#the leg is so intact by comparison

[flecks-of-stardust]

i don't think i'm going to ever get over how pebbles' can literally cleaves itself in half

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

So small

RecomLyle x HumanReader

Summary: This you

Gif source

Or Reader becomes obsessed with Lyle through old recordings and is a little disappointment when they meet him.

Corporal Lyle Wainfleet was dead, a fact you had to remind yourself everyday. It'd been one of your duties in preparation before reaching Pandora to go over the archive footage. With the Recombinants almost ready to be paired with their soul drives the lead scientist had though it prudent. More data to better smooth their transition.

You'd sifted through hours of log entries and recorded calls and felt you had a pretty good grasp on the team. Especially important seeing as you'd be their physician going forward. The job wasn't sought after, in fact they'd practically begged you to take it.

You were pretty anxious about meeting the team. Every one of them was a battle hardened soldier and you felt very meek in comparison. Though there was perhaps one soldier you were looking forward to meeting.

It was a secret shame, you held tightly to your chest. Corporal Lyle Wainfleet was the Colonel's right hand man. This was perhaps the reason he came up so often in the footage. Videos of him on na'vi attack sights, behind the Colonel during meetings and your personal favourite, the soul drive talk.

He was cheeky, smart and handsome. You couldn't get enough of his voice. Listening back to clips hundreds of times just to re-hear a joke. God you'd even been taking extra trips down to the lab. All under the guise of checking up on things of course.

He was almost ready now. His toned muscle formed using probing shocks over the journey, giving him his old build. The techs had images pulled up of his profile, fully body images that you definitely didn't spend too long ogling.

They were preparing to redo his tattoos. A technique they'd discovered with the old Avatar program. It did something to help them psychologically adjust, having those parts of themselves intact. It's why they were also shaving his head, best to give them the best start they could.

You admired his new face on the gurney. Four others had already been woken up, all separately. Each person given the full attention of the staff as it was a rather traumatic experience. Your heart already ached for him, this wasn't gonna be pleasant. Prager had had a full on panic attack and Zdog was still quaking.

You sucked in a deep breath and began the program. It took a good while for the drive to finish. You sat tapping your foot, sweating in the hazmat suit. It was for the recoms benefit, best to have their own air fill their lungs at this stage. The lights turned off the apparatus on his head, the screen reading his brain function lighting up.

Your colleague gave you a nod, it was time. The IV's were detached and you readied the final step. A needle containing the compound that'd clear the anesthetic. With a final push the months of anticipation ended.

Lyle woke slowly, his eyes barely able to stay open against the bright light. You shifted into vision to block it, watching his pupils focus on you, dilating slightly. Good response, reflexes were working!

"Lyle Wainfleet? Can you hear me?" You began, there were a few basic protocols to run through. He groaned in response, trying to turn from the bright light your colleague shone in his eyes.

They had begun the physical response tests, seemingly eager to be done with all this. You shot them a look before they pulled back their hand from his ear exasperated. However the damage had been done, Lyle had felt his ear flick.

It was chaos then. You took a few steps back as Lyle shot up. He stumbled around, staring at his hands, his legs, every inch of blue skin visible. In the heightened state his tail began to thrash behind him, causing him more distress as he noted the new limb.

"Lyle. Lyle?" You called after him. Stepping slowing into his vision as he held his tail in a fist. His panicked eyes shot to you, taking in your own guarded stance. You hand your hands raised, edging closer.

He relaxed a little, still breathing heavily as you closed the distance. You put a hand gently on his arm, smiling up at his pale expression.

"You're okay Lyle, it's all okay. Any questions you have I can answer, you'll remember soon." You squeezed his arm gently as you spoke. His breathing settled and he stood up straighter, returning you smile.

Even in this new form it sent butterflies swarming in your stomach.

"Till then please come sit, we have a few more test to run." You ushered him to follow you back to the gurney, glaring at your sheepish colleague.

The tests went by much easier after that. His demeanor settling back to the man you'd met through the screens. You felt a little guilty now, having invaded this man's privacy. Though all the videos were RDA record and he'd been aware of that whilst recording, it still made you uneasy. This new Lyle wouldn't know how much you already knew about him.

You lead him out of the medical wing, giving him an air mask before getting out of the hazmat. You were relieved it'd be tomorrow before you'd be back in it to wake the Colonel. You could feel the sweat drip down your chest, god you needed a shower.

You looked up at Lyle, who in turn was staring down at you. You flushed, you must look a mess. His eyes trailed over your form before something seemed to distract him.

"Where's everyone else?" He asked, his head turning to look down the corridor.

"Oh um, follow me!" You lead him to those who'd already been awoken. You'd felt a little disappointed, having hoped you'd be able to spend a little more time with him. You'd have plenty you reassured yourself, being the teams doctor. Still you wished he'd joke with you, chat like he did with the others in the videos. He'd seemed uninterested in you.

The other Recoms were delighted to see Lyle. Jostling around him to welcome him back. Fike shifted round to clap his shoulder, nudging you with his leg and tail.

"Hey! hey!" Lyle scolded, suddenly scooping you up by the underarms. You flush as you dangle in the air for a second before Lyle sets you down out the way. "Careful of the little doctor." He nodded to you before returning his attention to the others.

"Shoot my bad." Fike sighed, his ears tipping as he glances over to you. You smiled up at him, he'd had a real hard time when he woke. The physical tests went great until he got the spacial ones. The much larger form and tail were gonna take a lot of getting used to.

"Where's the Colonel?" Lyle questioned, looking across the familiar faces. Zdog had her hand on his shoulder. You recognized her from the videos. She seemed to be pretty close to Lyle, the thought twisting in your gut.

She was pretty. No she was gorgeous. Long toned legs, beautiful, strong and her tattoos? Who could compare. You swallowed, hard, Lyle's stern expression turning to you.

"Oh he's still asleep. We're waking him tomorrow, first thing." You added, Lyle's frown still fixed on you. He looked annoyed at you before grumbling and stalking to his locker.

You floundered a little. Looking around at the recoms backs before turning to leave. Your fantasy of being friends fizzling away. It was stupid, these were soldiers. They didn't want a little doctor buddy. They didn't need your friendship. The job ahead of your looking grim now, you went to your own quarters in a slump.

You were called upon the next day. The unit were antsy and wanted to be there when you woke the Colonel. It wasn't against any of the protocols and if you were honest you would like the back up.

They seemed in much higher spirits at least. Though this was only really shared between themselves. You only got a glance from Lyle, who had smiled at least. Maybe just glad you'd allowed them to be here, even shifted the procedure to be earlier than scheduled.

You'd been dreading waking Colonel Quaritch up since you were added to the project. With his background and temperament he was going to be trouble, you just knew it.

Still you went through the protocol, ushering the unit to stand back out of view for the moment. Given the Colonel's background with na'vi, their faces wouldn't be best to wake up to.

You read out his pulse as he came too, eyes twitching open. You leaned over his form as your colleague, brought out his pen light again. You grumbled, he was technically in charge and your boss until you landed. You still would've liked to give Quaritch a moment before shining a light right in his face.

"Your fine, lie still stay calm" You spoke, smiling gently at his shifting form. Hoping your words could make up for the rude awaking.

"Pupillary reflex good" Your colleague spoke. Behind him you spied Lyle approaching quickly, frowning deeply. You wanted to tell him to stay back but he was there too quick.

"Get that out of his face." He grumbled, pulling the other doctor back by his shoulder. Lyle leaned into Quaritch's face.

"Colonel. you hear me? Colonel?" He shook Quaritch's shoulder gently. Suddenly Quaritch swung at him, fist connecting with his cheek.

You flinched back at the sudden movement, watching as Lyle caught himself on the parallel gurney. You backed up again as Quaritch flung himself off the bed, catching himself on the IV poll.

"You need to lie back down Sir!" You yelled, panic tinging your voice. Lyle approached him again, raising his hands to try calm him. Quaritch growled at him before lunging forward, grabbing the over head light and flinging it at him

You shrieked, backing up more as Quaritch grabbed your tray of medical tools and threw it too. The sharp implements flung wildly in the air. You swung your hands up to protect your face from the hail of equipment.

Lyle moved forward past you again. He went to grab Quaritch's shoulder but was pushed off harshly again, Quaritch hissing.

"Sedate him, sedate him!" You called over to your stunned colleague. The man seemed frozen across the room, shifting back further into the corner.

Fike snuck up behind Quaritch to grab him but you saw his ears flick back, hearing his approach. He spun and struck him, sending Fike sprawling against the wall.

Lyle rushed to you now. "Go get out of here" He fretted, hand coming gently to your shoulder. You were still, hesitating, worried you were still needed here.

"You get out of here, go!" He shouted more firmly now, ushering you to the exit with speed. He pushed you more urgently to it before turning back to the team.

You stumbled through the door, calling down the hall for security before turning back to the window.

The team had him now, pinned between them with Lyle grabbing his torso.

"Colonel calm down. Colonel it's me. Corporal Wainfleet!" He shifts around staying in Quaritch's line of sight. Even from your distance you catch the recognition, breathing a sigh of relief when Quaritch's body stills.

A security officer approached, gun drawn. You wave him off, giving him the all clear before re-entering the room. Quaritch stalked over to the mirror to investigate his reflection. You spied your colleague more put together again, itching to escape but caught on the other side of giant bodies.

Lyle glanced back over to you, his hand shot up to stop your approach as he eyed his boss. Lyle's nose is still bleeding from where he was hit, blood trickling down onto his shirt.

When Quaritch moved to your colleague to be examined you approach Lyle.

"Let me take a look at that." You say as you get closer. Lyle looks down to you, hand coming up to his nose. He seems surprised when it comes away bloody but dismisses it.

"It's fine." He waves you off. You sigh, at his dismissal, you should probably check Fike out too.

"Just let me see if its broken." You say firmly. Lyle pauses looking back to you a moment, he hesitates but relents. You expect him to move to the gurney but instead he takes a knee in front of you.

You step closer, to the side of his leg, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks at the proximity. You let your hands touch his face gently, keeping your focus on his nose, rather than his watching eyes. You press lightly on the bridge.

"Ow!" Lyle yelps, you pull your hands away suddenly.

"Oh god I sorry!" You feel your face heat further but he just laughs, grinning at you.

"Just playin' buttercup" He smirks. Your face falls into a scowl that only makes him laugh more.

"You're fine." You grumble. He smiles widely at you before getting back up. Your heart flutters as he taps your shoulder gently before going back over to Quartich.

Fike is okay too, these guys too tough for a little punch to do any harm. He smiles broadly at you before jumping down to rejoin the group. Still Lyle cannot help but watch over his shoulder at you both. Sweet little thing worrying about these big soldiers.

He'd done some digging last night, too anxious to sleep. You were gonna be stationed with them. There own personal doctor, trained to deal with their new biology. He was glad for it, nice to have you stuck with them. He wanted desperately to get to know you better.

He'd really though he was dead when he saw you hovering over him, his own angel. Feeling a little too shell shocked to flirt but there was room to now. He'd really enjoyed your cute little frown at his joke, maybe a little ill timed. Still he had all week to charm you before you landed and he intended to.

[cafeinthemoon]

King - Chapter IX

Chapter 9

Wordcount 3,4k

Title Misguided Behavior

Previous chapters

1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 🖤

Warnings: Poseidon is his own warning; non explicit sex; mentions of deep waters and fear of drowning

Tagging @cloveradora @the-dumber-scaramouche @mikkies @sl33py-zer0 @nooneknows8976 (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N. A. Finally I'm getting the feeling that the story is moving forward! Yay! Here we have a small, yet important revelation about reader's past, and a peculiar confession from Poseidon, to say the least 😅 Then, a place I've waited so long to introduce to you: the Sea Library, which I'm sure would make the Beauty and the Beast's one seem modest in comparison haha And, finally, the appearance of a new, essential part of this drama as our reader tries to prepare herself for war...

Hope you enjoy this one, and sorry for making wait ^^

It was like laying on the beach, at the very point where the sand meets the sea, but having a block of marble to support your back instead.

That didn’t mean there was no comfort around you: the water was warm, and its warmth extended to the floor where you were; however, the heat that came from Poseidon’s body felt deeper. And this sensation only increased when you realized that this time things wouldn’t be like the wedding night: now, his mercy has reached its limit and no freedom to move or to breathe would be conceded to you so soon, for his arms squeezed you and his legs kept yours in place, his mouth over yours, making you unable to speak.

Knowing your own limitations, you didn’t even try.

This must be my punishment for the slap.

