different entrances during the ball scene]. The "oniric" atmosphere of féerie shows favorizes and highlights female voices - sometimes an entire choir of spirits is introduced, and with Massenet Prnce Charming is played by a female soprano. Talking plays meanwhile, fitting with the aesthetic an fashions of the 19th century, exploit fully the resources of the vaudeville. Vaudeville acts are recurring, highlight the comical, and often famous songs are inserted with a new meaning given to them. In "La Chatte merveilleuse", Cinderella leaves for the ball on the melody of the song "Bon voyage monsieur Dumollet" (Good travel mister Calf), and at the end of "La Fête de Perrault", Cinderella dances with Blue-beard, Little-Thumbling, Sleeping-Beauty and co on the melody of "Où peut-on être mieux qu'au sein de sa famille" (Where can we better be than within our family).

However, while the music is crucial, the spectacular is even more important. Cinderella is the perfct excuse to present a universe filled with theatrical illusions, an oniric world. All the common scenic effects for spells and enchantments are accumulated throughout the adaptations to illustrate the magic of the fairytale. The ballets especially are known to abuse it all, by gathering many groups of improbable characters so as to have as many people on stage by the end as possible. Féeries meanwhile play heavly on the "tableau aesthetic" and the "apotheosis". The culmination of those can be found in 1866's Cinderella, with on top of the 23 "regular" characters an addition of "Princesses of the Volcano Islands, of the Blue Islands, of the Dancing Islands, of the Crystal Grottos, of the Islands of Flowers and Butterflies, Princesses of Trébizonde, of Savages Islands, etc... Lords and Ladies of the Court, Pages, Valets, Centaurs, Guards of all sorts, the Court of Love, Fairies, Wedding people, Villagers, Peasant women, Monsters, Fire Genies, Glowing worms, etc."

To make "magic real" all sorts of set changes and costume transformations are invented, but often to the point of neglecting the "literary" aspect of the show, which is something the many parodies of Etienne's work like to mock. For example, in "La Chatte merveilleuse", Etienne's use of a rose (symbolizing clearly a sexual motif) is parodied when the cooking pot of Cinderella turns into a rose-tree in the chimney, with the delightful wordplay "Ah ben, v'la qu'c'est un peu trop fort! mon pot-au-feu changé en pot-aux-roses". [The "pot-au-feu", fire-pot, a traditional dish, becomes the "pot-au-rose", flower-pot but also figuratively a trick, a deceit, a scam]. The talisman that Alidor offers to Cinderella to make her intelligent is denounced as an unbelievable trick. Following parodies offer similar meta-commentaries, like "La Fête de Perrault" which claims "We see a cauldron become a nice rose-tree/ A pumpkin is quickly an elegant carriage / This play shall be celebrated up until spring!".

[The article mentions here the various "derived products" sold based on these plays - for example after 1810's La Chatte merveilleuse all sorts of doll-theaters, popular illustrations and Epinal images of Cinderella were created based on La Chatte merveilleuse rather than Perrault's version, leading to a modification of the popular culture's understanding of the Cinderella story. But that's a bit too much for this post.]

III/ The apotheosis of the stage-trick

"Over-the-top" and "way-too-much" could be described as the mottos of the féerie shows. The art of the stage-trick reaches summums as the century goes forward - their evolution can be considered between 1806 and the invention of the cinema. In fact, the talent of the authors was often overshadowed or erased by the genius of the set-makers and the name of the trick-inventors, who earned as much money and fame if not more than the writers. The ironic thing being that "magical illusions" do not require very advanced or difficult techniques. You just need a character, identified by the audience as a fairy, to pretend to use magical powers in order to create an "expectation of the wonder". Then anything can happen, and the smallest modification of the ordinary order of things can pass off as "magic". In "La Chatte merveilleuse", the fairy-cat's powers manifest when, by using her wand, she prevents the other characters from speaking or moving, or manipulates their gestures for comical effects. These "easy tricks" work all throughout the 19th century, and if well interpreted, especially in theater or ballet, they create a true feeling of magic when you just have false words or implicit movements.

The 19th century also sees the return and the persistant use of a trick as old as a century and a half: a change of area, a movement of the settings, done in full view of the audience and justified by the intervention of a supernatural power. Tables filled with food appear, illuminating lamps descend from the ceiling, trapdoors open, cars and chariots appear... The only thing that evolved was the rapidity and fludity of those changes, but the principle is the same ever since the Italian Renaissance. However there are new techniques appearing in the mid-19th century: 1838's Cinderella is a marking step in this regard. In this "vaudeville-féere in three days", the classical units are broken in favor of the spectacular: the staging uses "transparencies" to make appear imaginary characters, supposed in-story to be summoned by magic, but it is also the first use ever in a Cinderella of an apotheosis. From 1838 onward, as the plot gets more complex the tableaux and the tricks multiply, until we reach the bloated "great féerie of 1866". Thirty tableaux, three authors, three set-designers and one trick-maker! Across its five acts we go from the manor of La Pinchonnière (owned by the father of Fleurette-Cendrillon) to the greenhouses of king Hurluberlu XIX, from the mountain of the fire-genie Farhulaz to the grotto of Luciole the fairy of glowing worms. And the plot is complexified by the addition of farcical episodes and nocturnal scenes, with the kidnapping of the heroine by Farhulaz, and the apparition of a Court of Love, and all sorts of adventures only here to add to the spectacular, and to allow the audience to see lightly-dressed women (Charming being played by Mme Desclozas), all under blasting electric lights and an apotheosis at the end of every act!

