#playwrights of color

[xciur31uc0]

[violetwolfraven]

Was genuinely confused why people get upset about characters looking different than their original design in newer adaptations of whatever story and then I remembered I’m a ✨ theatre kid ✨ and not everyone is

[conradrasputin]

[genshin-impact-updates]

Vanquisher of Phantoms, Vigil of the Long Night

"...Word to the wise, friend. The evidence against you is irrefutable. If you want to uphold your honor, atonement is an option. You could still do much good... There's no need to resort to a duel. I mean, your opponent is Clorinde. *That* Clorinde, you hear? Oh, for the love of the Fountain of Lucine... If you go up against her, you'll wind up without even the strength to confess your crimes!"

— A sincere letter that a certain wealthy merchant who had pleaded "Not Guilty" received on the eve of a duel.

◆ Name: Clorinde

◆ Title: Candlebearer, Shadowhunter

◆ Champion Duelist

◆ Vision: Electro

◆ Constellation: Rapperia

Disputes are a Mora a dozen in Fontaine, day in and day out.

A playwright might accuse a fanatical reader of imitating their style and taking up a pen name too close to their own, to the point that even the newspapers could not distinguish the genuine article. A merchant might accuse a colleague of targeted, malicious, cutthroat competition, of not only constantly adjusting their prices, but of intentionally setting up shop directly opposite them...

Ordinary disputes can be settled by Gardes rushing onto the scene, but there are always a minority of claimants who, thinking themselves most clever in their ulterior intent, will obstinately press for court proceedings just to get their name out there — and if their duel applications were to be approved, they might be famous indeed!

However, if some well-meaning neighbor were to tell them: "I've heard that the most recently rostered Champion Duelist is Miss Clorinde..."

These same clever folk would almost instantly be deflated of all their arrogant airs, like a Violetgold Angler Gull caught by the neck, and cease such prattle altogether.

For all are well-acquainted with the name of the "mightiest" Champion Duelist.

Beneath her blade, all despicable deeds that aim to capitalize on mere fortune under the guise of decency will show their true colors — and she has never once known defeat in a duel.

"...Ahem. Oh, uh... I suppose there's no need to go that far, is there?

So does a clever person, very nearly hoisted by their own petard, flee the scene.

And thus is another such altercation, undercut by ulteriority, discreetly dissipated.

[uwmspeccoll]

Marbled Monday

This sunny Marbled Monday, as we here in Wisconsin wait for the weather to catch up to the seasons and feel spring-like, I’ve selected The Seasons by Scottish poet and playwright James Thomson (1700-1748). There have been many editions of The Seasons since its first publication as a complete series of four poems in 1730—this one was published by The Nonesuch Press in 1927. It features five illustrations by an artist simply identified as Jacquier, who I have been unable to otherwise identify. The images are copperplate engravings made by C. Sigrist that were hand colored using watercolor through stencils at The Curwen Press. 

The marbling is a very curly French curl or snail pattern, featuring red, blue, orange, cream, and a greenish-grey. This pattern is created by first dropping colors in to the water bath and then taking a comb with regularly spaced teeth and swirling it in the water bath to make the snail pattern. 

View more Marbled Monday posts.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

[serene-faerie]

The legacy of Beren and Lúthien has the biggest impact on Elven pop culture— an impact that no other Elf/Man couple can even beat. Like, even the Elves in Aman are getting in on this hot new trend.

Horny paintings with so many variations of their first meeting— usually with a shirtless muscular Beren and a scantily-clad Lúthien swooning in his arms. Elven teens writing fanfiction about Beren and Lúthien— probably a lot of spicy stories about their time in Neldoreth. Beren becoming a sex symbol among Elf maidens, who are dreaming of finding their own hunk of a mortal man to fall in love with. Gay Elven lords thirsting after Beren and wanting a rugged mortal man to rail them into their beds. A small faction of Elven fangirls who ship Beren and Finrod because they’re “so hot” together. Fandom wars between Beren/Lúthien shippers and Beren/Finrod shippers. Color-coded couples’ jewelry inspired by Beren and Lúthien. In Aman, Oromë’s wolfhounds become hugely popular. So many Elven parents complaining about their daughters wanting to run away and find true love with hairy mortal men in forests. Vanyarin scholars spending decades dissecting the themes and motifs of the Lay of Leithian. A popular Telerin author writing an “erotic retelling” of the Lay of Leithian, which has so many spicy scenes that it becomes both popular among younger readers but also scandalous among said readers' parents. Finrod being the biggest Beren/Lúthien shipper of all time— he paints some of the horniest artworks, commissions a Vanyarin playwright to write a play about the Lay of Leithian, creates jewelry to match the aesthetics of Beren and Lúthien. He’s the captain of the Beren/Lúthien ship and no one else can hope to take his place.

All the reembodied Doriathrim are stunned at how popular Beren and Lúthien are. Melian kind of just takes it in stride. Thingol genuinely doesn’t know what to make of it— yes, he loves them both very much, and he's glad that his daughter is remembered among the Elves of Aman but he does NOT need to see a horny painting of his own daughter and son-in-law, thank you very much!

[torpublishinggroup]

Check out Will Do Magic for Small Change by Andrea Hairston for an introspective historical fantasy full alien science and earthbound magic!

Letter from the author below the readmore 📚🖊️

Will Do Magic For Small Change is about theatre, physics, and bold girls...

who want to live and love out loud and on stage when folks would rather they fade to black!

I teach college theatre, and my students have for forty years complained about the play selection and casting process that cuts them out of possibilities. They were too fat, too black, brown, Asian, or queer, so directors never cast them, never looked for plays that featured roles for them, never offered stories of their lives to our community. They were too something to be worthy of art. I brought this long history up (for the nth time) in a faculty meeting twelve years ago and someone yelled at me, history doesn’t matter—as if there was just one history and we all knew it and it was gone anyway. Maybe those students couldn’t act and that’s why they never got cast. They were mediocre and wanted to hide behind being fat, brown, Asian, or queer! We could all be mediocre, but some folks go into audition knowing that they are who the director / playwright / producer has in mind and others have to wonder, can they see me as a full human being. Would an audience? And if nobody believes your story on stage, what does that mean for folks believing in your life? So I decided to write about Cinnamon Jones and her friends and their search for who to be in a world that can’t see them.

I’d been reading all I could about Dahomean warrior women who supposedly made an appearance at the Columbian World Exposition in Chicago. Newspaper reports from 1893 characterized the performers in the Dahomey village exhibit as 'horrifying,' 'supremely hideous,' and 'a barbaric spectacle.' Photos featured bare-breasted women with hatchets and knives looking bored. No one interviewed the women. No one asked them to tell their stories. In my previous novel, Redwood and Wildfire, the main characters run into Dahomean warrior women strolling the fairgrounds in colorful headdresses, pounds of beaded jewelry, and woven fabrics that dance in the wind. I asked myself, who are these women? In Will Do Magic a story-gathering alien lands in Dahomey, comes to know the world starting with Dahomey as normal. The story the alien tells on the warrior women might not be the story they’d tell on themselves, but it offers Cinnamon a history to inspire her future.

— Andrea Hairston

[knifedancer]

Sleeping Beauty

A new akuma has the power to turn fairy tales into reality. Marinette is hit and falls into a deep sleep. Ladybug has yet to show up to the battle, Paris fears for the worst. Without the miraculous cure, there may only be one other option. True Love's kiss should wake her…

But who is her true love?

Note: I imagine this is pre-Season 4-ish but it can also just be read as non-canon/alternate universe, if you so choose. Rated T for Teen for possible disturbing wording. Also on AO3.