You closed your eyes, sensing your sight getting dark as a strange noise filled your ears. You never knew if your husband noticed this but, following what he said about keeping what belonged to him intact, he moved away from you, allowing you to fill your lungs with the hot air of the room right before you passed out.

But that was just the beginning.

Getting off you, he sent all the water back to the bathtub with a movement of his hand. You looked around and noticed that the spots touched by the water didn’t remain wet when the waves ceased and returned to the tank, which included your dress, tossed aside by him; you shouldn’t be surprised for witnessing the absolute control that the Lord of the Seas showed over such a small portion of water, but here you were, with your eyes wide open and a ridiculous gaping mouth.

And, of course, that didn’t go unnoticed by him, who chuckled as he took you in his arms and led you to the tub’s interior.

As he walked to the opposite side of the tub, you sensed his feet walking down the stairs on its bottom, and each stair that they touched, the water raised an inch and your heart skipped a beat. In an unconscious move, your body curled over itself on his lap.

Heavens, what he’s planning to do? Is he going to…

Your discomfort wasn’t enough for Poseidon to stop: when he reached the last stair and entered the deepest parts of the tub, he just kept walking inside the water with the same naturalness one would walk on the land, holding you bridal style.

At the point where the water covered his waist and your legs and back, he stopped and made a sudden move to release you into the water.

Something – perhaps the thing that some called the primitive, survival instinct – screamed inside you and forced a physical reaction: you wrapped your arms around Poseidon’s neck, looking away from the water, staring at the bathing area’s entry over his shoulder. Only when the rational side of your mind took over again you realized the shameful position you were put in: with your legs surrounding his waist, the soaked fabric of your underwear clinging to your skin – soaked with only water, you hoped – you were holding on to your husband so tight that you were sure you would’ve suffocated him if he was a human. In other occasions, you would’ve moved away from him immediately, but that time it would mean your death, so you ignored your hurt pride and stood there, trembling.

And the god’s mockery was the price you paid for your safeness.

– So... you cannot swim, dragonet? – he whispered in your ear, each word vibrating with the idea of the frail, rebel human finally bent down, depending on him; and, with all possible disdain, – Pathetic.

You were fighting to control your breath, your shivers and your voice all at once, trying not to reinforce the ridiculous depiction that was just imputed to you, but that was too much.

– Poseidon-sama… – you heard yourself whisper; however, you bit your tongue one second before it started begging him to not release you.

You felt his right arm tightening around your waist, as his left hand caressed the back of your head.

– Hm, what is it? Do you already regret challenging me in my own domain? Are you ready to retract yourself? – his lips left a brief kiss on your lobe – I am eager to find out how your voice sounds when you apologize...

In face of that provocation, what was left of your anger was shaken inside you, so you made no attempts to hold back your words.

– No… – your nails dug in the skin of his shoulders – You will drown me here before you hear me apologize, my Lord!

He laughed.

– Good to see you still have some fight in you, but are you sure about this? – his lips brushed your ear as he spoke – Even with the choppy, deep waters under you?

You sensed a strange movement in the water and gasped.

– You are a though one, more than I gave you credit for – Poseidon continued with his teasing, not hiding his diversion, until a slight change in his tone was sensed, for something awakened his curiosity – Still, it intrigues me: how can you not be able to swim? You were raised in a land where there is access to the sea. Have you never touched its waters?

Given that things have come to this point, it was useless to try and hide this from him now. You let out a sigh and confessed something that has been just a trivial fact about yourself until the moment you were taken to live in that underwater kingdom, when it became as embarrassing as a sin.

– I was raised away from the beach – you explained – My mother never loved the sea, so she would never allow me to come near it. Only after she passed away, I was able to go to the coast, but I always stood close to the sand. And, every time I’ve traveled with my father, we would always go through the land. Because he followed the instructions of my mother, my feet never touched the floor of a ship.

Somehow, speaking about this took off a weight from your shoulders and prepared you for whatever reaction your husband could have. When his verbal response came at last, it sounded more serious than you expected.

– This is the most personal thing you have ever told me about yourself, little dragonet. However, I cannot accept the idea that you never found your mother’s attitude strange, to say the least. How can it be that you have never questioned her? You, who did not think twice before defying me?

You swallowed. He was right, and you knew it – how could you never think of asking your mother about her reasons to stay away from the ocean? Was it a childhood trauma? A nightmare, a prophecy or something more mundane, like a distaste for the sea breeze? Or maybe you’ve tried to question her once or twice, but she simply avoided the theme and you forgot about it?

It is really strange now that I think about it. It’s like, before I was taken to his domains, the sea didn’t matter to me. There were days when I even forgot it exists.

Your silence before those questions was taken as a confirmation that none of this sat right to you, so he just continued to talk, more to himself than to you.

– Besides, I am not satisfied with the fact that you just told me these things in face of death – he held you tighter against himself – You are already mine, you understand? It is not fair that I must appeal to such ways every time I need an answer from you.

When your eyes started to burn, you shut them tight to avoid the tears... all in vain.

Then just don’t ask anything more from me.

– Fair? But how could there be any justice in this? – you started with a mumble, but your tone raised as your words came out – I was chosen to live here, but the choice was not mine! I never wanted to come to your domains! I never wanted to become yours! I never wanted to have this conversation! I never wanted any of this to happen...

A lump appeared in your throat, and you were unable to keep speaking. Suddenly, you felt tired, and your head just fell forward, leaning on your husband’s shoulder. His only response to that – not that you expected anything different – was silence.

It's like someone who watches a child throwing a tantrum. My anger and any of my other feelings mean nothing to him. Is this how a god should behave with us?

When you spoke again, your voice was an exhausted whisper.

– It is important for me to know… My entire reason to exist... it changed when you intervened in my fate, my Lord... I need to know why…

That time, you had a verbal answer from him. A clear, simple answer, but enough to make you gasp in incredulity.

– You still ask me why, my dragonet? The reason is obvious – Poseidon gave you a soft, long kiss on your hair – I love you.

Now, you couldn’t help but obey the impulse of moving away from him, frowning as you stared into his eyes, trying to find the slightest signs of mockery or insanity – and the scariest part of this is that you found none.

That’s not possible! He can’t be serious!

– I don’t believe you… – you mumbled, the sight of his traits blurry by your tears.

However, the god was impassible, as if convincing you of his honesty wasn’t a priority… and, indeed, it wasn’t.

– It does not matter if you believe it or not. It is true – he promptly replied – I love all the women I have taken as my wives, and you are not an exception. I do not touch people for whom I hold no love. But you… – you felt his hand caressing your cheek, his thumb wiping the tears from your face – Despite the instabilities of your human heart, which often led you to a misguided behavior, I can not help but feel love for you.

You remembered Suriah’s words about his love for the women he brought to his house, as well as his dislike for rebel ones, and the possibility of this being true got you scared: following her logic, Poseidon’s love for you must have grown deep in an impossibly short amount of time.

But, well, even though you asked him to kill you, asked not to be impregnated, suggested that he treated his women with injustice and, finally, physically attacked him, he kept assuring you about his feelings, stating that it didn’t matter if you thought he was lying; besides, he has treated with you mercy in some sense: he agreed with your request and didn’t make you carry a child right in your first time with him; he treated you with gentleness after that; heavens, he even killed a man to protect your integrity.

It just didn’t make sense.

And how arrogant of him to dismiss my feelings as “misguided behavior”. Is this how he expects to win my affection?

– Like I said, I don’t believe you, Poseidon-sama – you slowly turned your face away from him, trying to stay out of his hand’s reach – You only feel desire for me, if most. It is not the same thing as love.

Despite your attempt to avoid it, his hand reached your face again, this time holding your chin and making you look into his eyes.

– To me, one does not exist without the other – was his reply – You may understand this in any way you want, but it does not erase the truth of my words…

That moment, you sensed a slow, uneasiness in the water around you. At the same time, your husband approached his mouth from yours, drowning you in a kiss before you had a chance to react.

And then, he moved away just enough to finish his sentence:

– …Neither the truth of my actions.

The agitation you noticed on the water went from subtle to clear, and as it raised until it covered your legs, still wrapped on his waist, you sensed it becoming warmer, as to follow the stream of emotions of its master: in each movement, each wave that touched your skin were the confirmation of his words and the extension of his feelings and thoughts, reaching for you with the same persistence as his mouth on your lips, your neck and your collar, and as his hands going through your body, freeing you from your underwear, making you ready for him.

And you just let him.

I was so willing to drown myself here and escape from him… what happened, then? If I don’t believe in his love, what am I doing here?

As if guessing your thoughts, his voice was heard again, bringing out those very questions.

– Where has your determination gone, dragonet? – he held your jawline, his lips brushing over yours – Have you finally seen the truth, or are you just tired?

Your face burned with that, but you didn’t deny him an answer.

It’s simple.

– No, my Lord…

I don’t believe in your love, but I do believe in your desire. And, because of this...

– It’s too late for me.

***

You were waking in silence through parts of the castle that looked familiar, both in an architectural and energetic sense, having a servant to accompany you.

Though they only happened one or two hours ago, the events of that morning seemed as distant as if they belonged to a remote past now, as much as that empty, long corridor where everything started seemed to be in another building on the other side of the kingdom – and you only hoped that you’d never find yourself anywhere near it again.

Moments after touching you in the bathtub, Poseidon took you out of the water and carried you to bed, leaving you there to rest, all by yourself, as he went to a small office he maintained inside those chambers without giving any explanations about what he intended to do or when he would return, and you, who just wanted to reach the castle’s Library before that day ended, were forced to wait until your husband decided to come back to the bed area and finally give you permission to leave the room, which didn’t happen until a long time.

While you waited, hidden inside the sheets, in the middle of that enormous bed, you recalled the things that happened between you since your arrival.

How could he be so sure that his actions were guided by love when all of them showed no regard for your individuality, your nature and your choices, that is, the least expected from a respectful, reasonable love? Heavens, you were taken away from your home, your family and the life you knew to be confined in the depths of the sea, among dozens of other women who were there only to serve one individual, a man who you’ve never met before and who expected compliance and docility from you above all things! What kind of love was that? Were all the other gods just like this?

Maybe the selkie, Melian, was right. This isn’t an appropriate place for humans to live. We’ve been distant from the gods for so long that it’s impossible to live in peace with them now. We don’t even share similar views on love.

Still... you couldn’t continued to say no to him.

At some point, you just let him hold, touch, take you, reaffirming those twisted feelings towards you which he called love, and even started to enjoy it, lured by the fantasy that they were, in fact, the feelings of a loving husband, and now this attitude had your senses and your judgment contaminated, and you saw yourself unable to wash him away; you kept revisiting the events of earlier, the attentions he gave you, his teasing, his caresses, his seductive whispers, and understood that you might have started developing a sort of addiction, so much that, when the next encounter with him happened – because it would happen – you would no longer be able to put up a fight, not even as a formality.

And the scariest part of this is that I’m already missing him. At least my body is. If only he was normal man… I could even say I’m falling in love.

As you walked, you crossed your arms upon your chest, adjusting the shawl as if you were feeling cold.

The servant glanced at you with a worried expression.

– Is everything alright, y/n-san?

You forced a smile on your face.

– Yes. Thank you.

You weren’t sure you convinced the servant of your well being, but were grateful for her to not insist on that conversation: suddenly changing the subject, she indicated a new direction in your path, stating that the Library wasn’t too far now.

– We just have to go to the end of this corridor and walk down a few stairs – she was saying – The Library’s doors are just ahead.

That information revived your moods, and in a minute or two you were standing before the wide, golden doors of the Sea Library. The servant pushed them by the knobs, two spheres with delicate figures of fishes surrounding them that moved like they were swimming in water as a response to the push, and the doors were opened at last.

You were marveled.

On the large hall of white marble that extended before you, imposing shelves of noble wood, with books of all colors and sizes that filled them up to down, occupied the majority of the space, creating hundreds of corridors through which you knew you could get lost if you just walked into them without trying and memorizing the way. The place, you noticed, was formed by at least three floors, connected between themselves by stairs of the same marble of the hall, leading to shelves even larger than those ones near you.

I could spend my entire life here, and there would be still books to read.

The servant’s voice at your right brought you back to reality.

– Do you need me to wait for you here, y/n-san?

You blinked twice. When you turned to the girl, you saw a clever smile on her lips.

– It’s impressive, isn’t it? – she whispered; and, glancing at the shelves, – You don’t know how privileged you are for being allowed to stay here.

Your throat tightened at those words, but you didn’t want to discuss this with her. You had a work to do. Answering her question, you told her that she could go without you, because you intended to stay there for a long time, and she left you right after, wishing you luck in whatever research you were going to start.

