#miraculous plume

[melbatron5000]

Wild theory, hold on.

(Please do not take any of my theories to Neil himself! Don't do it!)

I've already hypothesized that Crowley and Aziraphale have been working on a plan since Armaggedidn't in season 1. Here's where I go off the rails a little bit. Come along.

Saraqael is part of the plan. She's in on it.

I have only hints and suspicions, not too much for Clues, but hear me out.

In this post, we see a weird movement between buildings behind Shax. Almost like . . . a person in a floating wheelchair coming around the corner? And Crowley is in his spy turtleneck. He's doing something spyish. Meeting an angel he's not supposed to have a connection to, perhaps? About something that maybe interests both of them? Like, not having a second end of the world?

And in this post, we see that Saraqael has opened a spy porthole onto the book shop -- but the picture in the apy porthole is in 2019.

I do not think for a moment that tiny, weenie half-a-miracle-each accidentally blew up into a 25 lazarii miracle. I think someone else at around the same time did a huge miracle, someone powerful, someone who no one is supposed to know about -- or at least, doing something no one is supposed to know about -- and Saraqael hid it the best she could.

Show the arc angels the book shop when Adam reset it. You know, after it burned in 2019. That would be some crazy big miracle energy.

Then go to Earth with the arc angels and nudge Aziraphale into taking responsibility for the miracle. He's good at lying to them, after all, he can come up with something quick. And who is it that says, "Don't tell me you did it?" Why, sarcastic Saraqael. Translation, "tell them you did it, or we're screwed." And Aziraphale jumps right in and says yes, I did that.

Then send someone who won't give back good reports to verify the miracle. Saraqael, why would you send Muriel? Muriel is so sweet and naive, she won't come up with anything she shouldn't.

Then when Crowley is searching around in Heaven, who does he run into but his (doesn't exist) contact? And she tries to give him a reason to recognize her, they worked on the Horsehead nebula together. And he laughs and says, I meet a lot of people. He doesn't need her cover story, he'll just play dumb. She kind of snorts and shakes her head, she tried to give him an out but he took his own way. Headstrong demon.

When the Metatron shows up, who recognizes him? No one but Crowley and Saraqael. Could be because they just watched the trial, could be because they've been actively working together against him for years now. Hard to say. Hard to say. I honestly didn't recognize him in a full human form for a hot minute, it's not like it's impossible to imagine no one would know him. But those two do. Feels important to me.

I don't know if I'm right, but I'm suspicious now. What are they hiding? Who was doing a big miracle that needed covering up? Whatever was the miracle for?

Also, this. More evidence. They are up to something.

[fabseg-creator]

Miraculous fanart/sketch: Émilie Agreste/Plume Azur (Peacock Miraculous)

I've made a coloured sketch of Émilie with the Peacock Miraculous. For the concept, I've thought about this design for the Adrien's mother but without the damages on the brooch. I've found the inspiration on Elsa of Arendelle (from the Disney movie Frozen) for the design.

By seeing Émilie when she's transformed, she has Queen vibes.

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir belongs to Zagtoon.

[star-the-gremlin]

Hey

Hey you

yeah you!

Remember this drawing?

Yeah that one

remember her?

yeah her

you remember? good.

Forget her!

Erase her from your memory!

Eviscerate her!

This is the new her!

Remember her

cherish her

[disorganizedkitten]

Rena

Miraculous Ladybug | 2018 | 797 | Ao3 

When Alya's sisters get Akumatized, she wants to help but doesn't have much power to. Until a feather lands in her phone.

“Alya Césaire, I am Plume Reign. Your heroes can’t fight on their own. Let me give physical form to your will to help, and they may still win this fight.”

“Really? How? Are you like a reverse Hawkmoth? Are you going to be helping Coléoptère Rose and Chat Noir from now on? How did you get your Miraculous?”

“Alya we don’t have time for this! Yes or no?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Mental links do that sort of thing,” Plume answered resignedly. “Are you on board or-”

“Yes!” Alya yelled. “But can I get an interview later?”

 Plume shook her head from her hiding place. “I’ll maintain the link whist we fight, and I’ll answer as many questions as I can, but I don’t think I’ll be able to provide an interview anytime soon.”

“Aww.” Plume could feel Alya’s disappointment, but that was quickly overtaken by wonder when her fox spirit formed.

“Whoah.”

When the fox formed, Alya really only had one thought in her head. Rena.

“Lead her to the others. She will help you,” Plume informed her through the mental link.

Alya nodded. “Rena! Come on! We have an Akuma to catch!” The giant fox tilted it’s head at her, then knelt.

“Uh, Plume?”

“She wants you to ride her. You’ll travel much faster that way.”

“Alright!” Alya touched Rena’s nose, finding it surprisingly solid. She walked over to Rena’s side and pulled herself up. She got a solid hold on Rena’s neck, and patted it. It seriously even felt like fur. “Ready Rena?”

Rena took off.

“THIS IS AMAZING!!!” Alya screamed as they raced across Paris. Riding Rena was like riding a rollercoaster on steroids. Rena ran faster than anything Alya had ever ridden before, and she kept stopping to bite off the hats of any Sapotis that came within her radius.

“What is that?” Coléoptère Rose asked, staring at the giant orange, black, and white fox that had just skidded to a stop in front of her and bitten off the hats of ten Sapotis at once.

“Another Akuma?” Chat Noir offered.

“But it’s fighting the Akuma….”

“Guys! Guys! Look what Plume Reign got me!” Alya called, leaning over the fox’s neck. “Look at this beauty! She’s amazing!”

“Plume Reign?” Coléoptère asked. “Who’s that?”

Alya paused. “What do you mean? Don’t you- Oh.” She quieted for a bit, and then nodded. “I can pass it on!” Alya slid down the fox’s side. “Thanks Rena.

“Guys, this is Rena, my will manifested physically. It’s a little weird, but we’re fighting negative emotions turned monsters so-” Alya shrugged. “Plume Reign says she has the Peacock Miraculous. It’s similar to the Butterfly Miraculous, but she swears she won’t abuse it. She’s been watching from the shadows for a few days, and says she only comes in when absolutely necessary due to how draining using her powers is.”

“Plume Reign… Are you who helped me during Puppeteer?” Coléoptère asked.

Alya paused for a moment, and her eyes flashed blue. She seemed to be listening, and then she nodded her head. “Yep!”

Coléoptère nodded. “Alright. Thanks for the help, Plume. You too Alya.”

“No problem! Let’s de-akumatize my sisters!!”

**

“Miraculous Cure!!!”

“Alya!” Ella and Etta shrieked, tackling their sister in a hug.

“There you two troublemakers are! I was worried I had lost you to a swarm of real Sapotis!” Alya hugged them back. She had been a lot more worried than that until Plume showed up, but the twins didn't need to know that.

“Alya, I’m going to pull the connection now. Thank you for helping,” Plume’s voice said inside her head.

“Okay. Thank you for letting me help! It was awesome talking to you, and it was even better to have Rena.” Alya paused. “Rena’s going to disappear, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Okay. Can I show my sisters and say goodbye first?”

Plume was silent for a moment, but then, “Go ahead.”

Alya thanked her mentally a few times as she moved. “Etta, Ella, come meet my friend Rena!”

“Ooh! Rena! Rena!”

**

Plume Reign sighed, exhaustion had settled into her bones, and she knew the sickness part was just waiting until she detransformed. But she couldn’t not let Alya say goodbye!

She would be fine to deal with it. She would have to feed Duusuu a lot, but she had brought snacks in her bag anyway.

She watched Alya pull the twins away from Rena, telling them to tell the fox goodbye. “Alright Plume Reign. Go ahead.”

“Goodbye.” Plume nodded, and motioned for her feather to drop it’s hold. The connection severed.

“Feathers down,” Plume called. Her transformation dropped, and Marinette collasped against the chimney.

“Marinette,” Duusuu started.

“I know, you need to recharge. Let’s see if we can get back to Alya’s.”