Surprise! Related outtake can be found here!

~~~~~~~

When Grimm Talia – the latest akuma – arrived, no one was quite sure what to make of them. Their twisted color palette and oversized robes, which flared out like dragon wings as they glided through the air, disguised most of their identifying attributes. It seemed to be a playwright or author that had been working on a retelling of classic fairytales, that was angered by their lover or something – at least that’s what Alya assumed. It was odd that someone had yet to come forward with a civilian name for Grimm Talia. Perhaps Hawkmoth was the akuma’s lover and was akumatized for finding out his identity! The blogger was captivated immediately and tried to capture video for her blog, paying more attention to streaming and her play-by-play commentary for her followers than to her surroundings. She had wandered into the open from her hiding spot in the alley to get a better angle, exposing herself completely while distracted with her phone. Unfortunately, this put the blogger in the crosshairs of the akuma’s next blast.

Alya yelped as the akuma grinned down at her through the camera lens and raised a magical staff made of thorny briar branches, charging their ray as they recanted lines from Sleeping Beauty like a spell. The blogger stumbled back a step and dropped her phone with a clatter, her mouth dropping open as if to silently scream in horror or call for help. She was frozen in place; watching things happen like a slow-motion train crash that she could not look away from. Just when it appeared there was no escape, she was pushed out of the way and landed in a pile of discarded boxes nearby. The akuma cackled and floated off after the next victim in their sights. Alya pulled a box off her head only to realize that her savior had been none other than her dear friend…

“Marinette!” Alya hollered, quickly diving for her phone and the crumpled pigtailed girl on the sidewalk, dragging her back into the relative safety of the alleyway. Guilt flooded the reporter’s heart as she worried over the bluenette’s unconscious body in her arms. On the upside, her friend was still breathing. Downside, she seemed to be in a comatose-like sleep of which she could not be roused. Just then, Chat Noir landed beside them.

“Ladyblogger! You shouldn’t be here, it’s too dang-purr—is that Marinette?!” Chat exclaimed, too shocked at seeing his Everyday Ladybug unconscious to complete his pun.

Alya felt a few tears escape her eyes and slide down her face, “Chat Noir! Yes, I wasn’t paying attention and…Grimm Talia, the new akuma, was about to shoot me…she took the hit for me! Now she won’t wake up!”

The cat boy’s ears flattened to his hair with worry, reaching down to gently trace Marinette’s jaw with a clawed finger and pat her cheek. No response. The idea of his favorite civilian and good friend being hurt greatly unsettled the cat hero. He couldn’t understand why but all his instincts screamed to protect and get the girl to safety. “The bakery is just a couple blocks away, let’s get her home so she isn’t laying here in the street,” Chat lifted the girl from the reporter’s lap and cradled her against his chest with one arm, then motioned for Alya to hop on his back. “Once we take care of the akuma, the cure should wake her up. Hold on tight.” He pulled out his staff and launched the three of them easily into the sky, rushing towards the bakery to get them both to safety.

Looking around from the air, Alya saw several people suffering from various fairytale effects. It seemed the akuma’s power was not limited to putting to people to sleep… Some were transformed into various animals, large and small – frogs, bears, swans, stags… Others trapped in taxis that had become large pumpkins; a few unlucky people seemed to be stuck to a golden colored goose. Ladies clutched at their clothes, now turned into ratty, festering furs. Others muffled sobs as they knelt by golden statues that must have once been their children, staring at their hands in horror. Down a passing street a man seemed to be chasing a large wolf dressed in a floral housecoat and bonnet – what was that about? The blogger felt nauseous as she witnessed a few people screaming for help as they raised their severed arms in the air – every single one seemingly hacked off bloodlessly at the elbow. She quickly looked away, trying to find anything else on the horizon to distract her from the bile rising in her throat. For as far as her eye could see there were long streams of hair flowing down streets in a myriad of colors – like large skeins of yarn that had fallen from their basket – catching on every street sign and mailbox. As Chat launched them over the last intersection, on the corner below Alya spied an unlikely trio of a mouse, a bird, and…was that person transformed into a sausage?!

They landed beside the entry for the bakery and Alya quickly dismounted to open the door, only for them both to jump back as a cloud of blackbirds burst from the entry with an earsplitting screech. Inside looked like a disaster area after a bomb went off, every cake and pie appeared to have exploded. Feathers still floated through the air like snowflakes in winter as frosting and pie fillings dripped from the ceiling tiles. The Dupain-Cheng’s looked a little worse for wear – slowly lowering the broom and large wooden peel they had been using as weapons – but relieved that the birds were now gone. They let out a sigh until their eyes fell upon their limp daughter in the hero’s arms, fear overtaking their countenances. Alya recounted her tale as Chat brought Marinette up to her room and settled her comfortably on the chaise. He gently brushed a few stray bangs from her face, careful to keep his claws from marring her skin. His instincts were still screaming that something was very wrong. The cat hero felt immense guilt for not being able to protect the petite bluenette, she seemed so fragile... A look of determined resolve settled on his features as he rose to his feet.

“Madame, Monsieur, Ladybug and I will do all we can to fix this. Cat’s honor. Ladyblogger,” Chat met her eyes with a glare as he was unable to keep his roiling emotions from his voice, “stay away from the battle. You caused enough damage already; we don’t need to need to worry about rescuing you while we fight.” With that Chat gave a little salute before vaulting out the window and back towards the fray. The Dupain-Chengs quickly assured her that she could remain here while they went down to clean up what they could in the bakery.

Shocked by Chat’s angry gaze and overcome with guilt, Alya sat heavily in Marinette’s desk chair with her head in her hands. Chat was right. It was her fault that her friend was now unconscious… There had to be something she could do! Just then a notification popped up on her phone from the Ladyblog. The bespectacled girl scrolled through several comments, posts, images, and testimonials from various followers all over Paris… Ladybug had not been spotted yet; people seemed worried that she might have been hit by the akuma already. She raised her eyes from the phone to her friend with worry, hoping she could hear her. “Mari…they think Ladybug may have already been taken out. Without her there is no miraculous cure. I’m worried you might never wake up…a-and it’s all my fault.”

She gripped her phone helplessly as her gaze dropped to her shoes, wishing for a miraculous or some power she could use to undo what happened. Without Ladybug, what chance did Paris stand against Hawkmoth? What chance did Marinette have at waking up? Notifications kept coming in, the quiet pings sounding far louder in the deathly quiet room. Alya finally glanced at it again, intending to silence it, when the title of a post caught her eye…

REVERSING GRIMM TALIA’S SLEEP SPELL!! HAWKMOTH HATES THIS ONE TRICK!!

The blogger cringed at the headline but proceeded to read…

My husband was hit by the akuma and fell into an unconscious state while getting out of our taxi. I thought he was dead, but I was so relieved when he was still breathing. You see we had gone out to breakfast at this café by the Siene and he had the apple tart, even though apples cause him heartburn…

Alya skimmed through the post, bypassing the poster’s unnecessary explanation of what they had been doing before the akuma and their plans, seeking out the resolution. Was this person a recipe blogger? Just get to the point… Ah, there it was!

…discovered that the unconscious person awakes with true love’s kiss!

“That’s it! I just need to find Adrien!” Alya tried to call the boy but there was no answer. “Okay, I need to go out there. I’m not going to the battle zone so Chat shouldn’t get too angry… Don’t worry, I’m gonna save you, Mari!” With one last look at her unconscious friend, she bolted down and out of the bakery.

Mission: Find Adrien was a Go! The S.S. Adrienette ship was going sail!

~~~ Somewhere in Paris ~~~

She ran through the streets, carefully dodging impacted Parisians and narrowly avoiding tripping on random ropes of tangled hair. Alya eventually stumbled upon Nino and Felix taking cover near the public library where they had been working on a class project. If anyone would know where to find Adrien, it would be these two. “Nino, you’re safe,” she cried as she wrapped him up in a hug.

“Babe! I saw the stream earlier; I thought you had been hit!” Nino hugged her tight, finally releasing the worried tension from his body as he held his girlfriend close.

“I almost was but Marinette saved me. She…,” Alya choked on her words as she stepped back to meet his eyes, “Nino, she took the hit for me. She’s unconscious and won’t wake up! It’s all my fault. But there might be a way to save her…we need to find Adrien!” Both boys stiffened at her words, one with shock and the other unreadable.

“What do you need my clueless cousin for, Miss Césaire?” Felix asked, his usual haughty tone taking an air of suspicion.

“If Adrien kisses her, it’ll wake Marinette up,” cried the red head impatiently. “True love’s kiss has broken a similar state for some impacted by the akuma. Ladybug hasn’t been seen yet; this is Marinette’s best chance!”

Felix scoffed and crossed his arms, “And why do you assume that Adrien is Miss Dupain-Cheng’s true love? The chance of it being him is as likely as you or I. Even Mr. Lahiffe here could be her potential ‘true love’ for that matter.” An explosion echoed in the distance as if to punctuate his point.

“As if! They’re meant to be together! Now, do you know where he is or not?” Alya demanded angrily. This guy was nothing but trouble! How could such an ass be related to their resident Sunshine Boy?

“Calm down, babe. I haven’t seen him but he did have a photoshoot earlier. With the akuma, he’s probably on lockdown at home. You know how paranoid his father gets during attacks,” Nino tried to defuse the situation. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Felix seemed more irritated now than he had been in the library…

“Look Felix, do you think you can get your cousin out and to the bakery?” Alya swallowed her anger, this was for Marinette! She could be civil with the devil for her best friend’s wellbeing. Even if the devil was the most annoying, repugnant, arrogant, uncooperative…

“Tsk. Perhaps I might be able to disguise myself as my cousin and…,” began the taciturn blond.

“Perfect! Tell him we’ll meet him at the bakery! Come on, Nino,” the Ladyblogger impatiently dragged her boyfriend away, bolting down a neighboring street. Both teens missed the smirk that graced Felix’s face as he loosened his black tie.

~~~

Chat Noir landed with a huff and picked at a few thorns stuck to his suit. Ladybug was a no show and the akuma packed quite the wallop! Where was she?! He glanced around cautiously, checking for any civilians to evacuate before he jumped back into battle. From the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar head of hair and growled angrily. Alya had come back out to the fight! He had warned her to stay put!

He jumped over to the rooftop directly above the Ladyblogger and watched as she reunited with Nino. His ears twitched as he listened in, hearing Alya’s idea of how to wake Marinette… True Love’s kiss? Chat shuddered and frowned with dismay. This akuma reminded him too much of Dark Cupid for his liking! The cat hero was also feeling confused and flustered at the idea of kissing his dear friend. Sure, Mari was cute and sweet but, Felix had a point: why him? Marinette was his first friend, he trusted her in and out of the mask... What if Marinette hoped for more? The expectations of his father and fans were bad enough.

‘Still,’ Chat thought as he bit his lip, ‘I’d do anything for my friends…’

~~~ Twenty Minutes Later ~~~

A tousled Adrien ran towards the bakery, careful to avoid obstacles and looking around for the akuma before dashing across the street. He came to a sliding stop outside the bakery, panting with the physical strain of running through several blocks of fairytale victims, and flung open the door. Nino and the Dupain-Chengs, alerted by the door chime, looked up to see the exhausted teen and ushered him towards the back.