Once the doors were closed again and you found yourself alone with the books, you took your first step toward them… and realized you had no idea where to begin.

Stopped before the first shelf and stared at it with something close to fear. You tried to read the titles that were at your eyes’ height, but they were all written in languages you’ve never seen before, some of them seeming impossible to be adopted by a human group; you raised your hand to touch their spines, but stopped before your fingers touched them.

It was when the weight of your mission finally reached you.

Look at the size of this place… Only one year to work on my task would never be enough...

You looked around and, despite sensing your hopes fading, you started to walk through the shelves – and, apparently, this had a soothing effect in your heart, for in a few minutes you found yourself more comfortable than intimidated by those structures.

It’s like traveling through a big city. Scary and fun at the same time.

As well said by the servant, that was an impressive collection, and you wondered how long your husband has taken to gather all of them, if he remembered the first ones or if he has found some of them personally or delegated this task to his servants. You stopped in front of a shelf and sighed: you knew so little about him that all the inner debates you had while coming to the Library were nothing but pathetic.

I’ve been feeling so much for a stranger.

Your mind was making so much noise for nothing. You chuckled and turned away from those books, decided to explore the next shelf…

– A human being using the Tyrant’s Library to gather weapons? Finally, some diversion coming our way.

Chapter 10

[zeondraws]

Do you have any head canons for Roper? ^^

Ollo,

hm hard to say, considering I've been working on figuring out the canon lore above anything else.

I have some silly headcanon but, I can't tell that one because it's gonna be mentioned in the AU I'm making. So sssshhhhh. But I think that headcanon wouldn't be canon or anything in the end.

I find him to be a cool character, but I've also started to like Gibbo, Trots.. Finlay-

OH that reminds me of something else silly, I have a ship between two characters but I can't mention it either, part of the AU as well-

Aaaaaaaaa

More under the cut because I ramble on for a while!

However I do think Roper is probably that posh man who wears very fancy clothing on the mainland since he probably earns a ton. I checked what people in the control room earn, because I felt curious... And it's like between? 44.000 and 84.000 gbp a year (roughly). Dude probably owns a house with a huge garden or something like, what THE-

I earn like, like a fraction of that a year. Imagine earning 44.000 a year, that would be wild for me already. Can't even imagine what you'd do with even more money, I'm a simpleton. Tho I'd probably buy a bus PFFF.

Back on topic, been thinking about what kind of personality Roper has but I don't think I'm so good at figuring this stuff out. Tho I know I talk myself low way too often.

I think others mentioned it too, he probably doesn't show emotions that often and may be more reserved about them. However I do think he'd crack a bunch of jokes if he gets the opportunity. I noticed Archie plays along in the darts tournament even tho his cabin mayyy be somewhere else entirely, like Roper's cabin.

So I wondered if Roper even shows up in the crew lounge at all, or if he rather wants to be alone. Doesn't seem like darts is his thing, maybe something else but not sure. I couldn't identify any handwriting from him on the deck. I think some people once thought they saw one, but I think it must've been another name.

There are additional names on the Christmas Dinner list, that don't appear on the jukebox list. But none look like him.

I also think Roper is either the same age as Innes or younger, I keep noticing how Innes' skin has a large amount of folds in comparison to the others which makes me think he is one of the oldest people working there. But it's really difficult to see Roper's face in certain light conditions. Especially when he's in marine control. Tho, I probably go with what Rennick says and think he must be quite old?

Judging by what I see of Roper in marine control, his only fear seems to be Rennick. He probably has quite a normal and happy life outside of the rig, some family pictures are placed near him. I know these pictures are from the devs, but for some reason I kept thinking that Roper is a bit more chubbier because of said pictures, but he's not so I felt so confused for a while lmao.

The large amount of heads (also arms!) on his mutated body probably indicate he watches over everything, which is quite literally what someone in the control room does. Maybe he is there for the others if they want to talk to him. Either about work or personal things, not sure.

I really think he got the substance on him while the explosion happened (another theory is the shape came out of the ceiling and latched onto him), running up to marine control, either feeling off or not noticing a change at first. Maybe he was drinking tea or smoking for a while, before he felt something was very wrong with him. I can't imagine how painful the transformation must've been, considering some heads and flesh grew around the chair, so he's just stuck there. The wiki says he only has his upper body left, but it needs some editing, since his legs are very much intact.

He doesn't grow any more legs, just additional arms, one or two of them are from Trots. The body parts on him mak me wonder WHEN he mutated. If he has Addair and Trots parts on him then he surely mutated when Caz walks to the lifeboats after chatting with Roy. I know Raffs is also on him, but Raffs mutated quite early. I have to go back to marine control when I have my PC again and check if I can ID any other names on his biomass.

One mystery is Alex, it's not know where or when he died, he has 4 copies on the deck. But he's also stuck on the ceiling next to Roper. I wondered if Alex followed Roper up to marine control and became a victim of his transformation. Tho that's just a theory.

Last but not least is Roper either died by getting mauled by Rennick or burned to death. I do believe mutated crewmates that are immobile get more biomass as time progresses. At least I think that's the shapes strategy to expand further across the rooms.

Maybe that's why the helideck looked ao strange in the end, but this is all me just theorising and we can't be sure if any of this is correct what I say.

Oh boy that was a mouthful.. Didn't think I'd write a wall for this ask XD. I shall head back to bed, feeling quite tired.

Also do you guys want me to mark these asks with swtd hashtags? I usually never, since I don't want to flood the tag with my posts. But also I've been posting a bunch of things without tags, to avoid falling into the numbers game.

I struggled with it like a year ago on Instagram, but I finally snapped out of it after a while. So I just post things without any tags to focus on my research. This problem can easily occur on social media for literally anyone, so it's always good to do a self check every once in a while.

Thank you for coming to my Roper ted talk

May I offer you tiny Roper in these trying times?

[msmc-796-official]

Tales From Planetfall #2: 3NK1-D0N7

'sup nerds! Slipshod here - P said I was allowed to tell stories from my past if I put 'em under this tag. might as well share one of my favorite stories from the HORUS days and give y'all a sneak peek into the absolute shitshow that was my past

little bit of context - during my time with HORUS, I went by the callsign Ripcord. the cell I come from is long since defunct, but given the kind of shit we got up to, not entirely sure it's safe to give that name out publicly just yet. let's just say if the phrase "shove that up your shaft and smoke it" means anything to you, you know exactly which cell I'm talking about ;)

one of my buddies from back in the day - username KeepHonking-ImReloading, if they still use it - was a bit of a whiz when it came to masking their mech signature. you all know how the lycan frame works nowadays - it uses a dummy shell to hide its true nature until it actually gets into combat, then sheds that shell and goes full tilt. KH-IR did something that, but with a slightly different method. they liked to physically modify a mech's frame until it actually resembled a completely different mech - sometimes not even one from the same manufacturer

(if memory serves, the most extreme they ever got was modifying a hydra with some illegal greywash extruders until it was damn near a functional balor in its own right. real impressive shit, lemme tell ya, especially as they were able to keep the drone capabilities mostly intact. idiot damn near got blown to hell and back when Union found out, but RA almighty was that a sight to see in combat)

anyways, I wound up in a chatroom with 'em one day and we got to talking. told 'em I was a toku pilot and they got real excited. (one of their first ever modified builds was a toku, apparently.) they asked if I was down to take a dare, and being the hotshot piss-and-vinegar pilot I was back then, I said yes. they pitched me this: take the secondary set of arms off my toku, set my torch configs to look like claws, adjust the legs to be digitigrade, and see how long I could fool an opponent into thinking I was piloting an enkidu

now, if you know anything about HA history, you'll know that legit enkidu frames can only be found over on Hercynia, and even those are only prototypes - an officially licensed HA enkidu frame categorically doesn't exist. however, as their prototype code is what eventually became today's tokugawa, it wasn't all that unreasonable of an idea... and so I said sure, fuck it, let's see what we can do

the mods themselves were easy enough - the secondary arms came off clean, the torch config mods were practically built into the base system already (apparently if you poke around in the right code blocks long enough, you can find the original torch-projection pattern for enkidu claws - who knew?), and a few tweaks was all it took to swap the legs over to digitigrade. I had my "enkidu" all ready to go, now it was time to deploy

myself and a couple of buddies got our chance soon enough - we got word that there was a squad of IPS-N trunk security goons poking their noses where they didn't belong, and one of our fellow cells was under heat. naturally, that shit doesn't fly on HORUS turf, so we headed out there to resolve things

with the way enkidus were originally built, they're meant to override their pilot's minds and drive them murder-crazy. (kinda like a SEHKMET-class NHP, if you wanna use that comparison.) I've always been a pretty aggressive pilot, but that kinda behavior is a bit much, even for me. that being said, most pilots have never seen an enkidu before, and I could use that element of surprise to my advantage. crouch real low like a big cat about to pounce, turn the torch-claws on (and summarily watch these nerds shit themselves, because holy fuck that's an enkidu oh shit-), and then lunge full tilt at the nearest enemy and give 'em hell

the wave of pure adrenaline I got from tearing into that first poor trunk security sucker like a wild animal made me question if there wasn't still some latent enkidu code hidden in my toku after all. never before had I felt more alive, and never have my reactors sang louder than they did that day. pilots today may joke about "going feral", but brother, I was living it. (I wish I still had the after-action recording that I sent over to KH-IR - I'd love to rewatch it now and see just how insane I must have looked inside that cockpit)

needless to say, I lived up to the dare, and I had earned KH-IR's respect for it. I got sent a few new torch config patterns as compensation (one of which - a battleaxe - I still use to this day), and also earned a new nickname on the forums. y'all know me today as 70KU-N4H-W4, but for a few glorious weeks after that incident, I was known on the HORUS forums as 3NK1-D0N7. (fun fact about my username - almost changed it to F4UX-UG4W4 instead after this went down. ultimately decided against it after KH-IR weighed in and said they liked this one better)

anyways, I think that's enough of a wall of text for now. this was fun to write - haven't thought about those days in a long while. who knows, if y'all wanna hear more from me, I might write another one of these someday

take care out there, nerds. until next time ;)

-- Slipshod

[fourseasonsfigs]

Harper's Bazaar Game

I have enough Bazaar figs at this point to fill up more than one fig stand - but I'm still happy to get more. With any luck, I might manage to put together the whole shoot at this rate!

The inspiration for this fig set are these pictures from the official Harper's Bazaar x 山河令 issue:

And since the photos aren't quite enough, here's one of the official videos, featuring our favorite extremely charged weiqi game:

The scene with the crossed arms is at 1.08.

I do feel you need a pic with the full body outfits for fig comparison pics, so let me rustle up another one...

Didn't mind going back to this pic one bit! In fact, the less frequently posted but just as good second pic in this set...

We deserve it! Side note...I do NOT have a fig set of this scene yet, which seems like a grave oversight. That's all. I'm just saying. Please and thank you fig makers!

These two arrived safely in their polystyrene boxes. I have to say at this point, I'm pretty sold on these boxes as a protection mechanism - I've had extremely good look with them. I used to air bubble wrap everything, but these days I don't, which not only dramatically reduces the shipping volume, therefore saving me expensive ship costs, but dramatically increases my will to live when staring down huge boxes of solidly taped shut bubble wrap.

Here's a close up of these figs - please note the Zhehan socks and woven leather shoes combo and Gong Jun's big stompy boots, I love them.

Here's their benches too. The benches are nice and stable, no wobbles here.

And here they are! Look at those FACES. You know how much I love that sideways smile! This is the fig maker that always does the beauty marks on the ears too, which is always a nice touch.

These are just too perfect. I like the poses quite a bit, with Zhehan's hand on the bench and Junjun's on his knee.

Those are some shorter shorts there, gentlemen. I'd say they were at least mid-thigh length.

I ended up gluing them down as they didn't balance at all on the seats. I have learned (the hard way!) that fig stickers only work if the figs are pretty perfectly balanced to begin with.

This is time for my obligatory comment on how much I love Zhehan's hair in this style. Just amazing, my all time favorite.

You can see how the chairs are quite stable here - all four legs on the ground for each one!

I'm so happy these delicate pieces survived shipping intact!

This is a nice shot of Zhehan's curling-up smile.

And we're back around! What cuties. The fig maker did such a nice job with these - the eyes and expressions are just top notch.

I feel like the fig makers have really dialed in the process at this point! We get such good quality and such good detail.

Nice and flat undersides here, so they sit firmly in the chairs - at least once they have a little bit of glue.

Their feet are even posed differently (and cutely!) no replication of body types here.

I'll say once again how much I love Zhehan's hand on the bench. Adorable.