[scarlet-star-witch]

The shackles of duty

Summary: In the aftermath of Aegon's fall in the Battle of Rook's Rest, Aemond envisions his future as King with his Queen at his side

Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and in a secret relationship with Aemond

Part 2 to His Sacrifice

WC: 2.2 K

Warnings: Implied smut, possessive Aemond, kinda dark Aemond, but not really, he's more pathetic than anything

~~

Aemond stared at the plumes of smoke that billowed from where his brother and his dragon had fallen. 

His heart still raced with satisfaction, the adrenaline pumping through his veins keeping him in an almost high-like state he never wanted to come down from. His victorious smirk remained as he turned to the woman beside him who stared at the smoke with a conflicted expression. 

“With any luck, Aegon has perished, or at least will in due time.” 

She looked to Aemond, the furrow in her brow deep, betraying her indecision and unease.

She always knew what Aemond was capable of, she knew of the darkness within him, but to see it now, displayed so blatant before her very eyes, shook something within her, something she didn’t know she could feel towards the man she had loved for so long. 

Aemond grabbed her hands, holding them in his tightly as he turned to face her fully. 

“We can go back to King’s Landing. With Aegon’s state, I will be named Regent. I will sit the throne and you will be my Queen.” 

“What?” She breathed out, the only word she’d been able to speak in the past few minutes. 

“Aegon is not long for this world, surely. It won't be long until I become King. No one can deny us anything now. We can marry, you can stay with me by my side, we can rule together.” Aemond spoke with a franticness that was so unlike him, it unsettled her more than the gleam of desire in his eye in that moment. 

“Aemond…”

“We can finally be together.” He reminded her as his hand reached out to grasp her cheek affectionately, the longing he displayed tearing her insides, as if she were being pulled in two radically different directions. 

She watched him for a long moment, savoring the sight of that beautiful face she’d spent the past few years memorizing, every perfect dip and curve that never failed to leave her breathless, and emotion swelled as she realized she’d have to break his heart. 

“I can’t go with you.” She told him, her voice barely above a whisper, as if it would soften the blow, as if saying it quietly would mean it wouldn’t completely destroy him. 

His lip twitched, his smile fading slowly as he took in her words, praying he had misheard her. His grip on her hands tightened, as if he could keep her with him, as if he could forever stop her from leaving his side. 

“But…”

“Aemond, you know I cannot go with you. No one will accept-”

“Fuck what they think! You are mine and the second I sit on that throne I can make it so. No one could stop us.” 

She shook her head and moved to pull away, but he didn’t let her, his hand sturdy in hers, a look of heartbreak on his face as he felt her hesitation. 

“We are at war, Aemond. Our marriage will not solve anything, it won’t miraculously dissolve what is happening in our family, it will only create more chaos.”

“I don’t care.” Aemond spoke through gritted teeth as he stepped towards her, his hands now cradling her face. “I don’t give a shit about this war, you are all I want.”

She sniffled, bowing her head to avoid looking into his eye. It was too painful to see how she was hurting him. 

“Think about what you are asking of me.”

“I am asking you to be with me.”

“You are asking me to abandon my mother!” She yelled. 

His chest ached, the rush he’d been thriving on suddenly turning to despair as he looked at her, realizing he wouldn’t soon have her in his arms as he had hoped. 

“We can fix this.” He spoke with reverence, but it did little to soothe the storm within her. 

“Maybe we could have… but that was before- before Lucerys.” 

Aemond flinched, recoiling as if she had delivered a physical blow. 

“You know my regret for what happened. You know I would have never willingly jeopardize-”

“I know, I know.” She whispered tearfully, her hands moving up to grip at his wrists, feeling his pulse race beneath her touch. 

She remembered the night after learning of her brother’s death as she met Aemond on their Island, how he immediately fell to his knees in forgiveness, how he let her scream and cry and rage at him, how they held each other as they cried, knowing the state of their family had broken beyond repair, ruining what little chance they thought they had to one day be together as they wanted. 

She wiped her tears and with one last gentle caress to his hands, pulled them away from her, taking a step backwards before he could reach out to her once more. 

“I have to go.”

With every step she took away from him, he took a step closer, his face shifting each time she moved, his frown growing deeper and deeper as it abruptly dawned on him that he was about to lose her, yet again.

“Please, don’t do this.” 

“I’m sorry.” She choked out, the sight of him blurring as tears sprang to her eyes. She turned and didn’t look back as she climbed upon Vermithor, ignoring the pit that grew in her stomach, ignoring the voice in the back of her head that screamed at her to stay with him. 

She didn’t dare spare him a look. She knew she’d cave if she did, that she would fall back into his arms and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. 

She wiped her tears as she flew, ignoring the pull she felt to her other half as the distance between them grew greater. 

~~

A yell of pure rage escaped him as he flipped the table in his room. He grabbed anything he could get his hands on, throwing any and every object he found across the room, destroying everything in his line of sight. 

His bed was in disarray, the tapestries that lined the walls torn to pieces at his feet, candles knocked to the ground, trinkets shattered into nothing but dust as he raged. 

He only stopped when there was nothing left to ruin. 

His chest heaved with exertion as he let himself slump against his bed, burying his face in his hands as he struggled for breath, forcing himself not to let his tears fall. 

His mind raced with her words, each like a dagger to the heart, each one tearing away a piece of him, leaving him unwhole and untethered to the one thing in the world he cared about. 

Nothing made sense without her. It had only been hours and he was already spiraling. 

Simply picturing her beautiful face caused his chest to ache, as if the dagger of her words had been real, causing him to bleed and fade away until there was nothing left of him. 

He could not let this be the end. 

With a half-formed plan in his mind, he stood with haste and reached for his cloak, ensuring the hood covered his head and stepped out of his room, his steps quick and purposeful. 

He would not let her slip away from him again. 

~~

Her mind was racing, keeping her from her much needed sleep. She couldn’t stop picturing Aemond’s face, the pain she had caused him stirring her own. 

She couldn’t ignore the regret that overtook every inch of her. While she loved her mother and longed to see her as Queen, she couldn’t deny that Aemond had stitched himself within the fabric of her, he was now a part of her she couldn’t ignore. 

She didn’t quite know when it happened, all she knew was that it was too late to go back now, too late to pretend she felt nothing for him. She couldn’t move forward without him. 

She had to see him.

She hissed a curse and tore the covers off, getting to her feet and dressing in her riding leathers quickly, acknowledging the stupidity of her plan, but steadily ignoring it. 

It was easy to sneak out of the castle. She’d been doing it for years now, she could do it with her eyes closed. 

It took little time to get Vermithor in the air and on the course for King’s Landing, her heart in her throat as she flew. She didn’t know what awaited her, what danger she would be placing upon her head, all she knew was that once there, Aemond would never let any harm befall her. 

It was the only assurance she needed to drive forward into enemy territory. 

Suddenly, the bellowing roar of a dragon sounded over the din of the wind. 

She startled and narrowed her eyes, the moon providing light for her to see, but as the hulking figure of the dragon coming before her became clear, she soon realized, her eyes widening as she stared back at Vhagar. 

A breathless laugh escaped her, pure relief overtaking her as she realized Aemond was in the same state she found herself in, unable to settle for their circumstance. 

She pulled at the reins, directing Vermithor to descend, heading towards their Island with Aemond following seconds behind. 

The two mighty dragons landed and their riders met each other's gaze, the both of them taking a moment to simply admire each other, their shared smiles of equal relief and awe that they had had the same thought, the same longing to see each other. 

Her hands almost shook with anticipation as she untied herself from the saddle. 

She felt nervous, as if it were their first meeting in secret, as she approached him, but her reservations didn’t last as Aemond stepped towards her quickly, with no hesitation.

A shaking breath escaped her as she was pulled into his arms. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered weakly, her voice strained as her throat tightened, overwhelmed to be back in his loving arms. 