“Hey bro! Thank gods you made it!” Nino paused, looking over his friend’s outfit. “What’s up with the suit?”

Adrien glanced down to where a grey vest hung open to reveal his dress shirt and charcoal slacks. Using a hand to smooth out the wrinkled, untucked, button-up against his chest before chuckling. “Felix loaned me some clothes so I could get here without Gorilla following me. Not my best look but it seems to have worked!” The blond gave a disarming but concerned smile, “Fe said something happened to Marinette? Is she okay?” The blond anxiously ran a hand through his hair, messing up the styling so that he looked more like he normally did.

“Yeah, man, come on,” the Moroccan-French boy grabbed his friend’s rolled up sleeve and dragged him upstairs. Adrien stumbled up the last few steps and entered the pink room behind Nino. “Babe! I told you Felix would come through for our girl!”

“Sunshine! Thank the gods… Marinette got hit by an akuma and won’t wake up. We think true love’s kiss will wake her. What love is truer than friendship, right?” The reporter’s smile was a little too wide to be genuine but the blond did not seem to notice as he stepped towards the unconscious girl with a furrowed brow. Someone had let down her hair and it was fanned out like a halo on the cushion beneath her head. Her arms were laying on her stomach, delicate hands crossed at rest near her heart. Her pink lips, seeming to glisten with dew, were slightly parted. The sunlight from the window seemed to give her whole body a golden ethereal hue – she looked like a sleeping angel and it took his breath away.

He finally tore his eyes away briefly to look at the other two occupants of the room. “I don’t know… You know I’d do anything for Marinette but…why haven’t you two tried?”

The two bespectacled teens exchanged a look, communicating silently, before Alya replied slowly, “We did. She didn’t wake. We’re hoping a kiss from you might work since you’re such…good…friends.”

Adrien’s eyes dropped to Marinette’s still form again, unreadable emotions flitted across his face before he seemed to take a more resolute stance. “Alright. I’ll do it.” He kneeled down beside the chaise, taking one of her limp hands and holding it to his cheek. “Marinette…,” he murmured brokenly, overcome with his emotions in the moment. Alya and Nino watched with bated breath as the blond tentatively leaned down, pausing mere millimeters from their friend’s lips to gaze at her face and whisper something too low for them to hear. Then he closed the distance and placed a chaste kiss to her lips.

Her lips were as warm as they were soft, her breath tasted like chai tea and his lungs reverently drank it in. A mysterious, disembodied chime seemed to sound from above them and the model felt her fingers twitch in his grasp. They held their breath as Adrien pulled back with a look of awe. Marinette’s eyes fluttered open and met the green eyes of the blond still hovering above her with a look of quiet curiosity. Alya and Nino cried out with joy and hugged. “I knew it! I knew true love’s kiss would work!” Alya smiled slyly towards the two on the chaise, “We’ll go downstairs to let your parents know the good news and give you lovebirds some time to talk.”

“Hey!” protested Nino as he was roughly shoved through the trap door, his complaints cut off with a hasty slam of the wood against the frame. An oppressive silence descended upon the room in their absence, accentuated by a soft tick of a clock and their breathing. Marinette didn’t say a word, her bluebell eyes transfixed to the emerald-colored orbs in front of her. The model watched her nervously, he pressed a tentative kiss to the hand he still held between his own as if too scared to speak, to break the spell they were under. The bluenette raised her free hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing a path under his eye as her gaze seemingly analyzed his every feature in agonizing detail. Finally, with a small smile, she slid her hand down to his neck and broke the silence by sweetly whispering his name.

“…. Felix.”

The blond boy’s eyes widened, and his body stiffened with shock, “How did you—”

He was cut off with a swift tug on his collar and her lips against his. While momentarily stunned, he quickly succumbed to the kiss and Felix was willingly dragged onto the chaise. They quickly found themselves in a tangled embrace – hands in hair, legs interwoven, chests pressed together – as they succumbed to their mutual passion with moans of delight. A familiar, crumpled up, black tie fell carelessly from his pocket to the floor. Hidden in a corner of the room, Tikki looked upon her chosen with a small smile. True love’s kiss was a powerful thing.

The akuma would have to wait…

~~~ BONUS SCENES ~~~

‘Still,’ Chat thought as he bit his lip, ‘I’d do anything for my friends…’

Before he could catch the rest of the trio’s conversation, an explosion in the distance drew his attention. From the dust sprang yet another tall beanstalk that reached into the clouds. Chat took off in search of the akuma, hoping desperately that his lady would arrive… He landed with a dull thud next to a young woman that had been changed into a beautiful golden harp, crying as she struggled to right herself. The cat boy quickly jumped to assist, setting her carefully against the nearest stairwell so that she could hold onto the railing for support. The lady harp cried out and pointed behind him with fear filled eyes, he turned to find himself face to face with the business end of the akuma’s thorny staff! Shit!

“…A curse upon your house and all within it. Until you have found someone to love you as you are, you shall remain…,” incanted Grimm Talia.

Chat Noir vaulted away as fast as he could, attempting to gain some ground, when he felt a warm blast hit his back. He fell gracelessly onto a neighboring rooftop where he convulsed painfully on the floor for a moment. This was nothing like being hit by Dark Cupid or Reflekta... Damn, it felt like he was being ripped apart and put back together! The akuma’s cackle echoed up from the streets below, which kicked his survival instincts into overdrive. Blindly Chat scrambled up and bolted into the roof access hatch, finding a restroom in the building to hide in temporarily. Breathing hard, he leaned against the sink to catch his breath – only to realize that his clawed hands were now covered in thick fur. He glanced up into the mirror, seeing that two small horns sprouted between his cat ears and his face took on the appearance of some sort of wild beast. He reached back and grabbed for his baton, intending to call Ladybug again, only to pull out a glowing red rose that proceeded to drop a single petal onto the tiled floor between his feet.

“Uh oh…”

~~~ Later ~~~

“Team Adrienette! A-DRI-EN-ETTE! Team Adrienette!” Alya sang while happily skipping down the sidewalk outside the bakery as if there wasn’t still an akuma on the loose somewhere in the city. Nino cautiously meandered after her, smiling as he shook his head at his girlfriend’s antics. If the quiet muffled noises coming from upstairs before they left were any indication, after years of trying, it seemed their resident sunshine boy and aspiring designer were finally a couple. Those two had danced around each other enough! So many misunderstandings, lies, and schemes! The bespectacled teens both hoped for the best – one already planning double dates and the other compiling a list of romantic music that might become ‘their song.’ They were both broken from their thoughts by a familiar voice calling their names.

“What the…,” muttered Alya. Across the street stood a bashful but happy looking Adrien waving at them with one hand while the other held the hand of an even more familiar bluenette teen… Marinette’s ex-boyfriend and Kitty Section’s favorite guitarist: Luka Couffaine.

“Dude! How did you get out here so quickly? And why are you with Luka?” Nino asked with confusion written all over his features as the two boys joined them.

“I was on my way to the bakery when I was hit by the akuma, got transformed into a giant beast with horns and a magical rose, can you believe it?” The blond model laughed and blushed. He rubbed the back of his head nervously. “Then I stumbled into Luka here and…well, turns out he was what I needed to reverse my akuma curse.”

“We heard about Marinette, how is she?” Luka asked, voice filled with concern as he dropped Adrien’s hand briefly to fiddle with a snake shaped bracelet. Must be a worrying habit the musician had.

“Well…she’s awake…,” Nino murmured distractedly, his mind still trying to fit the pieces together.

Alya, whom had been standing frozen with her mouth open in shock, seemed to finally recover. She pointed at the blond and then back over her shoulder towards the bakery entrance not five meters away. “What are you talking about?! We just saw you in the bakery with Marinette!” Just then, as if summoned by divine intervention, out of the bakery stumbled another blond – this one sporting a lovesick dazed smirk as he waved to someone hidden beyond the glass door. The four teens on the sidewalk took in his disheveled appearance with three looks of shock and one of amusement. A word that described the boy in this moment: rumpled. His shirt was untucked and incorrectly buttoned in a way that revealed a white undershirt beneath it, his crumpled black tie hung loosely around his neck like a scarf, pink lipstick smears were visible from his face to his collarbone (with a little adorning the inside of his shirt collar), and his hair seemed to be as wild and untamed as Chat Noir’s.

“…Fe?” Adrien tentatively called, unsure of what he was witnessing. His cousin had never looked less than professional for a day in his life! Perhaps it was a doppelgänger brought on by the akuma?

That warm gaze shifted towards the model’s call and, upon seeing them, it was as if a switch was flipped. Felix slicked back his unruly hair, draped his discarded wrinkled vest over his shoulder, and meandered towards the stunned group. With the lovesick look now cleared, his smirk took on a smug edge but his eyes still glowed with a satisfied happiness that none of them had seen on him before. “Cousin,” the formal boy nodded to the model and started whistling a jaunty tune as he swaggered past. Three sets of eyes stared at his every move in bewilderment. He seemed more relaxed and at ease than usual; plus, there was a…

Wait, was that a hickey under his right ear?!