Several of the scenes in there still use the model of Etienne and the music of Nicolo, such as when the fairy uses her wand to change the opera song of Mme de La Houspignole into a bawdy song. However, unlike with the 1810 opéra-féerie, here the character of the fairy is essential. The fairy Luciole is heavily used for all the un-hidden stage changes - such as when she has a marble staircase turn into a winged chariot that takes her throughout the sky in view of the audience. She even brings incredibly complex effects: in one scene, she has all the furnitures "crawl over the wall" up to the ceiling, while another set of furniture turn on themselves and upside-down, while the room itself goes upside-down, the ceiling becomes the floor and the floor the ceilings ; and the characters end up screaming with fright attached to the floor-now-ceiling.

(Below is a newspaper parody of all the grandiloquent Cinderella plays that were made at the time)

Luciole is so important that she closes the stage, marrying Prince Charming and Cinderella in the middle of an "apotheosis in four parts". Yet, it is Charming that offers the moral of the story: "What good would it be for me to be a prince if I had to justify my whims? If I could only have ordinary desires? If I was forced to make possible all the orders that I give?"

Of course, these shows receive the same criticism that the operas had in the 17th century. The machines made too much noise, the special effects took too long, the plot was ridiculous and vain, the text felt useless and flat... So much so that, to point out how literature disappeared behind the technique, La Lune newspaper published a drawing of a vulgar, worn-out, cheap shoe with the caption "Here is the slipper of the only artist within the house, the machine-worker."

This marke the end of the theatrical vogue of "big Cinderella shows" - even though a few remaining works would soon enchant audiences everywhere for a lasting time, such as Méliès' movie or Prokofiev's creation on Volkov's libretto - with a special mention to Nouréjev's 1986 choreography. As Jean Anouilh wrote in his "Useless Fables": "A fairy godmother, it is useful for a ball's night at the opera!"

[suzukiblu]

updated/expanded "Kara gets to Earth on-time with baby Kal" AU excerpt:

Kara doesn’t understand the aliens’ language, which is fine. She didn���t expect to. She watches them interact and listens as they speak, familiarizing herself with the cadence and pitch and rhythm of their voices and doing her best to pick out individual sounds and patterns. She likes languages well enough. She did pretty well with Daxamite dialects in school last year, anyway. 

The aliens are kind, at least so far. They found her and Kal curled up in the remains of their smashed-up ships in their ruined field and brought them into their home despite the mess. Kara thinks they’re farmers, probably? So probably Laborer Guild, or whatever this planet has instead of Laborers. The House of El is mostly Thinkers, but Kara isn’t worried about that. She’ll figure something out, as soon as she figures out how to communicate with the aliens. Pantomime has not been all that helpful, at least not so far. 

They gave her a warm, unusually sweet drink that might have some kind of milk in it, with soft white pellets in it that are even sweeter. It’s not quite like anything she’s ever tasted before, but she likes it. Kal really liked it, though the aliens seemed to think he shouldn't have too much and gave her a little cup of just milk alone for him instead. Or she thinks it's milk, anyway. 

It's white. And very thick, and almost creamy? Though it tasted good too, when Kara stole a sip to make sure it wouldn’t upset Kal’s stomach if she gave it to him. 

"Pye," the alien that Kara is assuming is female announces in their weirdly simple-sounding language, putting a round plate with a slice of something on it on the table in front of her. Kal reaches for it from her lap with a burble. Kara peers at it too. The slice is triangular, with a crisp crust and an oozy red filling. She wonders why the plate is round, if the "pye" is meant to be sliced and served triangularly. It seems a little disrespectful to the cook–or baker? Or at least the artisan who made the plate, which was clearly painted with very dedicated care. Painted by hand, even, not a pre-programmed design reproduced by a machine. That’s very luxurious for Laborers to be offering unexpected guests who just destroyed their field, even being the wrong shape for the "pye". 

Maybe they’re overcompensating, Kara thinks. Or maybe the aliens are really just that kind. 

Maybe. 

She thinks they’re little flowers, the designs around the edges of the plate. Or at least they look like they could be flowers. They’re flower-<i>like</i>, if nothing else, and all the weird colors of them might just be a stylistic choice. 

They’re pretty. 

She wishes she could show her mother. 

Kara crushes down the grief for the thousandth time and smiles at the aliens. They smile back. 

It helps, almost. 

Almost. 

The “pye” tastes very good. 

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.

.