One last shot of them posing in their picture shot - I guess I should have scooted them in a little bit more so their wrists would have crossed!

Our very beautiful fig cards.

Material: Resin

Fig Count: 462

Scene Count: 31 (I already used this little scene before!)

Rating: Our favorite game

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt3

Back to Jason POV. There is some gore, torture, and gun violence in this one.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The thing about Lex Luthor was the man had an insatiable need to stick his fingers into every available pie, the greedy capitalistic little Jack Horner pig. If some serious shit went down, there was an absolute guarantee that Luthor had started that shit, worsened that shit, or offered some incredibly condescending ' help' with that shit that was -in reality- probably just a disguised ploy to fuck with Superman.

(And holy hell, Jason could admit that he personally had raging inferiority issues, both before and after his resurrection, but the way Luthor was with Superman made his relationship with the original Robin AND Robin 3.0  look like the model of mental health by comparison).

All this in mind, if you wanted to know something and didn’t feel like trying your luck snooping around Batman's shit, the next best thing was to hop a city over to the next autocratic billionaire. Armed with that knowledge, and with the street cred of being known as one of Gotham's rouges, it's not hard to growl and posture in front of the right seedy bar-owners, fixers, and middle-men to track down a villain that's been getting cash flow from Luthor.

 People in that sort of game might be hard enough to keep their composure and claim ignorance in front of the Big Bad Bat himself, but are always willing to spill the latest gossip to a guy with a rap-sheet, well-used guns, and blood under his nails. It's how they connect thugs and D-list villains to people Luthor or Talia for use as cannon fodder, and while it's annoying as fuck to be seen as nothing more than a gun for hire, it is useful.

So useful, that only three days after reading that stupid memorial page, the Red Hood's got his gun under the chin of some little mathlete, computer nerd called the Calculator (stupid name), the guy squealing about the Secret Society of Supervillains (stupider name) that Luthor had set up with Talia, who really could do better in terms of company, and that fucking creep Deathstroke.

Three fingers shot off at point blank and one knee crunched to bony, gritty pieces under his boot, and the Red Hood's heard way more than he cares to regarding this little fun-time club of murders, their plans for a world-wide prison break (like Arkham didn't have those regularly on its own), the JLA's nasty little foray into memory alteration (the good guys pulling, morally objectionable, authoritarian shit? Say it ain't so!), and how the Luthor leading them had actually been an alternative universe fake trying to pull some sort of multiverse ending evil scheme.

Fun times all around, and the Red Hood could not give less of a shit about any of it if he tried.

Hood readjusts his weight, putting more of it on his left leg that's bearing down on the Calculator's ruined knee. The man underneath him lets out a whimpering, scream. Hood lets his gun's aim wander slowly down the guy's body, he thinks about pointing it at the fucker's crotch just to see if he'll start crying again but decides to have a bit of class and lets the muzzle rest on the Calculator's other, intact knee instead.

"That'd all be real interesting if I gave a shit about what you were getting up to Noah, but I what I want to know is how things shook out. The world's still standing right? So whose dead now that the dust's settled, and how they'd get there? That's the real question."

Hood taps the gun muzzle twice against Calculator's knee. He won't actually shoot, too much chance of hitting a blood vessel and having the guy go unconscious and useless from blood loss, but he doubts this computer geek knows that.

Way too many villains get into this gig all excited about torture, extortion, and killing with absolutely no defenses on what too do if the tables are reserved. It's always hilarious watching them shit their pants and scramble when they suddenly weren't the meanest thing in the room.

"I-, I-, the Luthor we were working with, the one from Earth-3, he ran so the heroes didn't get him, but he's dead already. He made the mistake of trying to go to ground in Gotham, and the Joker got him. Apparently the fucking clown was pissy he didn't invited to festivities, as if anyone half-way sane is willing to team up with his crazy ass." The Calculator grunts out, eyes wide and desperate as they track the gun that's poised over his one remaining knee.

Ugh, what a fool-ass rookie mistake. You only tried going to ground in Gotham if were unhinged and bloodthirsty enough to be too much of a pain in the ass to attack or you were homegrown on its cursed soil and knew how to avoid the city's resident cast of horrors. Hood's willing to guess any version of Luthor's a dangerous genius, but unless this version liked peeling people's faces off and eating them for a midday snack, he'd undoubtedly instead got eaten alive himself by Gotham's hungry jaws.

A least if the Joker got him, the guy definitely didn’t die a nice, easy death. Jason knows that with a painful certainty.

"Mmh, closer to having something actually useful to say. But hey, you went to ground in Gotham too, huh Noah, and it seems that's working out a bit better for you!"

Hood grinds his left heel down again. His boots are too thick to feel the grit of shattered bone, but he can hear the mess of tendons, viscera, and bone shards underneath the Calculator's latest, warbling scream. The guy pissed his pants right around the time Hood shot off his second finger, and the whole air would likely have the sharp mixed stinks of urine and blood if he removed his helmet.

"Was working out for you, I should say. You must be a local boy, huh?" Hood pauses, till the Calculator's eyes have refocused enough to show he's paying attention to Hood instead of his own pain.

"So, from one Gotham boy to another, how'd it shake out for our Bats? I hear our latest little Robin got out fine, and god only fucking knows that we ain't lucky enough to hope Batman got offed, but how'd birdy number 1 fare?" It's hard to resist the temptation to grind down on the man's shattered bones again, to resist pulling the trigger and making him bleed. Jason can feel himself losing control of the urge to send this piece of trash to hell where he belongs.

"How's Nightwing doing these days?"

"Nightwing and Superboy took down the machine-tower Earth-3 Luthor was using to rewrite the multiverse. I didn't see in person, but I hacked communications, and from Wonder Woman's report Luthor killed Nightwing in rage as reve-"

Hood yanks the aim of the gun up from Noah Kuttler's knee to his skull and blows his fucking brains out close range. The left side of the Calculator's face explodes into a mess of brain tissue and blood.

He gives the body a final kick, then lets himself out of the apartment that piece of trash had set up as a his hideout. It's Gotham, and the few cops not corrupt enough to ignore this are too overworked to give a shit about some villain's death, so no need to waste his time taking out the trash.

Hood slams the door of the run down apartment complex behind him, and stomps out onto the chilly streets. It's not raining, just damp and cold as Gotham usually is in the fall, so there might still be people, but Jason doesn't really give a fuck right now. Between his now-infamous helmet, his more obvious guns, and the wide shoulders he grew into, nobody's gonna mess with him as he prowls the streets.

And if they do, well, actually smashing some drug dealer or rapist shit's head against ground still it cracks like a bloody egg sounds like a good time with the mood he's in.

Hood makes it four blocks, not thinking about where's he going and not lucky enough to pass someone dumb enough to try starting shit with him, before he can even think above the cold, angry, itching boiling beneath his skin.

He needs a plan, he needs to do something, do anything. Jason will boil himself alive in his own itching skin with his rage if he has to just sit on it. He'd planned to kill whoever had murdered Nightwing, figured it would be some hot-shot that got a lucky hit in the chaos of battle, or some too clever for their own good smarmy loser who'd gotten an advantage by holding a little side-kick hostage.

Jason could have worked off his rage on giving them a death that was almost as slow they'd deserved for taking someone like his brother from him and Gotham, and finally proved, that at least in this respect, he was better than Rob-, than Nightwing. He might not be so nice, so naturally talented, so charismatic, but he could have proved himself better in this and given Dick's death the closure a good person like him deserved.

He realizes his loud, angry walk has taken him close to the warehouses of the harbor, the drafty old buildings three times as likely to be housing some sort of illegal goings-on as they are to be housing shipping containers.

His- his- second time heading out as Robin with Nightwing, had been around here.

Jason had jumped into a drug-processing scheme too early, nearly ruined the bust. Nightwing had to swoop in and rescue him - though instead of cracking heads, the annoying prick had just flashed a fake, movie-star smile and sweet-talked the guards and drug processors into letting them walk out.

He'd scolded Jason a bit afterwards, but taken the sting out of it by inviting him along on the real bust later that night. Afterwards he'd shot Robin a much gentler, beaming real smile and told him 'good job'. Then he'd ruined that soft, tingly feeling of pride at being treated like an equal by Nightwing, by prodding and whining until Jason had reluctantly let Dick buy him ice-cream.

Dick had flavor palate of a little kid in regards to sweets, and he'd gotten whipped cream and sprinkles on his. Jason had made fun of him for being 17 and eating like a 7 year old, and-

Jason's nearly twenty now, older than Dick had been when they first met. He's right near the age Dick was when Jason had died, a funny sort of parallelism.

Hey, with the way he's getting on with the family right now, chances are Jason will also miss his brother's funeral. How fuckin' hilarious is that?

He leans his head against one of the warehouse's outer walls and laughs. It comes out monstrous and distorted through his helmet's speakers. His gloved hands can't find purchase on his jacket's shoulders to rip up his own skin and let out some of the anger inside.

Anger and maybe not anger. His face feels wet and he's still laughing a bit. Whatever Jason's feeling it's bad, and he wants it gone. Needs to do something, anything for this feeling to be gone.

He doesn't know what to do though, and the unbearable tide of it swells and suddenly and desperately Jason can't help himself from thinking he wants to be 13 years old again getting painlessly snatched out of the air by Nightwing with a trapeze artist's instincts for a fall about to go wrong. He wants to be 14, half-asleep on a mountain-lodge couch on his first ever family vacation as his brother quietly tells his father Jason's a good kid, with the softest tone he's ever heard Dick aim at Bruce.

He wants to be 15 with this same unbearable angerfeargrief that is drowning him now swelling and calling his brother, his Robin, Bruce's first son, the only person in the world that might understand how he's feeling. The phone won't pick up, and he'd known that, known that the Titans were in space all distant and unreachable, but he'd still called.

Jason had still had a brother to call, and the promise that maybe someday it would connect.

He dials Dick Grayson's current civilian number on numbs fingers.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

Jason hits redial. He can't say why, the call's not magically gonna go through this time.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

He redials the number manually, staring hard at the screen to make sure each button press is pulling up the correct number.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

Once more, repeating the phone number out loud to make sure he's remembering it correctly.

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

"The number you are attempting to reach is not in service."

[galactic-johnny]

P-bandai HG Todesritter.

I actually finished this a while ago and took pictures but I didn't feel like posting until now.

This is the only member of the pale rider family I've been able to get my hands on so far, but hopefully in the near future they'll do reprints of others. The pale rider line is sort of infamous for being a mold bandai put not effort into and slapped a bunch of stickers on. The original kit came out 2015 and was one of the first p-bandai kits that was a completely unique mold (although from what I understand its similar to the hg gm sniper ii). They then proceeded to release its variants, which reused a most of the runners but had all new, equally huge sticker sheets.

The HG Todesritter then came out in 2020 with a completely new mold, and proceed to also have a ton of stickers for all of the gold, most of the gold/gray vents, and some of the white, and still used a bunch of polycaps.

At this point I almost refuse to use stickers aside from metallic eye/sensor stickets, so I tried my hand with gundam markers and I'm pretty happy with out it came out, and at least half the gold parts were actually very easy to color in myself. It sounds like I'm complaining but honestly it was worth the effort, the Todesritter is a such a cool combination of federation and neo zeon design.

It also two really fun gimmicks, being the incoms and the subarms for the huge beam sabers, complete with mastergarde beam saber effect parts. The shield looks cool but is all molded in the dark blue, and was the hardest part for me to paint with gundam markers but I was not going to use a sticker that folded 20 different times.

It's also very big, almost as big as the RG Hi-Nu Gundam, and it big enough to toss the normal sized Lfrith around.

The build was fun if you actually enjoy the painting part to some degree like I do, but there were a few flimsy parts, like the front skirts that are connected to the piping that kept coming loose, the wing binders are on a polycap so those fall a lot, and only the left leg fell off a lot for some reason. If you can get through those the articulation is pretty okay but not as good as most of the gwitch kits for comparison.

I didn't play gundam side story missing link or read the manga, but I think the gist is that during the first neo zeon war the Todesritter was built using the cockpit of the original pale rider that got destroyed in the one year war with the HADES system intact, and is piloted by the guy that destroyed the original pale rider, who is also married to its pilot, and she is now dead/dying because of the effects of the HADES system on her. If that's correct feel free to let me know.

It's currently the most effort I've put into a kit, but worth it imo and I don't regret it, I actually want to try the original pale rider now. I first saw it in Gundam Evolution and it was one of my favorite designs, and apparently a lot of people like it because bandai keeps doing reprints and has done all of the variants of it, maybe soon they'll do a master grade version (p-bandai of course :( ).