“Felix Fathom! What the hell—,” Alya began but, with a raised hand that bid them adieu without looking back, Felix disappeared around the smashed carcass of a giant pumpkin that was once a delivery van. Only with the soft echo of his whistling hanging in the air did Nino realize…

‘Huh, I didn’t know Felix was a Daft Punk fan.’

~~~

Ladybug, feeling guilty after the increasingly panicked voicemails from Chat while she was otherwise detained, managed to defeat the akuma with a little help from Viperion and cast the cure just in time to meet her date that evening at Andre’s.

Paris is saved once again by the Powerpuf—err, Ladybug!

Notes:

Felix was whistling Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky.” I’ll let you imagine what he whispered to her before kissing her. 😊

Peel (based on the French word ‘pelle’) is the long paddle looking implement that is often used at brick oven pizza places but are also used for bread and pastries.

Please let me know in the comments what enchanted furniture you think Gabriel transformed into while Adrien was the Beast! Grimm Talia did say “a curse upon your house and all within it.” 😉 Talk about an akuma backfiring on the user! Check out the other suggestions here!

[alicefromwhichplanet]

I’m going to voice my opinions on G1 Elita One here for a reader asked me this on ao3 at my fic Heroic Nonsense. I want to keep a record here as well for my future references and maybe find someone with similar ideas. So I still decided to use tags for content classification. Anyone who might feel irritated about me deconstructing this character may leave. But if you resonate with me or are interested in my analysis feel free to discuss.

I guess my view on G1 Elita One is basically negative, both in terms of her characterization and her representation of women.

If we genuinely talk about characterization, I think G1 Elita One is a very one-dimensional and uninteresting character. Because: 1) She doesn’t have a consistent personality or motivation of doing things. Of course you can say that her motivation is to save her boyfriend and lead the “femme bots”, but these don’t look natural, with the lack of a background story. She looks like a puppet squeezed into the show to be the protagonist’s girlfriend.

2) Also about her role. I feel that Hasbro made Elita One a shadow of Optimus Prime, giving her exactly the same position and constantly stressing her importance, when actually she contributes zero to the overall plot development. The “femme bot squad” in the show is an awkward duplicate of the male team, with every femme bot assigned to the male bot at the same position as their girlfriend/love interest(Elita One—Optimus Prime-leader, Chromia— Ironhide-second in command). I do not know the reason why “femme bots” in the play need to fight alone, and I do not know why Elita One is the leader except the fact that she is Optimus’s girlfriend. So what is the play implying by making such a character? Honestly I think this is even worse than having no female characters in the play.

3)Her plot is totally predictable. It’s a classic Hollywood hero-saves-damsel in distress story. From the moment when Alpha Trion asked her to go on a mission on her own (for what? Why? Till today I still think Alpha Trion is doing this simply because he is an avatar of the playwright) I know she will be caught and rescued by Optimus Prime. Such stories are easily guessed and easily forgotten.

If we talk about gender representation, I have to say Elita One hardly represents any pioneering thoughts of feminism or gender equality. To begin with, I want to clarify that feminism/gender equality aims to question and overthrow patriarchy system, which includes breaking the gender stereotypes and challenging fixed gender roles, heteronormative relationships included. Unfortunately Elita One just repeated/ reinforced the stereotypes/ the fixed model of heterosexuality. She is in bright pink, an assigned color to represent females. She is abruptly introduced as Optimus’s girlfriend, without any background information (how they fell in love, why Optimus chose to have a relationship with her in particular, without the biological need to reproduce, what kind of person she is before she met Optimus). It feels like the playwright cannot bear an action hero not being able to “win over” some pretty chicks. She is made/resurrected by Optimus’s parts, which is just like Adam and Eve and confirms her position as “the second sex”. All of her plots are rigid and boring and she lives like a duplicate, or a moon revolving around Optimus. What’s worse, in her very short debut she is still portrayed as “sweet, understanding, and loves her boyfriend so much that she becomes irrational when he is in danger”, the most typical stereotype of a hero’s wife under male gaze.

Judged from my analysis, I think she is basically a functional character. This means she is created to fulfill a purpose in another character’s characterization, rather than existing on her own. In particular, the purpose of her creation is to add a girlfriend to Optimus Prime, so that he fulfills some people’s fantasy of a “normal” male action hero. With this function as the very beginning of her characterization, the playwright will not be able to make her a round character, or give her any believable motivations. Nor does the playwright actually care.

Now that I think about it, this kind of character may work for some people, because they genuinely believe it is necessary for heroes to be paired up with an opposite sex, or like to imagine themselves as “the lucky chosen girl” through this character (this might be harsh). But I just want to say, it doesn’t work for me. In years of reading and using feminist criticism, it has become harder and harder for me not to be picky about characters, or not to be sensitive about gender issues in any show. Repulsion is not the only way I feel about her. She is my least favorite character.

[nalyra-dreaming]

Agree about it being the opportunity of a lifetime for a showrunner -- Rolin said something to a fan in a video about never having done a show that meant so much to people and had this kind of impact, and it seems like the show is only getting bigger. And Rolin seeming so genuinely happy and thankful toward AMC was reassuring -- it didn't feel like he was just saying the PR line, it felt like he genuinely feels extremely supported by them and like they love the show.

The love of everyone on this show for this show permeates everything.

It is what makes it so breathtaking, and I am so glad - SO GLAD - that we are on AMC, and that they have a show runner who apparently allows the people he hires to bring their own visions and ideas to it.

And that they got playwrights for the writing. And decided on color conscious casting.

Show of the decade :)

I hope we get 10 seasons^^

[withasideofshakespeare]

In light of recent discoveries, I will be changing the name of this blog to honor the true author of these 37/8 plays we all know and love: Christopher Marlowe.

It has been unequivocally proven as of this week that Marlowe did not in fact meet his judgment in 1593, but rather lived on to continue his career as a great poet and playwright.

Previously, it was believed that his works left unfinished and the body identified as his were solid proof that the plays he wrote under the name of “William Shakespeare” could not have been written by the same hand as the great Tragical History of Doctor Faustus and Hero and Leander.

But as of this week, it has been proven that this evidence has long been misinterpreted. It is true that he left behind unfinished poems and that there was a body identified as his. In fact, it is even true that the body identified that day was his.

Where generations of scholars went awry, however, was in their lack of consideration for the spirit of the man whose body died that day. Using modern technology including EMWA (electromagnetic writing analysis), it was discovered that William Shakespeare did physically write the plays, but it was the spirit of the great Christopher Marlowe who was behind them via the ancient art of human consciousness possession (HCP).

Yes, you heard that right: it has been scientifically proven “Shakespeare’s” posthumously published folio which brought us some of our most beloved plays is simply radiating with electromagnetic particles that suggest the mind behind the text was not Shakespeare’s but Marlowe’s, in possession the former’s body.

I study English rather than paranormal writing analysis, so I can only explain what little I know about the subject, but from what I understand, analysis of an original printing of the first folio produced these results. Modern paranormal expert Sam Winchester says of the discovery: “It reshapes the fields of both English literature and paranormology. Most cases of PoP [Possession of Poets] are fairly low-profile. It’s rare to see a case like this. We studied the folio by analyzing the IPs [inspiration particles] and comparing them against a text authentically written by Marlowe and then one we could expect Shakespeare’s possession by Kit wouldn’t have influenced—his will. The IPs analyzed from over six hundred lines of the folio were similar in shape, color, and potency to those detected from lines of Marlowe’s Faustus, Tamburlaine, Edward II, and Hero and Leander but markedly different from those of Shakespeare’s will. The variations in the hue of the particles between Marlowe’s writings while living and those produced after his death via his possession of William Shakespeare showed that “Shakespeare’s” plays were consistent with the particles we see in other cases of PoP, proving that they were in fact written posthumously by the mind of Marlowe and the hand of Shakespeare.”

Anne Hathaway, actress and immortal wife of the late William Shakespeare said that she was “not surprised” by the new development. “Will sure seemed odd after ‘93—sorry, that’s 1593 for you all. He became suddenly obsessed with writing plays and sonnets. I was pretty excited about the sonnets initially until I realized most of them were written to some twink and not me. I suppose that’s how these things go. I still think Will would be proud of his legacy even if it wasn’t entirely his.”

Winchester recommends that “Shakespeare” scholars worldwide “acknowledge Marlowe as the true author of the plays, sonnets, and poems both out of respect for the mind behind the verse and to avoid being possessed [them]selves.” He says that paranormologists have “no reason to believe that Marlowe isn’t still out there waiting to add a few more plays to his repertoire.” In fact, he and his team are currently analyzing Tom Stoppard’s plays to rule out the possibility of another case of possession by Marlowe.

[seraphim-coinz]

Um, hi. Could I possibly have an npt pack based around art or writing?

Thanks,

- 🌙🖌️ (if that anon tag isn't already taken)

System Names: The Artists. The Author Collective. The Playwright System. The Producers. The Designing Collective. The Artsystem. The Wordsmith System.