He shook his head and held to her tighter, softly whispering his relief to see her again

Time was lost to them as they embraced, as they held each other as only lovers could. 

“I don’t know what will happen next.” She mumbled, hating to break the moment with their reality, but it wasn’t something they could ignore for much longer. 

“I don’t either.” He admitted quietly. “But what I do know is that, whatever I do, it will not be without you. I don’t care how many times I will have to chase you down and bring you back to me, I won’t lose you.” 

“You won’t have to chase me. I’m not going anywhere.” 

His exhale of relief was loud and she barely had time to apologize again before he was kissing her firmly, leaving them both breathless and lightheaded with desire. 

His touch was desperate as he laid her down in the dewey grass. It was familiar to them, these fleeting and frantic touches all they could spare in the war that ravaged their families. 

He took her with an intensity as if it had been years since he’d felt her touch and not mere days as it had been. She felt more loved than ever before as he lavished his praise onto her, as his lips caressed every inch of her, as he made love to her with the burning passion as only a man in love could. 

Their cries of pleasure echoed on the desolate Island, their secret remaining shrouded in darkness and isolation. 

As he spilled his seed within her, his call of her name sending shivers down the length of her body, she held him tightly, wishing she could hold onto him forever, wishing she didn’t have to leave his side time and time again. 

He wasn’t quick to part from her, laying over her, his hands still eager to touch her, to remember the curves of her body in fear that it would be the last time. 

But they would never let it be the last, not as long as they still breathed life. 

He left her side with a promise to see her the next night. 

There was no mention of the throne, of titles or battles. It didn’t exist in their time together, the both of them determined to blissfully ignore the reality that was slowly crushing them, slowly pulling them further and further apart, no matter how hard they tried to fight it. 

~~

He lingered in her mind as she woke alone but sated, the phantom bliss of his touch, bringing a smile to her lips in the early morning. She could still feel the warmth between her thighs, feel the pleasurable burn of the marks he had left on her body. 

She smiled politely as her maid entered, placing breakfast down for her. 

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Princess?” 

Moon tea.

The words were on the tip of her tongue. She trusted her handmaiden, she’d never given her a sideways glance over the past years when she requested the drink. Her mother was still blissfully unaware, which meant her maid was at least keeping her secret. 

Yet the words didn’t come, a decision made in a fraction of a second. 

“No, thank you. That is all.” 

As her maid left, her hand drifted to her stomach, a smile forming on her lips as she wondered what their child would look like. 

~~

Hope you enjoyed! I have more Aemond content coming! I literally have a thousand ideas for this beautiful man, so stay tuned xx

[lydiablackblade]

Yes, Aziraphale's being funny butchering the poor French language, but did you really consider what it means?

He speaks every language in the world. He could decide at any moment that from now on his French is perfect and fluent. But he doesn't want to. Not just because he likes to do things as humans do.

But because it is something he did. Not a celestial or miraculous gift. It has nothing to do with he's being an angel. He chose to be imperfect, he, who's always so worried about what others think about him. He worked hard for his horrible French. It's his. His making. His hard labour, his prize. It's said French is the language of love. Knowing this Aziraphale worked really hard to learn love.

To express his love. To communicate his love. It's maybe imperfect, it's maybe ridiculous, but this is his way.

But Crowley understands. Understands, because for 250 years Aziraphale has been wittering on about the plume of his imaginary Tante.

For the last 250 years Aziraphale has been communicating his love to Crowley. Imperfect, stuttered, hard to understand. But his way.

Nice addition that he attended to Monsieur Rossignol's night class.

[noneorother]

The puns are never ending : Aziraphale's miraculous "visable" bullet.

Aside from this closeup diagram of how to perform the bullet catch being objectively hilarious, it's also got a pretty fascinating *spelling mistake*.

If you look closely at the part of the pamphlet in red, you'll see that the bullet should be hidden in the mouth where it won't be visable. Not "not visible". Not visable. Seems innocuous enough right? But of course, the layers are never ending.

"Visable" is actually a Middle English word, *not* a modern English one. The last time it was used was before the printing press was invented, so pretty old. Here's a little background :

What's really fascinating though, is that just like the expression "dark horse", the word has two meanings : one is "Capable of good judgement, prudent" the other is "Tractable and docile".

There are also only two examples of the word in context that I can find, and they really should be sending you into orbit :

The first one is actually from Henry Lovelich's translation of the French epic poem "The Romance of Merlin" also known as the first English treatment of the Arthurian legends. It's modernized as "He was a worthy knight, valiant and visable in every fight." Which uses the "good judgment" meaning and sounds... a lot like Aziraphale in his role of guardian and protector.

Why do we care? They are standing literally in front of Excalibur, Arthur's sword.

The other one is from "Ipomadon", another middle English epic poem about a hidden identity romance between a beautiful but proud heiress, and her dark knight in disguise. "She was... visable and virtuous, meak and mild, and marvellous." Which clearly uses the "tractable and docile" meaning, but also... kinda sounds like Aziraphale in his damsel in his distress mode, which:

Ahahahah fuck off. But wait, there's more!

I originally twigged to this error because if you, like me, also happen to speak the language of la plume de ma tante, you know there's a reason why the uses happen in epic poems that originated in France: it's a loan word from old French, and still exists today in modern French, but it doesn't mean tractable and docile...

For the non-french speaking among you, it's a derivation of the verb "viser" :

Verb 1 To aim 1.To aim, to carefully direct one's gaze or a weapon towards a goal to throw something at it.

And so, if you happen to be, oh I don't know, a demon and have been alive for thousands of years and can definitely speak all the languages on earth and happen to have participated in the Arthurian age in England, when you read that pamphlet really carefully because someone is making you do a crazy stunt and there's a miracle blocker on, you could *conceivably* have read the instructions as:

"IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT YOU LOVE, DO NOT SHOOT AZIRAPHALE IN THE FACE." ________________________________________________________ Thanks to @thebluestgreen and @embracing-the-ineffable as always.

[sillygoofylittleartist]

Mayura redesign. There were a lot of things I liked about her original design but the main thing I wanted was to amp up the peacock aspects since they have so much drama and vibrancy to their looks. I also wanted her color palette to have more peacock colors so I added a lot more green and toned down some of the pink.

I changed the pattern to be more like the actual feathers of a peacock. I lengthened the skirt and removed the feather/fur cuffs on her sleeves and neck. Peacocks have a lot of different types of feathers but none of them are super floofy as they’re generally pretty sleek so I wanted to reflect that in the design.

I also added a caplet and a top layer to her skirt both with the feather patterns. I also gave her gloves with claws like peacock nails, partly because I love chat noirs claws and I want them to be incorporated into more characters, especially since so many of the animals have claws or talons.

Finally I gave her a mask with markings like on the face of peacock and instead of the little hat piece thing I gave her a little accessory kind of like the ones from the flapper headbands. I thought her hair and stuff reminded me of a sleek 1920s look so I figured that would work.

To the little accessory I added plumes like the ones on the top of a peacocks head. They’re so specific i don’t know how any peacock based design could leave them out.

This redesign is kind of busy but I hope it’s not too overwhelming. The color palette gave me a hard time but I think I made it work. I want to see a non villain design of the peacock miraculous with a brighter color palette.

🦚

[1800titz]

something about tdiag harry and his and yns relationship after they know each other and it’s out in the open. domestic dominance. him domming her in her own house.

I did a little blurb on the coffee funishment thing I talked about a little bit here!! :D

WC: 896

>>>>>>>>>>

In one fist cradling a handle, fawn liquid with a plume of steam curling up out of the mug. It’s chalky— there’s too much creamer, and probably too much sugar. He knows the way she likes it. In the other—

Harry blinks. 

Isla gnaws into her cheek, the way she does when she’s trying to get a rise without outwardly chortling, like she’s trying to stifle a peal of laughter before executing the punchline of a joke. 

“Very funny,” he hums. 