[lexosaurus]

Was wondering with the holidays coming up if we could get a little sneak peak of the Christmas EWW chptr ? (If you have any of your ideas for it down yet I mean) If it's too spoilery I understand, not trying to pester or anything, just was giving it a re read recently and I'd be lying if I said I'm not super curious (and excited) lol.

Oh ppl are totally allowed to pester me about EWW in fact I encourage it.

Also I'm all good now so ppl are back to being allowed to pester me about my other fics too haha.

X-mas chapter bit below the cut in case people don't want to be spoiled! Keep in mind it's only in its first draft, but I think this is pretty decent and also a good preview of what's to come 👀

****

The door swung open with enough force to plow through the wall. 

Or, that’s what Danny was imagining, at least. But despite the loud bang of the door, the scrambling feet, and overwhelming voices, the door stayed perfectly intact on its hinges.

“Aunt Alicia!” Jazz popped up from the couch. “Welcome!”

“Jazz!” Alicia stepped through the interior, her suitcase in hand. A green coat had been thrown over her overalls and plaid T-shirt, and she shed it as soon as she stepped through the threshold of the door. 

Jazz hugged her. “Good to see you! You haven’t changed a bit!”

It was true. No matter how old Alicia got, she still wouldn’t be remiss without her red mullet and bulldog-like features.

“I can’t say the same about you!” Alicia said, slapping her hand on Jazz’s back. She pulled Jazz away, surveying her up and down with a grin. “Look at you, your hair’s so long now. And have you grown?”

“Not since I was like thirteen!” Jazz laughed. 

Maddie peeked over their shoulders. “I can take your suitcase to the guest room.”

“Nonsense!” Alicia barked. “It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been here. I remember where it is just fine!”

“Don’t worry, Alicia,” Jack said, getting up from the couch. “Go catch up with the kids! I’ll bring your stuff upstairs.”

As usual, Alicia hesitated at Jack’s offer, looking him over as if he were three feet tall and made of fool’s gold.

“Thank you, Jack!” Maddie snatched the suitcase and coat from her sister’s arms and passed them off to Jack who quickly disappeared upstairs. She ushered Alicia into the living room with a, “Come, sit. It was a long flight. Would you like anything to drink? We have both red and white wine somewhere in the cabinets—oh, the white hasn’t been chilled.”

Danny sat rigid on the couch, the cushions suddenly feeling hard underneath him. His brain registered a vague pressure on his thighs, and he glanced down to see his hands gripping his legs. It was still strange to feel only pressure where his brain expected more, and he let his legs go. His arms fell awkwardly to his sides, and then he realized that Alicia was slow to sit down on the armchair, her eyes looking over him like he was some sort of alien at Area 51.

That wasn’t even a far comparison to make. He was the alien at Area 51. Only, instead of being located in the desert, Area 51 was his damn living room.

[miracle-sham]

Frigid They Froze Midst Heart Thawing Woes.

| Daminette December |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [UwU] | | [OwO] |

| Everyone always thought Ladybug was unbreakable. That she was immune to negative feelings, unlike the rest of Paris. That she would never falter, never fail, never fall. And so no one could have expected when tragedy strikes and Paris falls at the hands of her once beloved hero. |

| Now who could save them all, from the icy clutches of a devastating Akuma? |

| And would anyone even try to save the once beloved hero, over the countless suffering civilians? |

———

| Word Count: 16,172. |

| Warnings/Tags: Akumanette/akumatised/hurt Marinette, Implied/referenced character death motif, Near death experience, Temporary character death, Not really character death, Major character undeath, Past character death, Grief/Mourning motif, Mind control/Mind manipulation, Mind control aftermath, Blood and Injury, Canon-typical violence, Minor violence, Snow/ice powers and theme, Frozen apocalypse/icy wasteland, Lovers to enemies, Enemies to lovers, Some Swearing, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and angst, Slowburn, Eventual happy ending, Angst with a happy ending, Reunions, and Recovery. |

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| A/N: It's here! It's finally posted, only took a little over a year to complete this monstrosity of a oneshot! I would like to thank everyone who read the uwu-speak apwil fowols version and the massive amount of support you all showed for it, this meant the absolute world to me and really helped keep me motivated to finish this in full! I truly hope you'll all enjoy the original version, in it's entirety just as much as the apwil fowols version! |

| I'd also like to just say thanks to Saf and Rae as well, for their moral support throughout writing this! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. |

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 Was it always doomed from the start? Marinette wondered hollowly, eyes flickering from frozen ruin to frozen ruin. Barely visible from within the seething flurry of snowflakes.

 Bleak.

 Blinding.

 An unending expanse of glistening and swirling snow and ice. Almost too bright and too obscuring to see anything else. Even despite the dullness of night.

 A white-out illuminated by the snowglow.

 Now, the only company she could keep were the immortalised frozen statues of the people who were unable to escape the devastation of the descending blizzard she wrought. Their silence of life was deafening.

 A chilling mockery of what had haunted her nightmares.

 Kicking her legs idly from her precariously precious position on the railings of the Eiffel Tower, the familiarity of the action almost burned as cold as the frigid city itself. Was this how Chat felt? She mused, staring at the bleached white and faded blue spots of her Ladybug?—Frozen Heart? Lady Blanc suit. Shaking her head, she couldn't help but curl her lips slightly in distaste. Maybe it's ironic that I didn't end up in black with red spots like all the false Ladybug Akumas.

 But her new colours are what she deserved. An echo of her once-partner; just as she was an echo of the hero she used to be. Especially in how the accents of her new Akuma suit echoed the old hero suit that the ice power-up had given her, with the crystalline and snowflake patterns covering the once-red-now-white parts, and the ice-blue crystals along her waist and around the yo-yo.

 Perhaps, there was some small comfort, in that the destruction she caused was little in comparison to that of Chat Blanc's. She tilted her head to the side and stared up at the night's snow glow-light clouded skies. Her moon was still intact for one, not that it was visible from here any longer, however. Though, not quite a small mercy so much as another chilling mockery, really.

 She clenched her fists so that the icicles clinging to the metal dug into her suit's gloves. For two, only her Paris had been affected this time. And for three, her death toll was significantly lower, what with only killing a huge swathe of Paris' population as opposed to, y'know how he wiped out all life except himself.

 Her Paris still had survivors lurking within the desolation. Treading tracks through bitter winds, clinging to slowly petrifying hope. Survivors that would scream and cry and yell and try ever so futilely to fight against her, whenever they saw her in her new form, reduced to a wraith of her former glory. They were the only sounds other than the crunch and crackle of ice and snow, or the tinkling of icicles in the wind.

 Not to mention, her Hawkmoth still lingered on. With his black ice glazed goadings that fractured her mind like her and Chat Noir's bones had, beneath his butterfly staff.

 A haunting reminder that she had fallen, failed them—Paris, that even their beloved little heroes weren't infallible.

 Scoffing to herself, Lady Blanc shook her head and shifted her position so that she could curl up into a ball and rest her heavy head upon her knees. Though, there was no crown to weigh her down, just the cold harsh wasteland that she had ruptured in rime.

 (It was almost ironic still, that the ice power-up suit she once wore so long ago, gave her a tiara of icicles but her Akuma form did not—the symbolism of this change, however, was not lost on her—after all what is a princess without her crown. Headless. That's what. As the suffering people decreed.)

 Nonetheless, Paris as it was and now is, had formed the freezing prison of her own making. Even with Hawkmoth's influence shattered like the ice of his statue's form, Lady Blanc was tethered—ice-bound—to Paris. A cruel twist of irony that with her frozen heart, Hawkmoth had ensured her weakness was the warmth, the heat. To make it so nothing would thaw her heart, especially not some pitifully desperate professions of love, friendship, and claims that the real her was still inside and that she just needed to fight him and his influence—control even.

 Biting back a bitter laugh, she ignored the near-silent whispers in the back of her mind crying those very same proclaims. Something that Hawkmoth hadn't anticipated. Especially seeing how her once-partner had turned out after so long in isolation. Would that be my fate too?

 In response, the creeping pernicious laugh of Hawkmoth rattled like hoar frost mantled chains in her head. It seemed to last an eternity before fading into the frore like everything else within Paris.

 Lady Blanc closed her eyes slowly in languish, thoughts drifting back to her once-partner. They might not have been meant for each other romantically, especially after she fell in love with a prince of her own. But perhaps Chat was onto something when he said we were meant for each other. Opposites in power yet our fallen fates are mirrored in white and blue and drenching loneliness.

 She sighed wearily. As if it would somehow ease the burden and the pain. Opening her eyes, she glared listlessly at the frosted-over traffic lights that would remain devoid of colour so long as her tyranny would reign. A mix of colours she wouldn't see together again unless she left Paris. Murmuring beneath her breath, “I never thought I'd miss that eyesore suit of his…” she smiled hollowly.

 Regardless of whether Hawkmoth made it so that leaving her gelid domain or destroying her Akuma object would kill her or not, it was not like going anywhere else would be viable after what she did. She'd be branded a criminal—a villain, like Hawkmoth—then locked up and be left to rot—languish—or well, melt. After all, like most Akumas, she'd become something a little less human. And in her case, a little more ice thanks to the akumatisation.

 What would her boyfriend even think of her now? A twisted reflection in the ice of the one he loved? Or perhaps just an obstacle between getting the one he loved back?

 Well, it wouldn't matter anyway.

 If Lady Blanc never strayed from within the reaches of the frost… It would be unlikely he'd see her again, especially as she was now. And at least by never drifting from the floes of Paris, she'd be able to put up a worthwhile fight against whatever self-proclaimed heroes and vigilantes would inevitably come knocking.

 Inevitably. Because an entire city had been glaciated for days, then weeks, then months with no signs of the calamity being undone. And whilst the Justice League and others had respected, that during Hawkmoth's reign she and Chat Noir held authority over who else could be active without being a potential Akuma risk; undoubtedly that respect would melt away like the snow and be soon forgotten. What with the sheer amount of destruction and a glaring absence of any heroes, temporary or permanent, really it would only be so long until someone would try to step in or investigate.

 And for all that her wretched hope was worth, she dearly hoped it wouldn't have to be Damian who would be sent to scout out and attempt to remedy the tragedy.

 After all, if other heroes or vigilantes infringe upon what is hers, then it's only fair they fall under her jurisdiction once more despite any revoking on their part. And unlucky for whoever the poor souls that would be sent to investigate turn out to be, Lady Blanc won't be allowing such a disrespect of her once-authority to stand, regardless of the current situation.

 And if he is sent… Well, then no matter how much the tiny shred of life-warmth-happiness, that is encased in layer upon layer upon layer within the ghost shell of her frozen heart, begs her not to. She will have to defend herself and her domain. Even if it means hurting him. And perhaps even killing him...

 The second Lady Blanc finished the thought, her resolve cracked under the weight of those pesky emotions of hers. Choking back a silent grieving sob, her shoulders heaved. It almost seemed as though the emotions might pass, when for the first time since the akumatisation, she genuinely burst into tears. A drowning surging wail of regret and loss and hurt and fear, all twisted together. But not even crying was spared from what she had become. For the wind howled in tandem with her wails, and the only tears she could shed were frozen ones. And as she cried her frozen tears, so too did the sky. Hail, falling from the sky and shattering onto everything in the air. Over and over and over again. Cascading shards of ice like relentless blades slashed into the surfaces. Leaving them covered in a blanket of icy caltrops.

 She scowled through the crystalline blurriness. The airborne hail shards swirled harmlessly around her whilst in the distance, faint yells and screams began to echo—a warning for those also trapped within the hailstorm to take shelter. Lady Blanc didn't need to patrol to know that bright vivid red splatters of blood would soon be painting the ice and snow. But patrol by heart she would. Any sight of bright colour amongst the white was now both a threat and a treat. As evidenced by Hawkmoth's gleefully maleficent croonings, in her mind.

 Uncurling herself from her position on the Eiffel Tower railings, Lady Blanc stretched idly before launching her yo-yo towards the sounds of screaming, and swinging over to follow where it may lead.

 It didn't take too long, despite being distant-sounding from up the Tower, the screams were actually rather close by. It was just that the sounds had been muffled by all the hail and ice wrought by the storms of her whims.

 Sticking to rooftops and balconies—not unlike how she used to—Lady Blanc arrived at the point where the screams originated from in under thirty seconds. It was almost too easy to find. Freshly glistening splatters of crimson on powdered white sparkled like a burning beacon.

 Settling softly like snow, upon a nearby roof that gave her a clear view of the painted snow, she focussed her attention on it. Not even bothering to check for the one who bled—as if Hawkmoth would allow her—she nestled on the shadowed drift beside a stone-cold chimney and stared at the rare sight. Futilely begged her hollow heart to feel something for the pain and suffering spilt.