Names: Author. Rein. Opal. Smith. Scribble. Doodle. Vel. Nova. Wright. Antoinette. Poet. Journal. Muse. Pixel. Aes. Etica. Sculptesse. Graphic. Pic.

Pronouns: Quill/Quills. Ink/Inks. Cre/Creates. Glitter/Glitters. Paint/Paints. Chu/Chus. Scribe/Scribes. Art/Arts. Craft/Crafts. Glue/Glues. Ribbon/Ribbons. Shine/Shines. Color/Colors. Bow/Bows. Blu/Blushes. Thing/Things.

Usernames: artsyfartsy. scribblescribe. thecreative. littlewriter. paintboy/paintgirl/paintkid. fingerpaintzzz. arthor. artsykiddo. alwayslosingmypens.

Titles: The Most Creative in the World. [Prn] who Creates and Creates. The Wordsmith. [name] the Playwright. [prn] who Fills Exhibits with [prns] Work.

Genders: Glitterlexic. Gendersticker. Artcuddlic. Neonartic. Artsoporine. Artsysoftian. Inkygender. Sculptgender/Sculptergender. Artdeity. Hypercoloric.

Labels: Author4Detective/Detective4Author. Pinkboy. Purpleboy. Purple Gay. Red Gay. Beige Bisexual. Pink Nonbinary. Pink MLM. Man Eating Gay.

#✦☆🌙🖌️anon

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

When Life Imitates Art

Solomon x GN! reader

Summary: Solomon admires you from afar.

AN: I've had this idea for MONTHS and I finally sat down and wrote it as a birthday present to myself. This fic is for all the chubby/plus size readers (cause I'm one), though anyone can read. Also this borders on fluff and angst, so... do with that as you will. Enjoy! :)

Warnings: mentions of the reader's body/comparing their body to art

Solomon often finds himself wondering what it is that you notice in other people. Where your attention lies when in the presence of other worldly beings- demons, humans, and angels alike. What it is that you envy. 

Because when his attention is on you, his envy lies within the brothers who get to bask in your stunning presence everyday. He hopes they empower you with words of your own brilliance. 

He knows he would.

There wouldn’t be a second where his honeyed words didn’t drip from his tongue and down your throat to your stomach, in hopes of you digesting them and feeling the intensity of their meanings. Like sweet vespers of light and adoration that exercise any insecurities you so desperately try to conceal. 

Because to him, every curve is carved beautifully like that of the ancient marble sculptures- not made to replicate godliness, but meant to replicate life. Each imperfection along your warm, soft skin is a reminder of your humanity. That you and Solomon are of the same kind, that perhaps he was carved from the same stone as you. 

If he were incompetent in the arts, he’d learn if only to capture your image- to further study everything that you are. You are one of the classics, a timeless masterpiece. 

You’re the shooting star in his lonely, night sky. A fleeting moment filled with a magic that has become foreign to him over the years, streaking color back into his eternal life- color that is richer than any gold, shinier than any precious metal. Solomon wants nothing more than to dip his monochrome heart into your vivid palette, but he refrains, afraid of muddying yours. 

He watches as your colors bleed into those around you like a kaleidoscope. Mixing and melding. It’s hard to figure out where he fits in, how his patterns complete yours… If you wear the comedy mask, he wears its twin- tragedy. If he’s the playwright, you're the star in his theatrics. 

You sit in a glass case while Solomon stands behind a velvet rope, reaching out only for his hand to press against the cold exterior. 

[madreemeritus]

Don Juan Triumphant — An analysis of Erik's masterpiece

Warning: i don't speak French and i don't have english editions of PotO, only Portuguese, so i will translate it directly from my text

Gaston Leroux's novel narrates the fact that Erik was producing an Opera of his own with the theme "Don Juan Triumphant". Unfortunately, we never hear it because it's a book, but a few adaptations brought his work to live with different interpretations.

Let's analyze what Leroux intented to write with Erik's character.

Don Juan is a Spanish archetype of a lascivious and libertine man, created by Tirso de Molina, a poet and religious playwright of the Middle Ages. His character was supposed to be an antagonist of what society considered to be moral and pure at that time. And as any other story, it has its adaptations.

Don Giovanni (the same as Don Juan) is the work of Mozart (composer) and Lorenzo Da Ponte (writer), where Don Giovanni is a scoundrel who seduces and abandons women; one of his victims has his father murdered by Don Giovanni after he tried to prevent the seduction. The spirit of the Commander (Donna Anna's father murdered by D. Giovanni) returns in the form of a statue and drags the protagonist to hell with the help of demons.

Erik, after Christine asks him to play Don Juan Triumphant, says: "Never ask me that. This Don Juan was not composed for the libretto of a Lorenzo Da Ponte, inspired by wine, by furtive loves and by vices finally punished by God. I can play Mozart if I so wish, which will bring beautiful tears to your eyes and inspire you with frank reflections. But my Don Juan burns, Christine, and not because he has been hit by heavenly fire!" (...) "You see, Christine, there is a song so terrible that it consumes all who approach it. You haven't reached it yet, and that's good, because you would lose your soft colors and they wouldn't recognize you anymore on your return to Paris" (...)

Erik says that his Don Juan "burns" and that Christine was in no condition to understand the somber depths of his masterpiece. He refuses to play Don Juan at first (although he is willing to play other Mozart pieces), but after being unmasked, he plays in a form of escapism. Christine is enthralled by the terrible, somber performance. Erik's Don Juan is a reflection of the pain he feels.

He apparently has no interest in writing a story like Don Giovanni, possibly an inspiration for him is Lord Byron's version, where Don Juan is neither a seducer nor a villain: but a victim of a cruel and false love of a woman. Erik says that it took him years to finish his work, as if each event in his life influenced the work more. He also says that, when finishing Don Juan Triumphant, he would die and be buried along with the scores: he changes his mind when he falls in love with Christine.

Don Juan is an archetype that contradicts everything Erik is and believes. Erik scares women by his ugliness / Don Juan seduces and conquers them all. Erik wants true love / Don Juan wants to deceive women in exchange for sex. Don Juan is a handsome, seductive man who is admired by people / Erik was born deformed and was abused, humiliated and rejected by (almost) everyone he met. Erik would probably change the character of Don Juan just as Lord Byron changed it according to his own life experience. That's why he is "Don Juan Triumphant", rather than the protagonist's defeat.

Christine's words after hearing Don Juan Triumphant: "His Don Juan Triumphant (for there was no longer any doubt that he had rushed his masterpiece to forget the horror of the present minute) appeared to me only one long, frightening, magnificent sob, where poor Erik had deposited all his misery." (...) "I remembered the notebook with red notes and easily imagined that that song had been written in blood. It guided me through all the details of martyrdom; it made me enter all the corners of the abyss, the inhabited abyss by the ugly man; it showed me Erik atrociously banging his poor, ugly head against the funereal walls of hell, where he had taken refuge so as not to frighten human eyes any longer, where Pain was deified, and then, the sounds that saw from the abyss and suddenly grouped together in a prodigious and threatening flight. the world. I understood that the work was finally done and that Ugliness, borne on the Wings of Love, had dared to look Beauty in the face!" (...)

For me, Erik's Don Juan is an expression of his life and inner demons. The rejection, the suffering, the pain, the hate, the jealousy, and at the same time, the love, the desire and the will to be loved like any other human being. Erik is as much compared with Death as with Sexuality. This duality would be expressed in his work. And since the work is Triumphant, in the end he would find the love and happiness he longed for.

Adaptations

In my opinion, Andrew Loyd Webber's "Don Juan Triumphant" doesn't make much sense because it only explores a carnal scandal between Don Juan and Aminta. It looks like the same character as Tirso de Molina and Lorenzo Da Ponte, not the alternative — painful and suffering — version of Erik. There is no tragedy, no hellfire and no suffering. It just seems like an empty work made to shock the society of the 19th century. "Oh but it's Erik's self insert", the original work was clearly an escapism, a reflection of his life, a form of expression of the pain he felt. It's not that Erik's work in the book doesn't explore the theme of sexuality, but that's not all. It's not just a horny show between Erik and Christine. Especially because it gives off a weird vibe that Erik just wanted sex with her, and that's a lie. I do love The Point of No Return by its beautiful melody and my E/C bullshit that likes some horny fanfiction.

I adore, however, the 1925s (or 1929s rebuilt) "Don Juan". Not only because it's the main theme scored by Gabriel Thibaudeau, but also because this specifically is the unmasking scene and it captures everything that I imagined as Leroux's description. The pain, the passion, the tragedy, is all there. Lon Chaney's Erik says to Christine that since the first time he saw her, he was inspired to write such a magnificent piece of music. Not 20 years writing it as originally, but more a romantic inspiration coming from his heart. This adaptation, to be fair, is my favorite.

And another version which I apreciate a lot is the 1989 slasher movie with Robert Englund. It's such a sublime song that remarks the exact 'Dark Romance' vibes of E/C relantionship. Obviously is not the best adaptation, actually it has little to do with the original work as Christine is a time traveler, Erik is a murderous psychopath villain and the story goes totally into a supernatural horror. But if you put in your mind that PotO and A Nightmare On Elm Street were merely an inspiration to a slasher/supernatural movie, it's actually an interesting experience.

So in conclusion, this was my analysis of the mysterious Don Juan Triumphant. Feel free to disagree or point out new things in the comments 🙏🏽❤️

[unlikelyfanhairdoalmond]

Opening night of « Still »

Adrienne Campbell-Holt, Playwright Lia Romeo, Jayne Atkinson, Tim Daly and Téa Leoni.

It says opening night but April 22nd. I thought it was April 18th?

1. Téa was here! With the green nail polish. 🟩

2. Blue shoes for Tim! They go well together with all these flashy colors. Colorful couple! 😄

3. Ring is on. 💍

[unpredictable-probabilities]

Tomorrows Over Centuries || Chapter 3: A Tale of Our Own