The other mug is stuffed with unground coffee beans. The corners of her mouth twitch. She sticks it into his direction; an outstretched offering of an unbrewed, caffeinated concoction in its raw form. Her lips wobble. 

He’s awake. 

“It’s your coffee,” Isla murmurs. Clears her throat when the statement garbles over poorly cached mirth. 

He takes the mug, and her serious mien cracks like a heap of bedrock crumbling, giggling as his shoulders climb and fall on an exaggerated sigh. If she wasn’t so amused, something would probably itch in her guts at the sight of him denuded and exasperated, shirtless and sleep-soft under the eiderdown. 

The way he scrubs over his face and stares into the mug like he’ll miraculously discover actual coffee — based on his intended request — at the bottom if he just stares long enough, the edges of his mouth ticking in lopsided amusement (he abysmally masks), just has her laughing harder. 

“You’re a fucking brat,” Harry tells her, finally, bobbing his head, and her tummy swells with her hiccupy cackles— his head twists as he toggles over his phone— “It is— eight in the morning, you little menace. D’you just… plan these things the night before?”

Isla shrugs. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He cocks his head. A soft come hither with a head of soft curls— she obliges, and he sweeps her mug from her hands, carefully, grappling over the top of the searing ceramic like it’s a balmy warmth to the pads of his fingers. Sets it onto the nightstand on a coaster. 

“Well. You can go ahead and eat one of these,” Harry tells her, cradling her close by the small of her back and nudging the cold cup of coffee beans between them. 

Isla sputters. “What?” 

“Well, what did you want me to do with it?” 

“It’s— your coffee,” Isla parrots, pointedly, muffling her speech with another snort. 

Harry hums. He blinks and tells her, slowly, “Eat one.” 

“No,” she squawks indignantly, wriggling reflexively in his hold when his forearm cinches. 

He loosens, the corners of his lips curling in a deceitfully sangfroid simper, “No?” And then—

Isla makes a little sound when he sets the coffee beans onto the nightstand beside her own confiscated beverage and manhandles her into pitching over onto the mattress, clambering up onto his knees with surprising speed for the hour on what’s meant to be a languorous weekend. 

“Did you just tell me no?” 

Isla laughs nervously, stuttery, and dim, and smothered against the comforter when he digs his knee into the small of her back, hiking up her sleep-shirt (an oversized keepsake borrowed to never be returned from his own collection) enough for her panties to peek. 

“…No?”

An indignant sound mottles her paroxysm when Harry pins her arm behind her back, slotting the bones in her wrist into a posture of filched obedience. 

“Hm?” 

A cry, then— something that starts sharp out of surprise and thaws into a soft hum when he swats over her backside with his free hand enough times to make her whine. Not enough to make it hurt. She twists her head over the duvet when he pauses, just enough to catch a glimpse of his torso stretching and his arm reaching—

She gasps, like a breath before letting a lapping salt chuck swallow her down, and contorts (with little leverage on account of the knee stapling her to the bed). Isla flails and squeals when he fingers a coffee bean past her lips. Pure sadism. It’s bitter — the amalgam of uncooked coffee and his cruel mirth, meshed with his skin stroking over her taste buds. She nearly bites—

She sputters as he tucks his fingers out, gauging her aim, and spits it back onto the blanket. He makes a disappointed hum, and she wriggles under him.

“You’ve made a mess, well done,” Harry sighs. He plucks the sloppy remnants from the sheets, “What have you done that for? …Perfectly good coffee.” and sets it onto the nightstand. 

Her face creases. He’s a mean, mean man. She lets him know as much, brows pinched, and Harry hums something amused in response, digging the weight of his knee back into her when he reaches over and culls her coffee. 

She gets just enough of a peer to note the way his nose scrunches before he clears his throat and tells her, “Fuck me, that’s sweet.” 

Isla groans. The mug returns to the nightstand with a clink. He presses a palm over her shoulder blade and murmurs, “Coffee. Black. You know the way I like it. Get it right this time. And,” his hand meanders from her back to her crown when he nudges her face into the soiled spot she’s left with her saliva, garbled with hints of a lax grin, “You’re going to clean this up, or I’m going to spank you raw.”

[ddagent]

The huge plume of miraculous activity. Last night. From this shop. Nearly 25 Lazarii. Don't tell me you did it.

[selunesdreams]

Chapter 7: Weisshaupt

“You call that nice and quiet?” “Sorry, catch up when you can!” Rook called down. Spite’s wings flared wide behind him and he launched himself upward, soaring up to join them. He landed next to her, close enough that she felt his boots reverberate against the floor. “All caught up.” He purred in her ear. The gravelly tone told her it was Spite's voice speaking, somehow much more quietly than usual. So he did have an inside voice.

Pairing: Lucanis x Fem Rook/OFC x Spite???

Summary: Rook nearly crashes out over trying to keep a kid she sees too much of herself in safe, Lucanis shoots for the stars and still misses the clouds, and Lucanis Spite can't stop putting Rook in "innocently" compromising positions. It's Weisshaupt. You know the drill.

Word Count: 4k

Things of note/warnings: 18+ fic, MDNI! warnings: blood, violence, gore, darkspawn - Weisshaupt stuff. Please read on AO3 if you need to track warnings, they will be inevitably detailed better there (or just want to be real sweet and give me hits/kudos/comments).

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

As she passed through the eluvian, Rook’s boots fell on the stone floor of Weisshaupt. Davrin stepped through after her and looked around. 

“This isn’t the vault.”

“They moved the eluvian?”

The fortress trembled violently, and she lost her footing as loose stones broke free from the walls, crashing down in a deafening avalanche. Davrin drug her back into a pile of crates that splintered underneath their combined weight, and the Eluvian crashed through the wall, tearing half the room away with it. A plume of dust rose in its place, several birds taking flight from nearby trees as it met to the ground below.

Davrin clambered to his feet and peered out over the ledge.

“It didn’t break!” His voice echoed as he called over his shoulder to Rook.

She squinted through the haze and joined him, sighing with relief at the sight of the eluvian, miraculously intact, several stories on the lawn below. Neve emerged unscathed, followed by the others. Lucanis hoisted himself over the edge, standing and placing his hands on his hips, examining the wreckage.  

“You call that nice and quiet?”

“Sorry, catch up when you can!” she called down.

Spite’s wings flared wide behind him and he launched himself upward, soaring up to join them. He landed next to Rook, close enough that she felt his boots reverberate against the floor.

“All caught up.” He purred in her ear. The gravelly tone told her it was Spite's voice speaking, somehow much more quietly than usual.

So he did have an inside voice.

The violet sclera of his eyes gleamed mischievously and she held his gaze until all signs of the demon disappeared. Soon, Lucanis blinked back at her in surprise, their faces only a breath’s width apart. Rook turned her head abruptly in the direction of the exit. 

“Time to go.”

“Shh! Darkspawn outside!” A faint whisper came from behind the shelves near the door. A young girl rose to her feet, dressed in Warden’s clothing tailored to fit her small frame. She was just barely illuminated by the torches on the wall as she held a finger to her mouth to silence them, but from Rook’s vantage point, she looked to be about seven years of age.

“Darkspawn, in Weisshaupt?” Davrin asked, sounding equally perplexed.

Rook crouched beside the girl. “Just…keep hidden—"

“Mila.”

“Sit tight, Mila,” Rook forced a reassuring smile and pushed through the doors. “We’ll be right back.”

They exited to the courtyard, where they were greeted by a chorus of dying screams and shouts for backup. Rook cast another nervous glance over her shoulder towards Mila, hidden behind the shelf, her wide brown eyes fixed on their every move.

They exited to the courtyard, where they were greeted by a chorus of dying screams and shouts for backup. Rook cast another nervous glance over her shoulder towards Mila, hidden behind the shelf, her wide brown eyes fixed on their every move. Lucanis gave her arm an encouraging squeeze, pulling her attention away.

“She’ll be fine. Don’t get distracted.”