 Even from her high perch, she could clearly see how the warmth of the blood had thawed the ice around it somewhat. The colour was already partially diluted and diluting further as more snowflakes fell. It wouldn't be long before the leeching frost claimed it and caused the colour to fade away to white like everything else that had once held vibrancy in this city.

 Another flicker of colour caught her attention, not far from the blood below. Red as well, though not the red of blood but the red of a bird raised by bats. She tilted her head to the side and listened for any sound beneath the silence of the crying cold.

 A sob pierced the air, followed by hushed whispers—promises—of safety, of help.

 That won't do, the crooning taunted.

 Lady Blanc gritted her teeth and forlornly tried to tune it out.

 The accent of the one whispering promises, was distinctly Gotham—a voice of bat wreathed in red, deep with a slight growl not unlike a cornered animal tending to an injured juvenile. Not him then, not as sharp and snappy as his accent could get. No, he was more likely to hiss than growl.

 The Bird below, most likely Jason from the voice—though Red Hood in his current attire—stepped fully into view and glanced skyward. Searching, seeking. For her.

 For but a split second, Lady Blanc felt the urge to call out in desperation, to reveal herself and beg for mercy, for forgiveness, for help...

 Your heart for power, reminded the inciting whims.

 Cold like coffin glass; she, in languish, conceded.

 Otherwise staying perfectly still like the statues she spent most of her time around these days, Lady Blanc narrowed her eyes and with the slightest will of her ghost-shelled heart, wrenched upon the lightly falling hail. And stirred the clawing blizzard.

 From hail to icicles, it rained.

 And the icicles, they wailed.

 Slashing talons of ice carved through the flurry of snow, piercing the bitter night.

 The sudden onslaught of shattering followed by cursing below did not, in fact, bring her any joy. Hawkmoth may have found it entertaining but that was all the more reason Lady Blanc hated doing it. But she couldn't let them see her, recognise her.

 A crash of bodies tumbling through a broken down door below, granted her the freedom to close her eyes and soften the storm back to a languishing lightness. But with it, revealed the blood-stained street whitewashed pristine once more.

 Scowling, Lady Blanc glared at where the colour had been. At least, she reminded herself, there will be another soon. Birds of a feather flock together.

 Yet no sooner had she thought that, a warning from her domain she heard.

 Warmth, whispered the writhing winds.

 And behind her, the familiar sound of a katana being drawn cut through the crackling silence of snow settling on ice. He was here; the verglas on the roof's metal railings hardly crunched beneath the ninja-light footsteps of him.

 “You, are not Ladybug.” Robin hissed oh so astutely. His katana raised; ready to slash at what he must clearly perceive as an imposter, a snowmelt simulacrum. Unhesitating. Still as ice not unlike his civilian-earned title. The Prince of Ice indeed.

 Lady Blanc tilted her head to one side, in mimicry of her once-partner. A billowing cloud of mist and ice burst from her blue lips in a frosty laugh. “No, no I am not.”

 He scoffed, and took another step closer. “Then who are you and where is Ladybug. Or Chat Noir.”

 “You're a detective, aren't you?” She responded noncommittally.

 “I am the son of Batman, of course I am!” Another step closer. Snarling, he added, “if you have hurt her—either of them, then I will make you pay.”

 Lady Blanc stood, swiping off the light dusting of snow that had settled on her as she had been settled in contemplation. She could tell him the truth. That she had hurt both of them dearly, froze them to the bone and stole the warmth—life—from their hearts, leaving them pale shells of frost and grief. But… that would be giving Hawkmoth what he wanted—the anguish of forcing others to hurt their loved ones, twisted and under the beck and call of a mad villain. Never mind, it was definitely already too late for those shreds of her morals to surface beneath the ice of her traitorous mind—considering not even ten seconds earlier, what she did to Red Hood. And that's not even counting what she's done to Paris.

 Turning to face him, her lips curled into a mocking smile. “So presumptuous. You don't recognise me. And yet…?” Pausing to chuckle as bitterly as the winds and shake her head slightly, she gestured sharply at him. “Some detective you are.”

 Delicately, she took a few steps back, until she was all but swaying over the ice-slick edge. Motioning to the swirling vortex of snow that reformed beneath them, her smile melted into a thin downturned sneer. “Why not take a look below. After all, I'd be more concerned about the other bird down there, than Ladybug and Chat Noir right now.”

 “Red Hood is handling the situation adequately.” Robin hissed, glowering at her with that desperately familiar expression of barely restrained violence borne from protectiveness. “What. Have. You. Done. To. Them.”

 Lady Blanc's lips curled into a wry smirk. “Mhmm, well I suppose if it's handled, then that's my cue to leave.” She teetered on the edge and swung her yo-yo idly as if in preparation to throw it. Quickly glancing back at him, her wry smirk faltered for but a fleeting moment as she briefly diverted the avalanche of languish and fear fueling her power.

 She swallowed a breath of chilling air thickly, a meagre attempt to keep the roiling emotions at bay for the fragile moment in which she offered him a silver lining of truth. “The only thing to happen to the heroes, was a fridged family reunion turned frosty. You're far too late to save them now.”

 Exhaling harshly, she tilted forwards and over the edge.

 Only for Robin to lunge after her.

 One. Second. Too. Late.

 The wind whipped around them as his fingers scarcely brushed through the space she had once occupied.

 A weightlessness cascaded over her as her feet left the roof and she began to fall. Her yo-yo, clasped closed within her hand. And distinctly, no grappling line extended.

 Faintly from the roof, she could hear Robin cursing in Arabic. He hadn't fallen with her, it seemed. How almost poetic it was.

 She was a fallen hero, and he was still stood safely atop his own heroic vigilante pedestal. Safe from being dragged down with her into the burning blizzard.

 The distance of said fall was roughly ten metres or so, and the snowdrift would cushion her landing. Harmlessly, though in no small part thanks to a side effect of her akumatised form and said snowdrift, she flopped into the snow like an ungraceful cat. Her limbs splayed in the mockery of a snow angel. Lady Blanc let herself stay as she had fallen, within the snow angel. Waiting patiently, she listened carefully for any sound that would signify where and what both the Birds could be doing. She would need the advantage on their next move in order to slip away dramatically and effectively.

 No less than half a minute passed before she once again heard the approach of Robin's steel-toed boots crushing the snow below with each furious step.

 Crunch-crackle-crunch-crunch. Crunch-crunch-crackle-crunch.

 Swish. The silver blade of the katana gleamed through the veil of white. It was easy to see that it was now aimed at her throat this time. Ready to strike should she bring him more strife, clearly.

 “Where are they?” He demanded immediately upon stepping within her sight, shoulders trembling. Whether from cold, panic, or fury, it was hard to tell.

 Lady Blanc cocked her head to one side, causing part of the snow angel surrounding her head to concave in on itself over her. Obscuring part of her vision with more snow, not that she really needed to rely on her vision anymore, what with her Akuma abilities. She bared her teeth at him, in the mockery of the smile. “Where the reunion occurred.”

 Scowling, Robin pressed the katana closer to her neck, in warning, all but hissing his next words. “And where is that?”

 “Where do you think?” She responded, raising an eyebrow behind her mask. Closing her eyes, Lady Blanc smiled wryly, a single stray tear trailed down her face, freezing and falling like lonely hail. Breathing softly, she exhaled slowly but deeply and in doing so, she began to melt back into the snow. The ribbons in her hair melted away first, causing her hair to fall from its signature pigtails. And as she became one with the snow, so too did the magic that kept her identity from being recognisable, thawing away just enough for connections to be made.

 “Stop!” Robin yelped, a brief moment of confusion and conflicted panic washed over his face as he began to piece it together; obvious in the way his eyebrows wiggled—jumping between furrowing and raising—in the way he gritted his teeth and pouted before biting at the insides of his lips then falling back into the gritted expression and then repeating the expressions again. In the way his fingers flexed in a specific pattern against his katana—a pattern that she knew he only did subconsciously when feeling conflicted or when losing his trust or faith in someone. In the way his—

 —His expression shuttered into neutrality.

 Lady Blanc couldn't help but note how it was the very same expression he would make every time him having fought family or friends was brought up in conversation. The muted flickers of determination, betrayal, grief, and reluctant resignation. The echoes of mourning the pain once more.

 A cascading avalanche of guilt slammed into her as she stared up at him with fracturing horror. And he came crashing to his knees before her, like an ungainly newborn fawn, in equal parts shock.

 Grimacing, Robin blinked slowly, clearly reassessing the situation. In a small, almost disbelieving—almost challenging voice, he whispered, “Marinette?” and winced immediately after.

 Lady Blanc would have snorted at his reaction, as he was no doubt remembering the 'no names in the field' rule but at that very moment, she was barely weathering the swirling storm of grief tearing through her mind.

 And in response, the storm outside of her howled like the shattering of her heart. The wind thrashed and flailed, ripping the fallen hail and icicles into the air once more in a deadly dance of blades and bludgeoning. The uppermost layers of snow were torn from the top and scattered into the air, blanketing Lady Blanc and Robin in the powdery pall of the blizzard.

 As if both were frozen into statues, neither moved a muscle. Eyes latched onto each other with all the desperation and dread of the too-thin cracking ice over a plunge into frozen waters; a splintering of the shards of their promises to one another unspoken.

 How long ago had it been, since they'd both whispered the words of comfort and safety to one another. Of agreeing to let the other protect them, and save them should it come to it.

 How long since she had last held him in her hands, and hugged him with all her might.

 How long...

 Another stray frozen tear fell from her eyes. Followed by another, and another, and another. Until the tears turned to streaks of ice cascading down her face. Two thin wobbly rimy lines from eyes to chin.

 Lady Blanc jerked forwards from where she was still half-melting into the snow angel, reaching one hand towards him in a frantic heart-wrenching attempt to hold him once more. To feel him beneath her grasp with the definitive evidence that he was real, that he was warm, that he was alive.

 The ghost of a smothering wail was wrenched from her throat as her fingers just barely brushed the side of his face and the bursting agony of his warmth scalded her. Her fingertips melted, dripping down into the snow. Her fingers, then hand, then wrist, then arm, swiftly followed but a second later in excruciating boiling pangs of languish. Pining in grieving love as she languished—fading and withering away—before him.

 The last thing she saw and heard, were his eyes scouring across the snow angel she had made, him swallowing thickly and choking out a near-silent heartbroken whisper. “Angel...”

 The snowdrift collapsed in on itself once more, covering up the space she had taken up and leaving it an empty snow-filled grave.

 Unbeknownst to her, Robin stared uncomprehendingly at the empty snow-filled grave—angel that she—what was left of Marinette—had just melted into. 

 “No... No-no-no-no!”  His voice dropped to scarcely a rasping raging whisper of mourning despair laid bare. “This can't be…”

 With a trembling hand and heart, he weathered the fading storm, reaching one hand to the place on his jaw where she had reached for him with her snow-light touch.

 “I will save you.” He vowed, for he had a wraith to put to rest and he would not be repeating the same mistakes again. He would follow her down this time, no matter the fall.

 ———

 Down in the depths below the Agreste manor, Lady Blanc reformed within Hawkmoth's now snow and statue-laden repository of a hidden butterfly garden. A languishing ache in her hollow heart.

 With her identity revealed, it would only be a matter of time before he and his family tracked down the lair to confront her. Now that they knew she was alive and she had failed, that she was weak even beneath the haunting frostbitten necrosis of Hawkmoth's influence.

 Pointedly ignoring the shattered and rotting remains of said villain—carelessly littered across the edge of the butterfly garden, halfway to tipping over the edge of the platform—she huffed to herself and paced the icy walkway. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours. Still, she did not relent. Though every so often… she caught her attention drifting over to the frore statue of Chat Noir, and her akumatised glacial ribbon—one that Damian had sewed for her, with delicate robins and ladybugs inexpertly stitched along it—clutched in the frozen outstretched hand. With every glance towards her object, the overwhelming urge to crush it with all her strength flittered through her mind, not unlike the Akuma within. It was a pointless urge, a snowmelt memory of what she used to do in the face of such objects. Destroy and free in order to heal.

 She's tried to, oh how she's tried. But her hands burn cold, and cataclysm could burn only in rot and rust. Neither would burn hot enough to melt the seal keeping her ice-bound in her wretched frozen form.

 A delicate chiming interrupted her thoughts. Her icicle warning system. The Birds had found her. The traps throughout the Agreste Manor, both Hawkmoth's and her own, were still active. But they wouldn't keep them from finding and entering the lair for long. And she could always deactivate her own traps for them...