Summary:

Hob tours Morpheus around the bookfair, and they spend their time browsing stories together and talking about which ones they're particularly fond of.

Later on, it appears that people who go to bookfairs are drawn to the Prince of Stories, and Hob's mind recalls the night when a certain playwright caught Morpheus' attention. But unlike in 1589, Hob now has an idea about what he can do to get that attention back...

Word Count: 5,591

Rating: Explicit

Author's Note:

If you want to skip the explicit scene, stop reading at "Morpheus’ eyes turned into galaxies" and continue again at "Hob vaguely felt a shimmer of magic".

(more notes at the end)

———

Dream had been aware of the existence of bookfairs, in theory. He had never been to one. Now, as he stood in the middle of it breathing in the scent of books, seeing the daydreams of aspiring writers and avid readers, he decided that it was the type of event he would like to frequent.

“There you are.”

Dream recognized the voice behind him before he even turned to look. He smiled. Something he had found himself doing quite a lot recently.

“Here I am,” he told Hob as he faced him. Dream remembered Hob's remark yesterday about how their dean often wanted them to dress handsomely in school events, and Hob certainly followed that.

“I knew I would find you here.” The corners of Hob's eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“In the fiction section?”

“The stories section. Are we standing in the middle of your creations, Your Highness?” Hob asked playfully as he looked around at the shelves.

Dream turned to Hob curiously; his friend had never called him by such a moniker before.

Hob grinned at him. “Did a little research on your name last night when I got home. I'm in the presence of the Prince of Stories, correct?”

“A little research?” 

“Alright, a lot of research,” Hob admitted. “I just found out your name after more than 600 years, can you blame me for wanting to know more?”

Dream would normally disagree with the prospect of someone going to lengths to find out information about him, but as always Hob was the exception. “There would be plenty of time to get to know each other more deeply from now on.”

Hob's daydreams tugged at the corner of his mind, calling for his attention. Dream caught a glimpse of them having breakfast together, walking along the university grounds, falling asleep on the couch in front of the television.

He cleared his throat—a gesture he learned that humans do to interrupt another's train of thought. “Hob, you should know that when you think of me while we are so near each other, I can see your thoughts even if I do not intend to.”

Hob blinked in realization and chuckled. “Right. Well, I don't hear you complaining.”

Dream's lips curved into a teasing smile at Hob's playful tone. “There is no reason to; I fully intend to fulfill all of your daydreams. And then some.”

Hob's cheeks colored a shade of red, and he winked as he said, “I'll hold you to that.”

Dream chuckled, to his own surprise. Hob, however, looked pleased at the noise he had made.

He felt his face warm and opted to change the subject. “What else did you wish to know about me?” he inquired, having decided that he would no longer avoid Hob's attempts to know him better.

“Oh, um…” Hob seemed caught off-guard. “These books, are any of them inspired by you in particular? Did you have a direct influence on them?”

Dream tilted his head ever so slightly. “That is what you wish to know?” He had been prepared for more personal questions, aware as he was that Hob's curiosity knew no bounds.

Hob nodded, a fond smile on his face. “I wanna know what stories you like to write. Come on,” he took Dream’s hand and pulled him to the nearest bookshelf.

Dream glanced down at their intertwined fingers. In centuries past, his friend—though they were much more than that now—would never have attempted such a gesture so casually. A pleasant warmth bloomed within him at the knowledge that Hob felt comfortable enough in their new relationship as to lace their hands together in public.

“Oh, this one has your name on it,” Hob stopped in front of a shelf where a book called The Dreamcatcher Battalion was displayed.

“Ah, yes.” Dream recognized the title immediately. The illustration on the cover featured a group of four children on a flying chariot against the backdrop of a night sky; two of them wore an expression of adventurous determination, while the other two were grinning excitedly. “The author of this one grew up experiencing night terrors, and so she wrote a book about children who have the power to go into other people’s dreams and help them through their nightmares.”

Hob looked mildly surprised before smiling. “And I suppose you inspired that idea by helping her through her own night terrors?”

“I simply kept watch to make sure that the nightmares did not go far beyond their purpose; an overabundance of fear could break the mind rather than help it learn. She must have felt my presence in some way, and it led her to express the same feeling of security through these magical children. She has learned well.”

Hob turned to the book cover with a thoughtful expression. “Does it ever feel that way for you, like it’s an adventure?”

“It is my function; it was never meant to be something for me to detest nor take pleasure in.”

Hob looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Okay… But how do you feel about it? Right now?”

Dream blinked and turned his gaze to the book once more, looking at the illustrated faces of the characters who have sworn to protect dreamers from the worst of their fears. He felt a twinge of wistfulness at the knowledge that those children had each other’s company at every dream they visit, every nightmare they tame. Never had they had to make the nightly journey alone.

Then a certain librarian’s face appeared in his memory; the one who had watched over his realm even through his unexplained absence of more than a century. Lucienne was first to greet him upon his return, and had remained unwaveringly loyal through his changes in temperament.

And there was Matthew, his raven who had gone with him to Hell despite only being acquainted with him for a few hours at most. His companion who, instead of escaping to save himself, chose to stay and help Dream win the battle against the Morningstar.

“I… feel that I do like my work. Now. Seeing humans bring to life the things they dream of… It is inspiring. Whether the source is a nightmare they learned from or an idea that they dearly wanted to share with the world, I am honored to have been able to help in my own way.”

Hob was staring at him with an expression that he could only describe as fondness, though Dream wasn't certain he understood why Hob would look at him so. “It is wonderfully brilliant, isn't it? I'm glad I took the time to learn my letters at that printing business ages ago. Otherwise I might have missed out on all of this,” he gestured at the books surrounding them. “D’you see any favourites?”

Dream turned his gaze to the bookshelf at the far wall and sensed a particular story. “It would be difficult to pick a singular favourite, but there is one that had caught my attention at the time the idea was born.” He led Hob over to the shelf, silently elated by the fact that walking hand-in-hand with Hob was something that he could initiate now.

They stopped in front of a novel with an illustrated cover of two princes on either side of a princess, showing her various gifts.

“The Suitors’ Quest,” Hob read the title. “Seems like one of those classic fairytale tropes, though for it to have caught your attention I'm guessing there's something more to it?”

Dream nodded. “The story begins with the princes competing for the hand of the fair princess, aye. Then the lady gets taken hostage by the enemy kingdom, and the two rivals must work together to rescue her. They successfully do so, but along the way, they had discovered that who they truly loved was each other, and so neither desired the princess’ hand any longer.”

Hob's eyes had widened in surprise. “And… what, they get together by the end?”

“And live happily ever after,” Dream felt his lips turn up in a smile that Hob readily returned.

“Was it the unorthodox aspect that caught your attention?”

Dream paused for a moment before answering. “That book was published not too long after I had spurned you in 1889. I had thought perhaps… if I had been nearly as brave as those princes in the story, I might have saved the both of us a lot of pain.”

Hob stared at him and ran his thumb soothingly across the back of Dream's hand. “You're here now, love,” he said gently. “And I'm no prince, but you've got about a hundred titles so maybe that makes up for it?”

Dream returned Hob's playful gaze. “There is nothing to make up for. Though perhaps some of my titles might surprise you.” He reached over to the next shelf and picked up a copy of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.

Hob raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I am also what humans would call the King of Cats, and I felt the author's fondness of them in every poem of this collection.”

Hob looked at him with eyes wide with disbelief. “Is… Is that true, or is this your idea of a prank?”

Dream let his form flicker momentarily to that of the King of Cats; a feline with thick black fur and a long tail, as tall as Hob while seated on its hind legs.

It lasted for barely a second before he was back to his human form once more, but Hob's jaw had hinged open as he gaped at Dream.

“God's teeth…” he muttered.

Dream suddenly felt his shoulders tense. “Does it bother you?” he had not considered how Hob might react to finding out that not all his forms are humanoid.

Hob blinked. “What? Bother me?” he grinned. “Not at all, love! I had no idea you were such an adorable and fluffy thing, that's all.” He ruffled Dream's hair.

“I am neither of those,” Dream argued even as he felt his face warm and made no move to stop Hob from mussing up his hair.

“You are absolutely both of those,” Hob said as he retracted his hand and instead took the book from Dream. “Well. At least it's a different poet. Dunno if I wanna see any tributes to you by that wanker Shaxberd…”

“Hob,” Dream chided, feeling the corner of his lips twitch with amusement.

Hob made a face that was both petulant and playful. “He took you from me that night, I shan't ever forget it.”

Dream leaned closer to Hob and gazed right into his eyes. “No one can take me from you.”

Hob's cheeks had darkened and his voice had a slight tremor when he spoke. “R-Right.”

Dream felt the beginnings of daydreams form in Hob's mind, and he leaned away once more to prevent himself from looking into them or doing something to Hob which might border on public indecency.

“Shall we look around some more?”

Hob blinked himself back to his senses and grinned. “That's what we're here for, right? Come on, I'll show you some of the history books I saw earlier.” He began to pull Dream along down the aisles. “They got some things right and other things laughably inaccurate. We'll judge them together, you'll love it.”