“ She’s too young to see this,” Rook rasped. “I’d seen just as much carnage by her age. But not like this, not darkspawn-"

“Rook, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I need you focused. Let me worry about Mila. You don’t worry about anything but getting me a clear shot to Ghilan’nain.”

He took off in a sprint, a purple aura enveloping him as he drop-kicked a darkspawn and cleaved its head clean off. Ahead, Davrin and Assan were cleaning out the rest of the horde. Rook joined in, sending fire spells in every direction before pulling out her mage knife.

“Where are all the Wardens?” She yelled, cutting the arm off an advancing ghoul.

“Fighting outside, from the sound!” Lucanis’s voice came from behind, and she turned in time to see him deliver a fatal blow to a giant Hurlock, its enormous fists poised to crush her.

“Thanks.” Rook panted.

“Just remember our talk, mm?” He sheathed his blade with a metallic click and surveyed their surroundings. “That’s all of them, for now.” 

Mila appeared from behind a rock. “At least it wasn’t ogres!”

“You know your darkspawn,” Davrin remarked.

“My dad’s a blacksmith for the Grey Wardens.”

Rook tightened her grip on the hilt of her knife, her knuckles turning white. Their plan hinged on her ability to focus and pull her own weight. “Mila, do you know Antoine and Evka?”

“Yeah. They’re probably in the war room. I can show you,” she offered, running ahead. Rook trailed closely behind, keeping alert.

“Oh no, the door’s blocked! I know a secret passage. Come on!”

They rounded a corner, coming up on a dead warden, slumped over next to a darkspawn impaled against the wall. Its grotesque form served as a barricade that held the passage shut.

“Damn.” Rook slapped a hand over her mouth to block out the stench. In her peripheral, Mila was putting on a brave face.

So she’s seen death.

“That’s Commander Janos. One of our best.” Davrin said remorsefully.

“Then let’s make sure he didn’t die in vain.” Rook pulled Janos’ sword from the abdomen of the darkspawn, examining it in the light before slipping it into a spare hilt in her armor.

He wouldn’t be needing it anymore, but she might.

The corpse fell forward, and the passage slid open, allowing the four to step inside.

“When did the darkspawn attack, Mila?” Lucanis asked.

“Just a while ago, they started climbing the walls!”

“You should stay here.”

“I can’t. I need to find my dad!”

Rook swallowed hard. She clung to that hope once, that her father would be fine, that she needed to protect him . Only to come home and find…

No.

She didn’t have time to reflect on that dream again. Fucking Dread Wolf. Why would he think pressing her about her father’s death would do any good?

Rook froze as they pushed through another pair of vaulted doors, revealing swirling black clouds that formed Ghilan’nain’s face, her eyes like blue fog.

“Grey Wardens! I wield the power of the blight.”  

“How the fuck do I stab a cloud?” Lucanis hissed. 

A dragon dove in the sky ahead with a shriek, disappearing beneath the horizon, before swooping up and taking half the platform with it. Stone and armor and weapons went flying, and Rook stumbled, shielding her face. She couldn’t hear any more of Ghilan’nain’s words over the ringing in her ears.  

“Do you pray? Might be worth a shot.” Dacron said, charging forward.

“The war room’s this way!” Mila hollered.

Rook shred through two ghouls, drops of blighted blood painting the ground beneath her feet. “Good, you’ll be safe there.”

“Not yet. I need to find my dad.”

Rook let out a frustrated sigh and pushed against an enormous pair of iron doors with all her strength, entering the room just as the First Warden barked orders. A dozen Wardens talked over one another, suggesting different courses of action.

“Good luck.” Mila said, taking off in the opposite direction.

Evka stood toe to toe with the First Warden. “There’s no choice, ser. We’re under siege - we have to fall back to the dragon trap!”

“Forget the trap!” He said, holding up a hand to silence her, “Send word to Commander Janos. Rally outside the wall.”

“We don’t have time for this…” Rook muttered and drew Janos’ sword from inside her coat.

With a resounding thud, the weapon landed on the table, splattering blood across the map. Knocking out Janos’ strategy piece, it rolled to a stop before the First Warden.

“Janos is dead.”

His eyes narrowed in anger. “What are you doing here?”

Rook braced herself on the table. “Fighting your battle.”

The First gestured to the Wardens standing behind her. “Arrest them.”

Antoine caught him as he tried to turn away. “Non! You need to listen to them! We are under attack by a god!”

“Do you hear yourself? There’s no such thing. Stop finding excuses to be a coward! Order every blade out of Weisshaupt!”

Evka rushed forward. “We’ll all die ser!”

“That’s an order, Warden!” 

The grip holding Rook’s arms behind her back loosened, a sign of the Grey Wardens’ growing doubt in their commander, allowing her to break free. Balling her hand into a fist, she let her temper guide her as she stepped in front of the First Warden and punched him square in the jaw, just the way Viago taught her. She shook the shock out of her fingers as he hit the ground, unconscious.

Lucanis crossed his arms, admiring her work. “Can’t say you didn’t try.”

Several Wardens advanced on them, blades drawn, and he took a defensive stance in front of her, hands on his daggers. 

“No!” Evka said, stepping between them, “Listen to Rook, that’s an order.” She turned around, lowering her voice. “I assume you have a plan?”

“I don’t, but…the dragon trap you mentioned…”

“It was built 900 years ago to stop an Archdemon,” Antoine began, “But-”

“Get down!” Davrin shouted. 

A flash of violet wings unfurled around her and Rook was tackled to the floor just as the dragon appeared in the window, unleashing flames through the entire war room. Bodies and debris flew in every direction, and as Lucanis landed on top of her, her skin suddenly felt dry and raw from the fire overhead. He lifted his head from where it had fallen between her neck and shoulder, all signs of Spite gone from his gaze, and rolled off of her, using a stone table behind them for cover.

“Where’s this trap?” Rook asked, huddling against a fallen stone table.

“Other side of the fortress,” Antoine said, “but it’s never been used-” 

“It only has to work once. Let’s go!” 

She broke into a run, and Weisshaupt soon became a blur of blood and blight. Every decision she made was guided by urgency and her conviction to their plan, which was still unfolding as they moved through the stronghold. Bells rang overhead loudly, disorienting her. Rook was blown back repeatedly by fallen debris, archdemon attacks, or darkspawn, and each time, Lucanis or Davrin would yank her up by the collar and pull her along. When every exit vanished as they fought their way to the dragon trap, a ladder suddenly was thrown over a nearby ledge. Mila, who had vanished in the war room, had in fact not found her way to safety, stood above triumphantly. Rook pulled herself up to higher ground and kept running, ensuring Mila remained behind Lucanis, but ahead of her and Davrin, always protected. 

They reached a courtyard, and Taash opened a pair of doors for them. 

“Rook! Get your asses in here!” 

Lucanis leapt and sliced through the darkspawn, killing his way through the horde while Rook, Davrin, and Mila navigated the blight spots bursting open on the ground.

“Go, go, go!” Rook fired several spells behind her until she made it inside. Lucanis slipped in after them, shoving his full body weight against the doors. Everyone else did the same, and they rattled shut, but threatened to burst back open as the darkspawn plowed into them from outside. 

Taash braced against the barricade. “You’re alive.”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Rook said with a grunt. 

“If this door doesn’t hold, all bets are off.” Davrin said, straining beside them.

“But what about the dragon trap?” Bellara asked. 

A man in matching attire to Mila’s brought a hammer down onto a contraption near the doors, and a wooden beam fell down behind them, holding them in place. 

“The trap will work.”

“Dad!”

As Mila ran into her father’s arms, Rook slouched against the door, leaning her head back and wiping sweat from her brow. Lucanis crouched beside her, reaching for her shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

She didn’t respond, watching the reunion with a weak smile.

“Rook?”

“I’m fine.” 

“Hope she wasn’t too much trouble.” As the blacksmith approached, Mila's arms hugging his waist, Rook forced a smile.

“She was incredible.” She said, her eyes shining. 