 You know what you must do. Crowed Hawkmoth, in her head like the pinpricks of icicles dripping blood onto snow.

 Lady Blanc's steps faltered and she shut her eyes, tipping her head back and scrunching up her face. Letting out a heavy sigh, she gritted her teeth and continued pacing, fixing an aimless angry glare at anything and everything in sight within the lair. Reluctantly, she decided to verbalise her thoughts to herself in an attempt to help herself decide on her next course of action instead. “I… I can't let them destroy my object. It can only be destroyed by heat and if it is, then there's a good chance it will kill me. Just touching him hurt so badly… I can't… I can't go through that again. I can't...”

 Pausing for but a shallow wraith of a breath, she winced. “Furthermore, with me akumatised, the miraculous cure cannot be cast unless the earrings are stolen from me.”

 She sighed again and dropped her shoulders, one hand reaching up to brush her fingers against the miraculous within her grasp but hesitating at the last second again. Not daring to actually touch it. “If I try to remove them, like I tried with…” Her thoughts trailed off and a pained expression crossed her face. In the corner of her eye, she could see her reflection twisted and warped in the ice, the blue of her masked eyes almost glowing like her once-partner's cataclysm in the dim light.

 As she stared, a loud SNAP echoed through the lair. And one long thick crack spread across the reflecting ice. Starting from the neck of the reflection. The same place where Robin's sword had been aimed.

 A second crack shattered the silence.

 Whirling around on her heel, Lady Blanc turned to the direction it came from. Her heart dropped. Her thoughts ground to a halt. The ribbon, her akumatised ribbon, was now cracked. Just like the reflection. Just like her resolve.

 A wave of pain slammed into her. She collapsed to her knees. Head held in her hands, she stared desperately at her literal lifeline. “No, no, no, no!”

 The chimes echoed again. More urgently this time. And she knew, knew without needing to understand exactly what the chimes conveyed—one Bird caught in a trap, one Bird free and heading straight for Hawkmoth's vault where the lift to the lair was still hidden, even after all this time. And lastly, two Bats stalking and surrounding the estate—circling like owls waiting for the moment to swoop down and rip her apart with their talons.

 Time was running out.

 She could hear him, the haunting echo of Hawkmoth whispering in her mind, urging her. She needed to act. She needed to fight them. Protect her ribbon from being destroyed by them. She can't do it. Not like this.

 Lady Blanc swallowed thickly, desperation clawing at her throat. Glancing back over her shoulder at the distorted and cracked reflection, she wailed to herself. “I know, okay, I know I should've fought against this harder, I should've been able to overcome this. But it's only now that the ice is cracking. What changed? Why now? Was it because I cried today, for the first time since I failed?”

 Not unbidden, the answer comes to her mind wreathed in the malefic goading of Hawkmoth. And with it, a silent question too, one that she hadn't dared ponder in all this time.

 Bunnyx?

 It had to be. How else could the Bats and Birds have arrived within Paris without her domain warning her until she had stumbled across them by sheer luck. Why they arrived now and not sooner, not before she had started to crack and thaw. Why Robin's first reaction to her, was establishing she wasn't Ladybug—at least not anymore—and his next was asking where Ladybug was. And why Damian was so surprised by it actually being her and not yet another fake Ladybug Akuma.

 After all, it wasn't as if Bunnyx warned her that her once-partner had been akumatised when she was sent to that timeline to fix it. Just that she had to fix it.

 And now more than ever, she desolately wished she knew what truly happened to that timeline after the cure had been cast.

 Frowning, Lady Blanc threw herself to her feet. Hawkmoth's whisperings crescendoed like rupturing and shivering ice and frostbite within her mind; rotting all that remains of her.

 It didn't matter. Not anymore, she was not Ladybug, nor had she been her in such a long while. And despite the languishing guilt, she made her final decision. “I don't want to die… I can't let him kill me.”

 Her final stand.

 A shiver ran down her spine and that was her only warning that her time was up.

 He had arrived.

 Heralded by the swooshing of the lift descending into the frozen grave.

———

 The seconds passed ever so slowly as the lift moved ever closer to the walkway platform. Lady Blanc held her breath and kept her eyes shut. Held herself still as ice. Held her desperately melting plan in fracturing hands and hoped with all the frangible will she could muster. No matter how her resolve continued to waver still, under Hawkmoth's strengthened sway it was gradually refreezing. Though slower still than the lift's descent. And so she readied her yo-yo.

 She never wanted him to follow her, not now, not to here. But he did, and here he was.

 It felt as though the lift opened far too quickly; the silence shattering like the rime cracking beneath his boots as he telegraphed his steps across the walkway.

 “Marinette…” Robin's voice rang out, echoing almost hauntingly as it bounced against the ice-slick walls and ceiling of the lair.

 Marinette, Marinette, Marinette. Whispered the lair in imitation, intertwining with Hawkmoth's malevolent laughter; lancing pain crackled through her mind at the sounds.

 Lady Blanc grit her teeth. Opening her eyes, she immediately glared at him with all the hatred and animosity she could wrest. “Lady Blanc.” She corrected, like an icicle to the heart.

 His footfalls ceased, leaving behind the hollow wraith of an echo. “Lady Blanc, then”—hesitating for but a moment, he cleared his throat—“I do not wish to fight you.”

 “And I'm supposed to believe that?” Incredulity laced her tone as she snarled out the words and bared her teeth. Unable to do anything else but watch him warily as Hawkmoth's unrelenting laughter putrefied and compounded—rattling through her skull like the mockery of a heartbeat.

 Robin stilled, though not quite as still as her nor the frozen statues of Chat Noir and what remained of Hawkmoth. It was poetic again; an ice-warped reflection of their last moments before he had attacked her unprompted.

 When he made no further reaction or response—in actions or words—she cocked her head to one side and re-evaluated him, eyes narrowing and snarl wilting—languishing—into a wry grimace.

 Lady Blanc deliberated for a moment, not quite hesitating—she then opened her mouth to speak, voice almost powder snow soft, as softly as she could be in this form—but despite that her voice still carried the sharpness of black ice. “Why are you here? Why now, why wait all this time only to investigate now?”

 He took another step forwards, as if taking that for a cue to approach and gently raised his hands in a show of being unarmed and following through with his intent. “You—Ladybug and Chat Noir never responded to the Justice League's calls after Paris became frozen over for beyond a week. Nor did you or anyone on your team respond further, after the League tried and failed to reconnoitre due to the impassable surrounding blizzard.”

 And if she hadn't known him as well as she did, she never would've noticed the strain and distress underlying his words. However, through her Hawkmoth knew as well and he made her well aware of the fact with his malicious gloating—it was obvious as to how very much so he was enjoying the negative emotions that Robin was feeling at this very moment.

 Lady Blanc tightened her grip on her yo-yo, refusing to show weakness by moving towards him or away from him. “Again, then why are you here now?”

 Taking yet another step forwards, Robin lowered his voice to that calming steady voice: the one that all heroes use when talking to victims. “We were recently given permission by a miraculous holder on your team to operate within Paris in regards to matters pertaining to the miraculous.”

 She snarled, Hawkmoth's fury amplifying her own. She had delayed long enough, and that was all the confirmation she needed to know Bunnyx had indeed decided to interfere. Swinging first, her yo-yo sliced through the stalemate between them.

 He raised his arm on instinct. Wrong move. Having seemingly forgotten this wasn't just another one of their spars. As the yo-yo lashed against it. Whipping around the armour and digging in tight.

 The white-outs of his mask widened almost comically. Before she wrenched on the wire. Sending him head over heels and crashing into the glass coffin of Emilie Agreste.

 Like the shattering of Hawkmoth's statued form so long ago now, the coffin burst into thousands of glittering deadly shards. Cascading down around Robin as they began to pierce into the kevlar armour.

 Hawkmoth's languishing howl roared within her mind like the white-out outside. Lady Blanc flinched for a moment that lasted an eternity of ice, ducking her head slightly and scrunching her face up in pain on instinct. Her grip on her yo-yo loosening for no longer than Robin's heartbeat.

 But it was enough. Enough for him to tear the wire from his arm guards and prise himself from the broken remains.

 A thin trail of blood trickled from a deep gash on Robin's cheek, just below where the eyemask's edge could have protected him. The white-outs were now down, and a determined glint in his eyes.

 The sight of crimson red dripping down and splattering on the iridescent glass and ice surrounding the coffin caused Lady Blanc to freeze.

 Hawkmoth's howling paused too, shifting like an avalanche into contemptuous delectation. That's it, he crooned in cloying praise, make him bleed for all he's ruined.

 She could almost feel the tender disquieting glazing of the butterfly silhouette upon her face. Though a quick glance at reflecting ice still showed only the cataclysm glow in her masked eyes.

 And yet, it was distraction enough for one of Robin's birdarangs to slash into her left ribs, carving deeply. The thin gaping wound spilt gushing snowflakes and ice crystals instead of blood, that splattered against the rime-encrusted walkway. Her miraculous suit only protected her so much in her akumatised form after all, and it wasn't as if she couldn't just reform once more—should she be defeated here and now, as inconvenient and painful as that would undoubtedly be.

 With the crack of the yo-yo wire, Lady Blanc retaliated. Aiming for Robin's throat in vengeance.

 He lurched into a roll. Diving away from the coffin and glass whilst launching a birdarang at the yo-yo.

 Crack.

 The two weapons collided midair. Clattering harmlessly to the ground in between them. Only for the yo-yo to melt into the snow. And ever dutifully, the rime reformed the weapon back into her hands.

 Robin cursed in Arabic, plucking his sword from his sheath.

 Two steps forwards, two steps back. The two moved in sync. For every swipe of her yo-yo, he parried with a single slice of his katana. A slash to his right leg. A dodge to the left. A stab to her collar. A simple flip backwards.

 Their blows quickly snowballing into a flurry, neither able to quite get an edge over the other.

 “Stop!” Robin begged—demanded, dodging another of her strikes with practised ease. “This isn't you! You're akumatised. Let us destroy your object so we can fix this!”

 Oh, but how much blood was on her hands and how many lives had she froze asunder? How could she live with herself even if it all was fixed and she forgot, all the pain and suffering undone?

 Scoffing, Lady Blanc shook her head as if to dispel the thoughts; dancing forward with another spin and slash of her yo-yo. “It's a little too late for that.”

 And with that, she wrenched upon the power her akumatised form granted her. Sharp icicle blades splintered and rose from the verglas pall across the walkway.

 Robin cursed again, more heavily this time as he began to frantically drop and dive and parry and slide. Forcing all his attention on avoiding getting skewered or pushed over the edge of the walkway railings, instead of solely on her.

 Strategically, Lady Blanc pulled back, letting the blades keep him occupied as she positioned herself between him and her glacial ribbon. It was a miracle he hadn't noticed it—or rather realised what it was—yet.

 He sent a languishing look towards her, weaving between the blades like snowmelt through the cracks in the ice. Fluid and graceful but swiftly running out of space to slip away.

 Turning her attention to the coffin behind her, she quickly analysed the damage. Despite everything, the corpse remained perfectly preserved and unharmed. Not even a single shard of glass had grazed the skin within.

 Hawkmoth's preening complacency at the sight, felt like the pricking of bare skin on hoar frost; sending blighting shivers down Lady Blanc's spine. It shouldn't have been enough to distract her.

 But it was enough. Enough for him to tear his way through the blades and throw himself at her back. Pinning her to the walkway in the clingiest hug learnt from his family that he could imitate. And gripping tight as she shattered.

 Your heart for power, Hawkmoth hissed.

 “No, no, no-no-no plea—!” But the sudden scalding pain of warmth wrenched a wretched scream from her throat. Agony flared across her back at the once comforting touch. The heat rending her apart in a fractal rupturing. All too acutely was she aware of the haunting SNAP-CRACKLE of her glacial ribbon fracturing with her. As everything she held back came crashing down around her. And oh so desperately, did she try to twist and prise herself from his burning grasp.

 “Let go, please! I don't—” She wailed despondently, words wobbling from the pain. “—want to—don't want to die…”

 “I'm sorry. This is the only way I can help you. Please, forgive me for hurting you.” Robin—Damian pleaded, clinging on tight, refusing to relinquish holding her in his arms despite the pain it was causing her. He couldn't. Even as her akumatised form began to languish, not melting this time: but thawing.

 As oddly enough, the warmth was enough to keep Hawkmoth's presence at bay for the first time since she became akumatised.

 She stilled again, the fight in her deliquescing as her body did. Frozen tears thawed into liquid tears as they spilled from her eyes. She trembled, choking on her own heart-wrenching sobs cascading from her lips.