***

They were in the graphic novels section when one of Hob’s students turned up.

“Hey, you like The Moomins too?”

Hob had been looking for a particular title on the shelves, and he turned around when he recognized the voice. He was about to say that he hadn’t read that series, but he realized that Jade wasn’t talking to him.

Morpheus was reading one of the volumes, and he glanced up at the question. “It is interesting.”

“Yeah!” Jade grinned and stepped closer to Morpheus, the overhead lights reflecting off the purple streaks in her hair. Her eyeliner was thicker than that of Morpheus himself, and her black lace-up boots put her at almost the same height as him.

Hob didn’t miss the way she seemed to be sizing up the Dream King.

The dean was prickly with outfits, and the bookfair felt to Hob like it would be his first date with Morpheus; he had been so preoccupied with choosing what to wear that he had hardly thought about how Morpheus would dress.

Morpheus’ unbuttoned grey jacket showed off how his turtleneck and skinny jeans hugged his figure at the right places, so Hob hardly blamed anyone for staring.

Hob himself was wearing a navy blazer over a blue button-up long-sleeved shirt, his grey pants were tailored, and he had picked his newest brown leather loafers. He felt quite good in the ensemble, especially when Morpheus’ eyes practically roamed all over him when they met up earlier.

He should have expected that Morpheus would be on the receiving end of a similar ogling.

“I grew up reading the Moomin books, and recently I’d been trying my hand at making comics. I find it easier to write stories when I draw the characters first.” Jade smiled at Morpheus in the same way she always did before she asked out a classmate; Hob had seen it a few times along the corridors.

“Jade, nice seeing you here,” he walked over to them and stood beside Morpheus.

He knew there was nothing to be jealous about, but that didn’t mean he liked seeing people flirt with his boyfriend.

“Professor Gadling!” Jade looked surprised to see him. “Hey! Is this your friend?” she nodded to Morpheus. “I was just about to ask him if he wanted to have coffee and maybe talk about comics?” She glanced expectantly at Morpheus.

Morpheus closed the graphic novel and gave his version of a polite smile. “I think not. I am in a relationship with Hob Gadling and would endeavor to remain so for the foreseeable future.”

Jade’s eyes widened as she looked back and forth between Hob and Morpheus. Then she grinned brightly. “Professor! You told us you were single!” she said in a playfully accusatory tone. “You didn’t share any relationship stories in class when the other professors did last Valentine’s day.”

Hob remembered how the students had cajoled the friendlier professors to share stories of their love lives at the party that was held at The New Inn. He just chuckled when it was his turn and said that he was married to the Inn, all the while thinking of the raven-haired fellow he built it for. He felt himself smile.

“I wasn’t lying, I really was single back then,” Hob said defensively.

“He was. I remedied it.”

Hob was not a person to get easily flustered, but the way that Morpheus smiled at him at that remark was positively sinful that it brought to mind just exactly how Morpheus had remedied it in his office yesterday. It brought up other things to mind too, but Hob clamped down on them before they could turn into full-fledged daydreams that his mind-reader of a boyfriend would be able to see.

He cleared his throat, aware that his face was burning up. “Yeah, we're dating now. Maybe at the next party I’ll have some stories to tell. None of you hound me at the Inn!” he said pointedly, as some of his students tended to waylay him at the pub whenever they had questions about the lessons or just some stories to tell him. “We might have some plans tonight,” he gestured to Morpheus.

“You got it, Professor. Nice running into you both!” She left with a mischievous smile that let Hob know that the entire class group chat was gonna know about him and Morpheus before sunset.

“Her daydreams are loud,” Morpheus said as he returned the graphic novel to the shelf beside him.

“What?” Hob looked at the direction Jade went then back to Morpheus. “Oh. Uh… Yeah. It was a little weird to see one of my students try to hit on you.”

“Her daydreams were about you and me. They occupied her mind as she left.”

Oh. Hob couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse. He sighed and ran a hand down his face. God. The questions he would receive when he got back to class.

“She was wondering about the plans you mentioned. Do we have plans for tonight?” Morpheus asked curiously.

“Maybe? If you want.” Being hopeful got him this far, he wasn't about to stop now.

Morpheus stepped towards Hob, backing him up against the bookshelf. “And would you be telling me what these plans are? Or is it a surprise?”

“I am technically still at work, duck,” Hob chided playfully. “I don't want you snogging me senseless against this shelf.”

“Your daydreams say otherwise,” Morpheus’ voice was a low rumble, and a dastardly smile was on his lips.

Hob swallowed, and his eyes followed Morpheus’ movement as he reached up–

And took something from the shelf above Hob's head.

Morpheus took a step backwards and gave Hob the volume that he had been looking for, a look of feigned innocence on his face. “I believe this is what you wanted to purchase?”

Hob blinked and took the graphic novel from Morpheus as his brain caught up to what just happened. “I'll get you back for that,” he said pointedly.

“I look forward to it.” Morpheus’ teasing blue eyes momentarily flickered to black with pinpricks of stars, and Hob could only smile and press a soft kiss to his lips. 

After an hour more of browsing stories of all genres, Hob had a basketful of books he was planning to buy. Morpheus offered to carry it for him to the cashier, but the crowd was thick among the queues, and Hob noticed that Morpheus was uncomfortable with the tight space; his posture turning rigid and guarded despite his efforts to maintain a calm expression.

So Hob had gotten him a cup of hot chocolate from the snack bar and told him to just wait there while he paid for the books. Morpheus had wrapped his hands around the cup and agreed.

Twenty minutes and one heavy tote bag later, Hob waded through the crowd and began making his way back to the snack bar. His eyes landed on Morpheus, and he was relieved to find that he looked more relaxed now than when he had left him earlier.

Hob was less relieved when he realized that Morpheus was talking to some blond man with glasses and a sweater vest, and Hob didn’t need to be able to see daydreams to notice how the chap was looking at his boyfriend.

He frowned as he remembered that the blond was one of the authors holding a book signing at a booth earlier. Hob has never denied being fond of books, and the bag he was currently carrying was evidence of that. But sometimes these writers really got on his nerves. Did they really have to pop out whenever he was with Morpheus?

Hob was standing at quite a distance away, and Morpheus hadn’t yet seen him. He shifted on his feet and wondered whether or not he should approach them.

Well, why shouldn’t he? It would be a perfectly normal thing to do. This wasn’t like 1589 when Morpheus left him to talk to someone else, and they were together now. So whoever that joker was would be the outsider in the group should Hob approach them.

But he could feel his mind overthinking and it glued him into place. What would he say once he got there? Would he be expected to participate in an in-depth discussion about what it was like to create stories? Besides, if he went over there and immediately introduced himself as the boyfriend, it might appear a tad too possessive and he didn’t know how Morpheus would react.

Hob could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. Things were much easier in the 14th century when if a man was making advances on one’s partner, one could simply clock him in the jaw and that was that.

Morpheus met his gaze so suddenly that Hob almost flinched. He had to have known that Hob was there to be able to zero in on him so quickly.

It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else, but Hob could clearly see the curiosity and amusement in the gleam of his eyes. Morpheus turned to the author again, who was entirely oblivious to the moment that had just passed.

He could see my daydreams, Hob realized. That was how Morpheus knew he was there. And the dastardly Dream King was waiting to see what Hob was going to do. Well. Hob did promise to get him back.

He walked to a wall to the side instead of straight to the bar, moving closer in a way that wasn’t too noticeable. Then he called to the front of his mind the daydreams he’d been having about Morpheus throughout his long life. It wasn’t difficult at all; it turned out that remembering them was far easier than trying to suppress them all those years.

It was certainly easy to remember how shapely Morpheus’ calves looked in those breeches he wore in 1789, and the tempting thoughts that had rattled around in Hob’s mind with the knowledge that they had a private room in The White Horse at the time.

1889 was the first time Hob had seen Morpheus with a short haircut, and was unsurprised that it suited him just as well. Hob had been able to see the slope of his neck better, and it was a short route from that observation to the thought that The White Horse had just built a new set of bedrooms upstairs.

Just an hour ago they had been walking along the aisles of books, and more than once Hob had let his gaze wander to those skinny jeans that were perfectly tailored to Morpheus’ arse.

Hob kept his eyes on Morpheus while he let his daydreams run rampant, and he saw his posture tense up again before he politely said goodbye to the author. Morpheus walked away from the bar and blended into the flow of the crowd faster than Hob could keep him in his line of sight.

He frowned and craned his neck to try to see where Morpheus had gone. He wasn’t leaving, was he—?

“Hob Gadling.”

Hob whirled around to see Morpheus standing before him with a dark expression; his jaw was clenched and there was a dangerous look in his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Morpheus seemed to loom over him.

Hob swallowed. The feelings stirring within him at seeing Morpheus like this were far from fear, but he did worry that he might have overstepped. “Alright, well, I can explain that—”

“If you wish to tempt a being such as I then you must be prepared for the consequences.” Morpheus’ voice seemed to reverberate through the air around them, and Hob felt the words die in his throat. “Tell me, what did you hope to achieve by baring your thoughts to me thus?”