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

With Mila’s father, Holden, taking the others to deploy the dragon trap, Rook, Lucanis, and Davrin cut their way through blight and darkspawn in the Weisshaupt library. As she stepped onto the roof, the cold air whipped against her face, throwing her hair back.

“Rook - she is a cloud.” Lucanis wrapped his fingers around her wrist as she stared at Solas’ dagger. Distant strikes of lightning reflected in the lyrium. “Are you sure this is a fight we can win?”

“I mean to find out.” She said and thrust the knife into the air.  

Ghilan’nain’s vestige turned on her, and her archdemon soared through the cloud resembling her face, landing on the walls of the fortress. It sunk its claws into the bricks, sending them tumbling as it threw itself down on the ground and ominously stepped towards Rook.

“Come on…” Rook mumbled to herself. 

The dragon struck, and she leapt aside, surging with relief as she heard the click of a footplate. The trap activated, unleashing spears on chains to embed themselves into its scales, dragging the beast to the ground. An eruption of cheers broke out above as Davrin pulled her to her feet, looking down somberly.

“Give Assan a hug for me..okay?” 

“Anything, Davrin…” Rook said hoarsely as he passed her off to Lucanis, who gripped her shoulders, fingertips digging into her light armor.

“Stand down, Warden!”

Rook turned in surprise to face the First Warden as he stalked towards them from the nearby rubble.

“My war, my glory.”

Rook held up her hands indifferently and pulled Davrin back. “It’s all yours.”

He scoffed. “At least you’ve got some honor in the end.”

Spite growled behind her, peeking through Lucanis’ features. She knew he’d run the First Warden through with a blade if he weren’t already stepping towards his death so willingly.

The First, sword drawn, limped past the archdemon’s glowing eye as it blinked at him weakly, still assessing, and climbed atop its head. He took his blade in two hands, raising it overhead, and aimed it at the dragon’s skull.

“As supreme authority of Weisshaupt, I hereby declare this Blight at an end!” 

As he brought the sword down, Ghilan’nain burst from her thrall’s belly, and snatched the First Warden in the air. She held him by the throat, and his hands grasped wildly at her fingers, legs kicking helplessly below him. 

“Racing heart. Ragged breaths. A waste of useful blood!” she screamed, shoving her hand through his chest. Rook recoiled at the sound, the sickening squelch of flesh and bone breaking. His blood splattered on the archdemon below, the blight within it restoring the monster, and Ghilan’nain discarded the corpse in the trench over her shoulder. The body vanished under the waves, tossed by the violent surge as a serpentine head burst from the archdemon, letting out a deafening screech that echoed through all of Weisshaupt.

Rook readied her staff and unleashed a torrent of fire until the beast retreated. It rose again, crashing down beside her on the field. She recovered her footing and focused on her training, the long days and nights when Viago would teach her to dodge, parry, and shield. Her cousin knew little of magic, but at least that part came instinctively. While he was alive, her father taught her all he could, and she intended to use it. 

“What is that?” Lucanis exclaimed as a mass of darkspawn crawled up over the edge of the trench and descended upon them. He cut through a line of them in one fell swoop.

“The real Archdemon!” Davrin replied, “We have to kill it! Ghilan’nain’s invulnerable until we do!” 

The beast rose and fell several more times, each impact sending shockwaves through the ground. Rook ducked and rolled clear of each of the creature’s attacks, but her energy wore thin as a second head ascended from the ground. She let out a scream of frustration and drew her mage knife, jumping and slicing at the serpent’s veined neck when it dove towards her again.

“Get out of there!” Lucanis called out as a third head appeared over the ledge. Rook balked, and he shoved her out of its path into the rubble.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” She said, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. 

“You have to keep going.” He urged her, “At least until I can get my shot.”

Rook traded her sword for her staff and fade-stepped across the battlefield, throwing as many spells at each serpentine head as she could. Anything that would stick. Assan attacked from above, slaying several ghouls as her surroundings became tighter than she’d have preferred.

It wasn’t until all three heads came down that she gave it everything she could. With a roar, the archdemon screamed, blood spurting from its injuries and raining down upon them. The creature collapsed and writhed, its movements growing weaker with each passing second.

“Davrin, kill it!”  

The Grey Warden nodded, stepping forward with a deep breath, stabbing it through the eye. He looked like he had been bracing for something, but as the creature’s death rattle came, he met Rook’s gaze, surprised. 

Shaking her disbelief away, Rook threw Solas’ dagger to Lucanis, who was poised on a nearby ledge, ready to strike. 

“Now, finish her!” 

He caught it in one hand, Spite’s wings flaring out behind him, and leaped into the air, gliding overhead until he reached Ghilan’nain.

Lucanis was a blur in the sky, but he made contact - Rook was sure of it - before he was flung to the ground. He landed on one knee, his arm braced out before him, face contorted in sheer rage as he skidded across the soil. 

He missed. 

Ghilan’nain touched her face and shrieked as she drew away blood, raising her arms in the air to summon more of her blighted monsters to come to her aid.

“Let’s go!” Rook screamed, grabbing Lucanis by the shoulder. 

“Give me another shot!” He snarled, shoving her off. He ignored her, his eyes fixated on the elven goddess. 

“Lucanis, don’t you dare!” Rook said, railing her fist into his arm to catch his attention.

Mierda. He fully intended to fly back up there. 

Rook threw herself in front of him and shoved him, hammering her fists into his chest until he scowled, relenting and turning to retreat towards their allies. She chased after him, her feet pounding into the earth with so much force that she could feel the buzz in her skull. He could be pissed at her later. She didn’t care. She sprinted to where the eluvian glowed between Bellara, Holden, and Mila, and leapt through.

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

The last of the civilians and Grey Wardens made it to Lavandel, but not without devastating losses. Davrin received word of the climbing death toll: the once mighty order of over 1000 had quickly dwindled to the low hundreds. 

In grief, there was also tension. Davrin and Lucanis, both battle-worn and weary, had been at one another’s throats since their return to the Lighthouse. Davrin blamed the Demon of Vyrantium for missing his shot, claiming Spite was pulling his punches, and Lucanis retorted with an insinuation that the blight in the Grey Warden’s veins might have been manipulated by Ghilan’nain. 

Poor Harding and Emmrich had tried to act as peacemakers, only to be snapped at in the line of verbal fire. Varric, a voice of reason amidst the chaos, urged Rook to break up the escalating conflict and dismiss the team to gather themselves. Bellara, who had only just had a run-in with her presumed-dead brother days ago, was carrying massive guilt in his betrayal, as if she had anything to do with it. Neve was still grieving for Minrathous. Taash was still working out their identity and disagreement with their mother. Even Harding was coming to terms with magic that Rook wasn’t even sure she trusted.

Everyone had baggage to attend to, and they needed to work as a unit, not divided. 

Exhausted and emotionally drained, Rook longed for her bed, but she wasn’t done yet. Lucanis had stormed off and locked himself in the pantry, and she didn’t want to think about the rage boiling within him that would only feed Spite’s determination. With their luck, she’d wake up tomorrow with two dead allies and an orphaned griffin.

She knocked, cracking the door. “Lucanis, are you in here brooding?”

“I’m fine,” came his response, tired and melancholic. He sat on the bed, glaring at the floor, hands clutching a cup of coffee.

Rook stepped inside and gently closed the door behind her with a gentle click. “That’s not a no.”

“I had her. She should have never gotten away from me.” he shook his head. “This was our contract, Rook. I don’t fail my contracts.”

“Think of it less as a failure, more an…extension?”

His stare, dark and intense, met hers from under lowered lids. “You shouldn’t go easy on me. In our line of work, mistakes get people killed.”

Rook groaned loudly, throwing her head back. 

“Alright, fine. You fucked up. Maybe it’s because you’re not sleeping, maybe it’s because you were aiming at a god. We get over it, and we get back to work.”