It takes some effort, but Kara learns the aliens’ names after she and Kal finish their “pye” and she cleans up his sticky little face. The possibly female one is “Ma Mar-Tha”, and the possibly male one is “Pa Jona-Than”. So . . . maybe they're both female, actually? Going by their names, anyway. They both identify themselves as “Kent”, too, though she’s not sure if that’s another name and they’re either married or related, or if it’s the local word for “farmer” or “Laborer”. It’s unclear. 

They don’t look related, but she doesn’t really know how “related” this species would look to her eyes anyway. The colors of their skins are close, although their hair, though similarly textured, doesn’t really match–Ma Mar-Tha’s is an oddly neutral brown, and Pa Jona-Than’s is an even more oddly dull blond. Kara’s never seen hair in such faded colors. Her own is as bright as this planet’s strange sun, and Kal’s is as black as the space between stars. And both of their eyes are the El blue, of course. 

Pa Jona-Than’s eyes are blue too, but a washed-out shade of it. And Ma Mar-Tha’s are brown, which is so exotic and unusual that Kara has a little bit of trouble not staring too much. They’re very warm and very soft, though, and she likes how they look. 

They’re both middle-aged, she thinks, or at least strongly resemble the Kryptonian version of it. Their clothes are soft and shapeless, with very little structure or sign of formality to the garments, though Kara supposes they might be some sort of sleepwear? She and Kal did crash very early in this planet’s morning, from what she can tell. 

She tells them her name and Kal’s, though they pronounce them a bit oddly. She’s sure she’s pronouncing theirs oddly too, so it’s not as if it’s an insult. They say their names all at once, though, as if they’re singular words–"Karazorel” and “Kalel”, almost. She manages to get them both down to “Kara” and “Kal”, and they get her down to “Ma” and “Pa”, so she supposes “Mar-Tha” and “Jona-Than” are their surnames, and “Kent” does mean “Laborer”. Kal isn’t verbal enough to get to any of it, of course, but laughs sweetly and claps as he listens to them all exchanging names and sounds back and forth. 

Kara crushes down the grief again and wonders how long it’ll be until he cries for Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor. He’ll miss them soon, she’s sure. He’s a sweet, good-natured little thing, but he’s not even old enough to walk properly yet. And they’re his parents. 

She only hasn’t cried for her own because she doesn’t have the room to. Not until she’s sure they’re somewhere safe, and that Kal is going to be alright. That she can take care of him here, however she has to. 

Who knows, maybe this farm needs some more “Kents” on it. 

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Ma gives Kara clothes: a strangely soft knee-length dress patterned with more pretty alien flowers and clunky, heavy boots with actual laces in them and a sturdy blue jacket with a surprising amount of pockets and a thick, warm, fleece-like lining, accented with flat metal studs and an odd metal trim with a tag hanging from one side of it. It takes Kara a moment, but then she realizes the trim actually seems to be some sort of fastener. 

Huh. 

The clothes don't fit quite right–Kara thinks the dress is probably meant to be a little longer, from the cut of it, and the jacket is a bit too big and the boots are a little loose too–but she does appreciate them. She's been in her own clothes since . . . 

Krypton died while she was in these clothes. 

Everyone she's ever loved, everyone she's ever known, everyone she's ever seen . . . 

Kara appreciates the new ones. 

. . . although, do clothes on this planet just not have house crests? Or are Ma and Pa just not from families that have house crests? 

She supposes they might not be. They are Laborers, so . . . maybe. But they also served her on a hand-painted plate, if with strange manners, so she's not sure what to think. 

Maybe she just doesn't understand the specific signifiers in their clothing, or maybe their house signifiers are just in their jewelry. Ma is wearing tiny gold hoops in her(?) ears and a thin gold necklace and Pa is wearing a thick leather bracelet with a glass and metal circle in the center of it, and they're both wearing gold rings on the third fingers of their left hands. Pa's is just a single plain band, but Ma has two–one just plain like his(?), but thinner, and one with a trio of little clear gemstones set in it. Diamonds, maybe? That would make sense, for a Laborer's jewelry. Diamonds are pretty, but they're both reasonably common in nature and simple enough to recreate under laboratory conditions, so they're certainly affordable enough for a farmer to wear even day-to-day. And they're sturdy, too. Gold less so, obviously, but maybe the rings are just gold-plated or an alloy.

It's something to think about besides the end of the world. 

. . . their world, anyway. 

As far as clothes go there's nothing that'll fit Kal at all, so Kara just keeps him wrapped up safe and secure in the bright red El crest blanket Jor and Lara sent him here in. Though she knows he'll need more diapers soon, obviously, and something he can actually crawl around in too. He can't stay in her lap forever. 

She wishes he could, right now. Even letting Ma hold him while she changed was . . . stressful. 

A little too stressful, maybe, but Kara tries not to think about it. Not right now, at least. 

She needs to protect him. Needs to take care of him. Needs to–

Kara exhales. Wraps Kal up in his El crest blanket and her borrowed jacket, and smiles at Ma and Pa. They smile back at her. 

Well, that's a start.