Hob felt the cold wall against his back and realized that Morpheus had cornered him. None of the people walking past paid them any mind, and he could feel rather than see the shield that Morpheus had put up to hide them from sight. “You know what I want,” he breathed. “I showed you, didn’t I?”

Morpheus’ gaze softened, and he reached up to touch Hob’s face in a gentle caress. “I will not presume, my love,” he muttered.

That word embedded itself into Hob’s chest, and he found himself holding the lapels of Morpheus’ blazer. “I want you,” he held Morpheus’ gaze. “I want to bring you into my home and keep you in my heart, as I hope you’ll keep me in yours.”

“You need not wish for what already is.” Morpheus leaned forward and pressed their lips together. His hands on Hob's waist clutched at his shirt, the fabric crumpling into his grip as they kissed each other with increasing fervor.

Hob pulled back just enough to speak. “Take me to bed, Morpheus,” he managed between breaths. “Now.”

Morpheus’ eyes turned into galaxies, and sand swirled around them in an instant.

Hob fell backwards into his own bed, barely registering the heavy thud of the bag of books on the floor.

Morpheus’ hungry mouth was on his, and Hob was already pushing his lover’s jacket off his shoulders, tossing it aside the moment it slipped free.

Morpheus straddled him, and Hob moaned into his mouth as their groins pressed together.

“Hob,” Morpheus’ hair was wild and he spoke with a barely controlled voice. “What do you—”

“Everything,” Hob gasped, grinding up onto Morpheus. “All of it. You. Morpheus.”

His lips were claimed once more; and Hob welcomed it willingly. Their tongues pushed and slid against each other, and Hob melted in Morpheus’ embrace.

Hands deftly worked to unbutton his shirt, and Hob wriggled and turned as much as was necessary to get all the restricting layers off of him.

Morpheus’ mouth traveled up his jawline, resting just below his ear where Morpheus sucked and nipped at the tender flesh.

Hob arched his bare torso against Morpheus as his breathing came in shallow gasps. His hands roamed under Morpheus’ turtleneck, exploring the smooth skin underneath.

Morpheus hummed low in his throat before his shirt disintegrated into nothingness. He returned to exploring Hob's mouth with his tongue, all the while grinding his hips down.

Hob whined desperately into their kiss, his hands gripping Morpheus’ arse as he rutted against him. Too much fabric was in the way, and he pulled at the waistband of the blasted tight skinny jeans in the hopes that they would disintegrate too.

Morpheus pulled away from their kiss with a gasp, and it fueled the fire inside Hob to see his godlike lover so worked up to the point of breathing, lungfuls of air that his physical form seemed to need now.

He vanished the remaining of their clothing, and Hob couldn't find it in himself to care where his expensive trousers might have ended up, not when Morpheus crawled down his body and wrapped his mouth around his cock.

“Ohhhhh,” Hob arched off the bed, fists clenched in the sheets beneath him. Morpheus worked him from root to tip, his tongue flicking languidly at the slit. “Fuck,” Hob screwed his eyes shut as Morpheus’ throat tightened around him, his tongue and lips impossibly soft and molten hot. “Morpheus— I… Christ have mercy—” he squirmed and arched his back, but Morpheus’ hands were an iron brace against his hips, preventing him from moving them even an inch.

Blessedly Morpheus lifted his hands in order to spread Hob's thighs wider, but before Hob could think to move his hips, he felt a slick finger prodding at his entrance.

“Morpheus—!” his cock twitched in anticipation.

“Is this still good, my beloved?” his voice was rough and his gaze hungrier than it's ever been as his lubricated finger slipped in.

Hob nodded mutely, unable to form words around his shallow breaths as a second finger followed. Soon his hips were grinding down with abandon when there were three digits twisting and scraping along his walls. “M-More… I need—ahh…”

Morpheus watched Hob with rapt attention as he brushed Hob’s prostate repeatedly, enough to drag him to the edge but not beyond it.

“Morpheus,” Hob’s cock lay heavy and twitching, dripping pre-come as Morpheus continued his onslaught.

“Are you ready, my dearest?” Morpheus curled his fingers beautifully inside Hob.

“Ah—! Yes! I need you in me... Please…” Hob's hips were rolling of their own accord, and a sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead.

Morpheus leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on Hob's lips, the gesture a sharp contrast to the relentless movement of his preparation of Hob. He retracted his fingers, and Hob keened as he clenched down on the sudden emptiness.

But Morpheus didn't leave him wanting for long, lining himself up and pressing in so slowly that Hob felt every inch of his lover filling him.

Hob's breath hitched and his eyes rolled back in his head; his fingers dug into Morpheus’ shoulder as he thrust his hips upwards in encouragement. “Yesss… That's it, love… That's it…”

Morpheus latched his mouth onto the side of Hob's neck, his own breathing ragged as he retracted and sank back in, deeper every time. With his lips came tongue and teeth; he found a tender spot where Hob's neck meets his shoulders and bit down, just enough to make Hob gasp and buck his hips, drawing out a groan from both of them.

At a particularly powerful thrust, Morpheus buried himself to the hilt and a bolt of pleasure shot through Hob's core—

“Ngh! Morpheus…” his fingernails clawed at Morpheus’ back, his thighs, urging him to move with the rolling of his hips. “Don't stop… don't stop… Fuck…”

“You… are exquisite…” Morpheus looked down at him with such adoration that Hob felt himself flush even more along with the heat that seemed to be emanating from both of them. “Astonishing… Beautiful in your—”

Hob grabbed the back of his neck and crushed their mouths together, diving his tongue as far as it would go. Morpheus sped up in earnest, gripping Hob's hip as his thrusts became more powerful.

Hob threw his head back and gasped, pleas and moans and soft curses falling from his lips. The delicious pressure within him was building up fast, his thighs began to tremble, and he tensed up as he prepared to be hurled over the edge—

Morpheus slowed down, his previously brisk pace giving way to a more measured one, his lips pressing soothing kisses to Hob's neck.

“Wh…? My love… Darling…” Hob panted, the crash of frustration muddling his ability to form sentences. “What—Agh!” Sparks flashed behind his eyes as Morpheus slammed into him, picking up speed again as his breaths came in hot at Hob's ear. “Yes… Ah—Ah…”

A whine escaped Hob as Morpheus slowed down once more, his fingernails scraping Hob's thigh as he shifted into a deeper angle yet maintained a languid pace.

“You mad bastard…” Hob groaned as he realized what Morpheus was doing. He tried bucking his hips, but his lover had him pinned quite helplessly.

Morpheus lifted himself from Hob's torso to look down at him with a teasing smirk. “Do you not want to draw this out, my dearest? Will you not have me for as long as you could?” He punctuated this with a deep thrust that was infuriatingly not followed by another.

“You're going to kill me,” Hob panted and gave Morpheus a glare that was as sharp as his crumbling wits would allow him. “You would murder me in my own bed—” a gasp punched out of him as Morpheus’ cool fingers wrapped around his cock.

“Oh, not at all.” Morpheus began to stroke him in time with his thrusts, going faster and harder. “Though I have many plans for you in this bed. And my own, if you would permit me.” His breathing grew more shallow, and his gaze never left Hob as if he were a prey he intended to devour whole.

Hob could only produce noises that made no sense; words were beyond his reach now. Did Morpheus just invite him to his home? His bed? If Hob would permit— God's wounds, if only Morpheus knew that Hob had been willing to go anywhere with him long ago.

He could feel his orgasm approaching stronger than ever, and he whimpered at the thought that Morpheus might slow down again, but the heated kiss that his lover bestowed on him promised otherwise.

His moans became grunts as Morpheus sped up inside and around him, he dug his nails into Morpheus’ back, clutched at his hair, they gasped and panted into each other's mouths, and Morpheus twisted his hand just so at the same time as he slammed into Hob's prostate.

Hob came with a yowl that took the air from his lungs and convinced him he had gone blind for a moment; he trembled uncontrollably as he unraveled beneath Morpheus, who followed him over the edge with a guttural sound that branded itself onto Hob's brain.

They kissed and held each other through the aftershocks, their breaths and sighs mingling together as the tremors slowly dissipated. Hob made a soft groan as Morpheus gently pulled out and collapsed beside him on the bed.

Hob vaguely felt a shimmer of magic around them as Morpheus waved his hand and cleaned them up.

Then Morpheus laid a gentle kiss on Hob's forehead and began carding his fingers through his hair. “Are you all right, my love?” he murmured.

Hob nodded sluggishly, still catching his breath and reveling in the feeling of Morpheus’ soft touches on his scalp. He faced Morpheus and pulled him close, putting his arm around his waist and nuzzling his face against his neck. “I love you. Did I ever say?” He felt Morpheus’ breath hitch and his pulse quicken slightly.

“No. You have not said so before.” Morpheus tightened his embrace before continuing to thread Hob's hair between his slender fingers. “And I love you, Hob Gadling. With all that I am and all that I will be.”

Hob hummed in contentment, resting his hand over Morpheus’ heart that beats only for him, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

———

Author's Note:

Now with art by @emihotaru depicting their kisses~

Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats is a collection of poems by T.S. Eliot; the musical Cats is based on this collection.

The Moomin books by Tove Jansson started as a comic strip and eventually became adapted into a series called Moominvalley.

The other stories mentioned in the bookfair scene are made up by me and @patchyegg87 based on vibes and Tumblr posts we've seen from long ago.

And I know I said I was planning to post this chapter last January so I apologize for how late I actually did--

Anyway, thank you so much for reading!

Special thanks to @patchyegg87 for keeping me motivated throughout this whole thing and brainstorming scenes with me~

I'm also grateful to the other Dreamling writers whose works inspired me to write this fic in the first place:

@moorishflower

@delta-pavonis

@purplesauris

@beatnikfreakiswriting

@signiorbenedickofpadua

@cuubism

@hardly-an-escape

I know I've never spoken to some of you but I just wanted to say thanks~

And to my readers, thank you for your patience with this late upload! I hope you liked the chapter!

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