“I thought I had this,” Lucanis said. “Whatever else I am, I’m a professional. After the Ossuary, I thought I could at least still take out a target.”

“You can. You just need to sleep.”

He stared at his hands.

“You might be right. I was distracted. That cannot happen again. I need to get my head on straight…”

Rook joined him on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. It was little more than a blanket laid across a stone slab - by far the most uncomfortable thing she’d ever sat on. This had to be some twisted, self-imposed punishment on Lucanis’ part.

“You might have missed your target, but you saved my life out there more times than one. I owe you for that.”

“Ah, so now we’re even?” He asked, smirking and nudging her with his elbow. 

She shrugged. “If that makes you feel better, sure.” 

Lucanis frowned. “You’re too lethal to be a damsel in distress, Fiamma. What happened out there?”

Her ears instinctively pricked at the sound of her real name, and she lowered her eyes.

“Solas had this way of…bringing on a nightmare after I spoke with him in the meditation chamber. Some sick way of trying to motivate me.”

“What was it?”

“It was a memory of my father. The night…”

“Are you serious, Rook?” Lucanis’ voice rose as he stood up. “He can’t do that! You can’t let him just get in your head and-“

She tugged him down gently. “Says the guy with a demon making the calls half the time.” 

He scowled and sipped his coffee. 

“You know all…this isn’t part of our contract. You don’t have to keep trying to protect me.”

“It doesn’t need a contract.” He said plainly. 

“Is it for Viago, then? Because I swear-”

“It’s not for Viago.” 

She blinked at him. “Then why?”

“I like you alive, Rook. More than getting paid, more than keeping your cousin’s favor.” 

With a playful glint in her eyes, she shoved him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed today.” 

Lucanis’ brows shot up as he covered the rim of his cup, preventing his coffee from spilling. He set his mug down on the bedside table, grinned, and leaned closer. Rook held her breath in anticipation, but he quickly squeezed his eyes shut and turned away with a grimace. 

“Lucanis?” she reached out to touch his shoulder, and he flinched.

“I need to work.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a migraine. Spite, more likely. “I’ll check in with the Crows. Once I sort this…Zara stuff, I can focus again. The others, Davrin-”

“I’ll handle the others.” Rook stood up to leave. “Get some rest.” 

“I’ll try.”

She rested her head on the doorframe and lingered with a pleading look. “Do it for me?”

“For you?” He stretched out, tucking his arms beneath his head, and managed a tired smile. 

“I’ll try harder.”

[skirter01]

Top Gun: Fenton - Chpt 1 (Teaser)

Bout time I put this one out here. Will be up on Ao3 in the next 2 weeks!

The thing about plummeting 20,000ft through the air in the middle of the night – if you realise it's a bad idea halfway down, it's already too late. 

“Holy sh*t!” 

Admittedly, not one of Danny’s favourite ways to wake up. 

He could barely right himself as he plummeted through the dark sky in a mess of flailing limbs and flapping NASA pyjama pants. Obviously not his best look, but it wasn’t like he was prepared to wake up falling out of the sky. In fact, it wasn’t something he’d ever had to actually deal with considering he tended to defy gravity majority of the time anyway. 

Convenient, when it works, he thought saltily, still trying and failing to trigger any reciprocation from his core. Since when was he having power malfunctions? It was like he was fourteen all over again, turning his pants intangible in the school hallway. Puberty, ew. 

Danny’s lanky body flipped and folded uncontrollably like a sheet in the wind, while compressed air screamed past his ears and pulled at the skin of his face, drying out his mouth and grabbing at his eyelids painfully. How could anyone do this for fun, ever? 

Honestly, he’d pretty much accepted at this point that whatever was going on, this wasn't his fault. The last thing he remembered was falling into bed next to Sam post online doom sesh with Tucker and completely checking out of the world of consciousness – because yes he could do that now, three cheers for retirement! So, unless he could somehow teleport in his sleep, this was completely out of his control. Which was unsettling, but at least it was some comfort that he could blame someone else for once.  

A chill nipped at his arms as he plunged through more cloud cover, only this time, instead of more dark and gloom, he broke through to come face to face with perhaps the most menacing skyline he’d ever seen. 

Brutal skyscrapers stood like gods, towering over a city swathed in smog and pollution. Plumes of smoke drifted skywards, drifting past keeling cranes and breathing onto low flying aircraft weaving dangerously between high rises. 

Oh he was so not in Washington anymore. 

His eyes followed smatterings of dim light that illuminated bustling roads and jagged bridges, stooping down into a shadowy harbour, dotted with resting ships bobbing in dark water. The very same water which loomed ominously below him. Danny’s eyes widened as the still, murky harbour water rushed at him, and he tried uselessly to grasp any part of his half dead self. Head-on collision in ten, nine, eight….

He managed to swivel feet first, throwing his legs out like a spring to displace the water. Not that it helped. It was like hitting fucking concrete. His legs cracked sickeningly on impact and the icy harbour water engulfed him. 

As he sunk down, a horrible scenario flashed through his mind; his body filled with water, sinking to the bottom of this strange harbour in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, never to be found again. His only memory; a segment on buzzfeed unsolved. 

Naturally, Danny panicked. He floundered on the surface, splashing around with only arms to keep him afloat and the dreaded possibility that he’d just broken both legs. He sucked in salty water through his nose, and choked it down his throat as the dead-weight of his legs dragged him under. 

Sam, the house and the $20 in my wallet are yours. The console goes to Tucker – but I’ll never forgive you if you don’t put him through the blazing trials of hell to earn it. 

Miraculously, it was then that he felt that familiar weightlessness settle over him, and without a second thought, he launched himself skyward blindly – just far enough to miss the rest of the harbour and crash ragdoll style onto the wooden jetty. 

Rolling to a stop on his back, Danny groaned, chest heaving for oxygen he didn't need. His legs were on fire, but at least that was better than numb – c’mon freaky ghost powers do your thing already. All he wanted was to lie there and pass out. But that would just be too convenient. 

The red and blue lights of justice flashed against the white undersides of the expensive moored boats lining the jetting, and the squeal of rubber tires on tarmac had Danny cursing under his breath. Too fucking perfect. 

Car doors slammed, two of them, and the hurried thumping of boots on the flimsy wooden jetty vibrated against his back. Closest he’d get to a massage probably. 

“Hey!” 

Danny sighed and closed his eyes, so it begins.

The first cop was by his side in seconds, sliding to his knees at Danny’s shoulder. “Please, please don't be dead,” The guy mumbled to himself, clearly young by the tone, fiddling with his utility belt for what Danny could only guess was a pair of gloves. “Not another one. Not more paperwork.”

“Your lucky day” Danny wheezed out a laugh, forcing his eyes back open enough to give the poor traumatised dude some clarity. “Still kicking.” 

“Crap!” The cop startled, falling back on his heels, probably having already convinced himself that Danny was dead. He couldn't blame the guy, good intuition. “You scared the socks off me dude!” He put a hand to his chest, “But thank god for that.” 

“Ha.” Danny exhaled exhaustedly. The Officers silver name badge read ‘Det. Grayson’, but his face was young, a year or two older than Danny, he guessed, somewhere around twenty three or four – definitely too young to be a detective. Black hair peaked out from underneath Detective Graysons cap, hanging above blue eyes eerily similar to his own. They roved over Danny’s beaten face and body with the same critical gaze Jazz had been giving him for years. Oh yeah, oldest sibling for sure – out in the wild. 

The assessment halted at his legs, “God, your…” 

The second cop, Graysons partner, sidled up then, measly first aid kit in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He was an older man, stubby, with a crooked moustache, wide face and a badge that read ‘Const. Marshall’. “What’ve we got Grayson? Another body – holy christ!” 

Constable Marshall staggered a few steps, when his flashlight illuminated Danny’s tattered legs. “Oh hell no. That’s bone! I see bone!” 

“Marshall!” Grayson scolded in a harsh whisper, ripping away the first aid kit.

Danny cringed. So much for being calm in front of a patient. His legs must be pretty gruesome then. It wasn’t worrying, not when he could already feel the burning sensation of his ectoplasm trying to cinch them back together. Except, that was just the problem. 

He gritted his teeth. Please stop healing. 

“Sorry about him,” Grayson mumbled, calmly reaching into the first aid kit for some intense looking bandages, “I’m Detective Grayson, and that’s Constable Marshall. We’re with Bluhaven PD, but we’re working with Gotham City at the moment. What’s your name?” 

Danny’s stomach dropped. “We’re in Gotham?” 

“Gotham harbour specifically.” Detective Graysons brow furrowed. “Did you hit your head at all?” 

“No–I, um…” What in the hell was going on? “– sorry, I’m Danny.”

The Detective's eyes were wary, but he hid it well with an awkward smile. “Well it’s nice to meet you Danny. Although, not the best circumstances, I’m sure.” 

Danny chuckled breathily, mind spinning. “Tell me about it.” 

“What in the hell happened?” Constable Marshall asked, white as a sheet and looking all the more like he was about to regurgitate his dinner into the harbour. “I’m calling an ambulance.” 

Danny’s heart jumped to his throat. “Oh no really – you don't have to, I’m fine, I’ll just–”

“No time. We’ll take him with us” Grayson interrupted, tying off bandages around Danny’s legs to stem the bleeding. “Marshall, help me get him up” 

Danny let out a very manly whine as both men gripped him under the arms and carefully lifted his battered body to a standing position. His vision spun, and he wobbled dangerously, because obviously standing on two broken legs wasn’t going to provide much stability. The younger of the two cops was quick to duck under his shoulders and lift the weight off, whilst the Constable on the other side took a second longer to follow his example. So much for seniority. 

“Danny, how are you going buddy? You with us?” Grayson asked, the epitome of calm, but Danny really couldn't give him an answer right now. He continued, “We’re going to get you over to the car okay? And then we’ll go straight to the hospital.”

“No hospitals.” Danny moaned amidst spinning vision and pounding head. 

“Yeah, I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice my dude, sorry.” Grayson smirked. “Nice pants by the way. NASA, very spacey"

Danny died a little more.

---

Whoop! Bit vague, but all the more fun to come!

[fabseg-creator]

Some Eminath sketches.

In an Alternate Universe where Gabriel is dead instead of Émilie, Ladybug and Cat Noir don't confront Hawk Moth but a Peacock "supervillainess": She is called Plume Azur.

First sketch: Émilie/Plume Azur (holding the fan on her hand) flirts to Nathalie (who blushes). Unknownly to the two women, Adrien sees the scene and he is troubled to see his archenemy going to seduce his tutor woman/godmother.

Fact: Adrien doesn't know Emilie and Plume Azur are the same person.

Second sketch (suggestive): In the past, a tied-up Nathalie and Émilie kiss together.

Third and Fourth sketches: Émilie Graham de Vanily a.k.a. Plume Azur sketches from Peacock Émilie fanart

Bonus: Mayura and Émilie

The image is mature (so NSFW).

A naked Émilie is really happy to spend time with a shy Nathalie (transformed into Mayura).

Émilie: Do you want to know why I am on good mood, Nathalie ? 😊

Nathalie/Mayura: Huh... ?! Sure, Mist... Émilie. ���

Émilie: -giggles- ❤

[theonevoice]

I should be working so of course my brain decided to surprise me with the random fact that "plume" is not just the French word for "feather", it's also the name of the column of ashes that shoots up during an eruption. Which means that in celestial terms, a miracle is a literal volcanic event, and the use of miraculous energy via demonic/divine "interventions" could be having the same disruptive metaphysical effects that tectonic plates movements have on the surface of the Earth. Hence the "too many miracles" note and the miracle alarms in Heaven.

So the joint "tiniest fraction of miracle" at the beginning of s2 is actually like the warning sign of a potential future super-eruption.

[indigovigilance]

Miraculous Energy

Guys, I think I found a hole in the plot. We should probably walk through it together and see what we find.

inspo citation by @ritz-writes

Originally this post had to do with holding hands.

The 25 Lazari Plume

In S2E1 they hold hand through the conduit of Gabriel and perform "the tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle we have ever performed. No traces of anything miraculous left behind. No- no- no alarm bells ringing in Heaven" miracle.

Even though they were trying to be surreptitious, they failed drastically. Common fanon is that their combined angelic and demonic energy, or the power of love, creates a holistic power greater than the sum of its parts. The result:

A miracle of more energy than anyone knows what do with: per Shax, "a miracle of enormous power... the kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed."

But.

This isn't the first time they've combined their powers to perform a miracle.

Two quotes from Gail Neiman:

The instance in question:

Theory:

There are at first glance two solutions to this paradox. Either

a) They did create a burst of energy but everyone above and below Earth was so freaked out by them having just survived hellfire and holy water (respectively) that they were like "yeah that tracks and we're not touching it with a 10 foot pole," or

b) They did not create a burst of energy in the body swap, and therefore the plume of power didn't have to do with the boys combining powers but instead has something to do with either (b1) Gabriel or (b2) the nature of the miracle being performed.

I don't like (a) because Saraqael is so dismissive of the idea that Aziraphale could have performed such a miracle. It creates a narrative inconsistency.

We are left with (b), and since purple is the color of Gabriel's divinity this would be narratively consistent. (b2) doesn't track because the nature of the miracle being performed is fundamentally the same: in S1E6 they were (what in other fantasy fiction is frequently called) glamouring to hide their identities, and they did the exact same thing to Gabriel in S2E1, obfuscating his angel identity with a made-up human one.

So, yeah. It perhaps doesn't lean into our preferred conceptualization of the super-powerful duo, but it does fit the evidence.

~~~

It looks like @ineffable-suffering already put forth this theory, I just missed it. You can read it here: What if it wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley who performed the 25 Lazarii miracle?

~~~

special shout-out to @flameraven for the scripts, you make my life much easier now that I can copy-paste quotes instead of transcribing.

If you liked this, you can find my meta index here.

[immaturityofthomasastruc]

I haven't even read the rest of the post with this (It's the one talking how he swears the show is better somehow)

But I saw this and it enraged me as A, a writer myself and B, someone who's planning out my own show (I'm mostly gonna be doing it on my own cause I don't want to pitch it to a network yet, if at all)

The point of your show should not "How long can I keep it going?" (ML, Supenatural season 6 onwards, Green Arrow, so on and so forth), it should be "How can I best tell a nice, fulfilling full story in the format I've been given?"

I haven't even technically started on my show officially, why?

I'm planning out designs, lore, world, plotlines, e v e r y t h i n g because it's not, "How long can I stretch it out?" It's "How can I tell this fulfilling story? I can do books, but shows are different so let me plan out everything so when I get into it, I have my start and I have my end and it's not 5+ seasons and we're still left with way more questions then do we do answers!

I mean we might with how I'm planning this show, we're starting season 1 midway through the timeline, season 2 is going back to beginning of the timeline and I'm still trying to figure out where that's gonna relink up with season 1 and then go forward in the timeline but! If I'm writing a show like ML? Hawkmoth would've been booted out season 3, more love square focus and building them as individuals and together and why they work together other than "I said so" (We'll see Heather, my main character and Plume, her love interest, slowly become friends then in love), flesh out the class so when they get miraculous it's not "Oh okay" it's a "Yes! They've earned it! And it suits them!" It's a celebration! I'd make the heroes lose to make them need the other heroes and honestly? Adrien would redone and have more impact on the story as he's supposed to as duerologist!

I just.

No! You should never look at your show like that! Look at the complaints of Supern@tural being way too long and how ridiculous it became! The many "Went on too long" shows complaints!

Looking at your show for longevity sets it up for hatred, it should be a story, not a longevity thing to milk as much money as you can from it.

At the very least, Astruc should have a plan if he wants his show to last as long as it does. Long doesn't automatically mean good.