 Yet despite that, the more Lady Blanc thawed, the worse it became. She—Marinette let out a chilling keening, half-melted fingers clasping at his neck as she feebly tried to return the hug in her final moments of clarity.

 Together, they held each other in their arms as her akumatised form languished away. Until all that was left was a hollow in Damian's chest where his heart lay, the snowmelt freezing him to the bone through his armour, and two inert plain black earrings on the ground before him.

 “I'm sorry.” He whispered in languishing repetition, to all that remained of her. “Please, forgive me.”

 She didn't reform.

 Damian waited.

 And waited.

 And waited.

 Still, she didn't reform.

 She was gone. She had to be.

———

 However, unbeknownst to him, the glacial ribbon had not fully shattered. Held together by the last crystals of ice clinging to the fraying threads of the original fabric.

 And further unbeknownst to him still, Marinette—Lady Blanc reformed imperfectly—still half-melted—from the ice and snow up at the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was the first place she could think of returning to that would be safe enough for her to untangle the frosty scalding flood of emotions tearing her apart at the seams. In the wake of her melting, all that was left of him were the snowmelt memories of him holding her, and a searing hollow emptiness where the connection to the storm had been boiled away by his warmth.

 Not even to mention how furthermore, that very same searing hollow emptiness was scalding her right where her miraculous had since been worn. Oddly enough, the lack of the earrings' weight felt heavier upon her ears.

 Yet again, it was almost poetic. That she had fled here to the tower in her panic after that tragedy of a confrontation. The place where the shattering had first begun.

 Gasping for shallow breath, she let the liquid tears fall like her languishing hopes as she collapsed to her knees. Dripping down her face almost in mimicry of how she had melted—was still partially melted—and carving grooves in her snow-formed skin from the tear-melt.

 It felt as though everything was conspiring against her, let alone both her body and mind thanks to whatever influence of Hawkmoth's Damian—Robin had ruptured.

 “How…” Marinette—Lady Blanc mumbled numbly, achingly so, “how did this go so horribly? I was supposed to—Why did I—Why didn't I—” choking on her words, she desperately hugged her arms around herself in a futile attempt to feel the warmth—any warmth—again. “Maybe I was right, earlier… maybe I really was doomed from the start?”

 But the only answer to her whispered words, was the silent absence of the blizzard no longer blanketing—shielding—Paris like a funerary pall.

 Hollowly, she noted that she'd need to move soon. Seek shelter not unlike how she had previously forced the surviving Parisians to do so. Because with no barrier between her and the outside world anymore, and the Bats already flocking the place. Not even to mention her miraculous forsaken from her. It would only be a matter of time until it was too late for her… for those fears of hers that she had mused upon only fleeting moments ago. Before she fell and shattered as though an icicle plummeting from the tower's railing and rupturing apart in a burst of rime upon colliding with the ground, regardless of how deep the snow drifts below were.

 The very thought only reigned to torment her further. Sobs wracking her frame, wrenched from her cracking throat as she wailed her languish, grief, and regret in a rending requiem.

 Her keening hung in the air, the tightened noose of the gallows throttling the silence until it fractured as she had.

 And though the blizzard may have melted from the sky, the silver clouds still swayed across the sky like the impatient blade of the guillotine—ready to bring the heavy blade down upon her neck in the name of justice. (As if he hadn't already silently threatened to be her executioner when he had held the katana to her frozen throat.) As if he hadn't followed through with it. As if he hadn't nearly succeeded…

 She couldn't return. Not anymore. Not to him.

 Marinette—Lady Blanc dropped her arms from around herself. “What do I do now?” She whispered to herself, staring at her hands as if they bore the answer.

 Wretchedly enough, she could hear a response in the susurration of the snow. There was only one answer left; haunting and rotting and all that remained. And though the blizzard no longer prevented those within Paris from escaping the freezing prison, Lady Blanc was still ice-bound to the donjon where her object stayed. She had no choice. No true final say.

 For the absence of any other option was deafening.

 And so, she held her head in her hands, and cried her heart apart.

———

 At some point, Damian lost track of the time, holding onto the snowmelt memory of her in his arms.

 A steadying hand grabbed onto his shivering shoulder, snapping him back to awareness.

 The first thing he noticed was the taste of iron and salt on his tongue, and the dried blood and tears on his face.

The second thing was that Black Bat and Red Hood were both now down on the walkway with him as well. Black Bat was further away than Red Hood though, investigating the broken glass coffin and corpse within.

 Red Hood, however, was squatting in front of him, helmet under one arm, his signature leather jacket missing and a look of concern engraved on his face. “You with us now?”

 Damian nodded stiffly. The faint rustle of leather against his neck gave him pause. He turned his head to look at his shoulder, only to see the missing jacket, as well as Black Bat's and Batman's capes, draped over him, though practically swaddled in the latter. The weight and warmth comforting in their familiarity. It was then, he noticed that his wet outer armour had been removed, leaving him in his dry thermal under armour.

 Red Hood pushed his hands against his thighs and stood up. “Good.”

 Humming, Black Bat sidled over to the two of them and nodded in agreement. “You gave us a scare.”

 “Yeah, when your comms and tracking beacon died and there was no response even after an hour once you went dark despite the weather clearing up outside, nearly gave B fucking heart attack.” Red Hood added, a false levity in his voice as he huffed. “Don't think I've ever seen him look that emotionally constipated.”

 Black Bat shook her head, a tenuous cheeky smile playing on her lips, then swiftly moved to boop Red Hood on the nose. “Not emotionally constipated, just scared,” then cocked her head to one side, the smile faltering slightly. “Like you.”

 “I wasn't scared for Robin.” He protested half-heartedly. Pausing to scan the repository again, he grimaced. “Especially not once we found you drenched and half frozen to death.”

 Before continuing, he took a slow breath, “fall through the ice into the water down there?” He tilted his head towards the edge of the walkway railings to indicate at the ice floe below, “or something?”

 “Or-somethin'…” Damian mumbled in languish, words slurring together slightly. He scrunched his nose up like Marinette used to, in order to show his displeasure.

 Black Bat frowned at him, her body language practically screaming concern and worry as she creased her eyebrows, curled her shoulders up and leaned towards him ever so slightly.

 Red Hood, on the other hand, narrowed his white-outs at him. “Right.” He said, tone practically dripping with suspicion and scepticism. “Well B's gone to grab you some hypothermia blankets and shit, so wanna share with the class what happened then?”

 Damian bristled, not even attempting to curb the slurring of his hiss. “Doess'it-matter?”

 “Yes,” Black Bat cut in, emphasising her words heavily so much so that they hung in the air—echoing lightly like windchimes in the ice-strewn room. Her gaze bore through the fabric encompassing him as he held her full attention. “Always, little brother.”

 Raising an eyebrow, Red Hood took a step back to give Robin more space. “Considering you look like you're gonna fucking keel over and join Chat Noir over there, yeah I agree with Black Bat and say it fucking matters.”

 At Chat Noir's name, Damian froze. He swallowed thickly and glanced up at the ice statue not far from his position on the floor, with the shattered but barely still intact ribbon in hand. Then he glanced down at the earrings—her earrings.

 “I found them…” He croaked, not taking his gaze from all that was left of her.

 “Chat Noir, and Ladybug, I can see that.” Red Hood muttered, voice softening considerably. “Did you manage to find the Akuma, the object, or Hawkmoth?”

 Damian scooped up her earrings with trembling hands. “No.” He corrected coldly, “The shattered statue isn't Ladybug.”

 Red Hood jerked back slightly, startled, then squinted at him. “What. Then what happened to her, where is she?”

 “Here…” Cradling her earrings in his hands, Damian finally looked up at Red Hood again with unshed tears shining in his slightly glazed over eyes.

 There was a pause as Red Hood stared at the earrings in Robin's hands and the surrounding puddle of snowmelt. “Shit, I'm sorry.” Stepping closer, Red Hood gently pulled him into a hug and tucked Robin's head under his chin.

 Black Bat quietly joined the hug as well, staunchly wrapping her arms around both Red Hood and Robin's shoulders. “It'll be okay, little brother. You have her miraculous…” She paused, tilting her head to one side as she tried to find the words she was looking for. “The cure. It can fix this.”

 “Sh-she was the Akuma…” Damian whispered, voice cracking in lament as he shivered. The cold kevlar of his siblings' armour was definitely not helping his situation despite the warmth of the hugs—and that very thought nearly set him off again. “She was weak to temperatures above freezing, from what I observed. Whenever we made contact, she would proceed to melt, causing her excruciating pain.”

 He shallowly swallowed a choking breath of frigid air. “I killed her.”

 Just before either Black Bat or Red Hood could respond, Batman swooped in (though not quite with the same effect as usual, due to the lack of the cape) from the lift with the cold weather emergency medical kit piled high in his arms. The pure anguished brooding demeanour laid bare across his furrowed face.

 Silence, barring the thundering strides of Batman approaching, permeated the air as the rest of his family grasped what Damian just admitted to.

 “B—” Red Hood started defensively, tensing and shifting his hug to more of a protective curl around Robin.

 Batman waved a hand—from beneath the armful of supplies—at Red Hood, grunted in acknowledgement and without missing a beat, deposited said medical supplies down a few paces from the hug. Close enough to be easily accessible but far enough away to still give the three some space. He then began meticulously sifting through the contents and pulling out what he deemed necessary.

 A foil hypothermia blanket was first, Batman immediately outstretched one hand to pass it to Red Hood. Followed swiftly by a travel mug, and a sealed medical-grade single-use plastic disposable drinking straw (for both sanitary and safety reasons).

 Black Bat temporarily extracted herself from the hug first, to allow Red Hood to grab the blanket and properly wrap it around Robin.

 In the meantime, Batman cracked open the travel mug and straw, bending the latter before plopping it in the mug. Causing the delicious aroma of hot chocolate with melted marshmallows to suffuse the air. Awkwardly, he shuffled closer to his children and slowly offered the drink by the bent straw to Robin so he could take a sip without needing to leave the hug or blankets. “Here you go, chum. Drink slowly, okay.”

 Damian nodded, hesitating before taking a small slow sip.

 By the time he was halfway through the drink, there was still no sign of Marinette having reformed, though strangely enough, the ribbon in Chat Noir's hand had begun refreezing over the cracks fracturing it, in the meantime. Despite the warmth of the drink filling him, it felt as though there was a cold dark pit in his stomach at the loss of her.

 Making sure to finish the hot chocolate in its entirety first, so as to not waste it or for any attempts at talking to be rebuffed by his family, Damian squinted at his father, choosing his next words carefully. “Are you… displeased with what I've done. I've killed her.”

 Batman stilled, closing his eyes for a second as he held his composure. “I know you have,” he began carefully, “and I won't lie that I'm unhappy about the situation that you ended up facing alone. I only wish one of us had been able to back you up sooner, so you wouldn't have this on your conscience.”

 Red Hood cleared his throat loudly, and glared at Batman from over Robin's head.

 Fidgeting under the glare, Batman continued. “But I could never be upset with you for protecting yourself in self-defence. Especially given what Ladybug has told us before in regards to Akumas and Akuma victims.”

 He paused, glancing towards Red Hood briefly. “And even if you hadn't killed her in self-defence, I would still regret that you had to fight someone you cared about alone. Regardless of the situation, you're my son, and I will always love you. Killing someone,” his gaze flickered up to Red Hood again, “doesn't change that fact.”

 “I—” Damian started, tears leaking through the corners of his mask. “Thank you, father.”

 Batman moved the empty hot chocolate mug off to one side and then leaned in, pulling Robin into a warm bear hug.

 Red Hood watched the exchange quietly, before glancing away, mouth twisted into a light frown.

 A long heartfelt moment passed before Batman released his Robin from the hug.

 Damian sniffled faux-haughtily, trying to smother the impending tears as he curled his shoulders up. “I suppose I should utilise the miraculous now, to bring her back.”

 Batman grimaced at the reminder of the magical artefacts afoot. “As long as you know how to safely use them, yes…”

 No sooner had the words left his mouth, the miraculous (still in Damian's hands) began to glow a bright bubbly pink.

 Damian's heart clenched at the sight of something that, he supposed should have been unsurprising, was so violently reminiscent of her.

 A bubble no larger than the diameter of an average rat or another small mammal perhaps, split off from the rest. It darted away, twirling through the air in front of Damian, not unlike something out of a children's fairy-themed show.

 The glowing bubble coalesced into a small red being that was vaguely evocative of a ladybird, if one squinted. And squinting, Damian was.

 “Hello!” It greeted with a cheerful sort of wariness and a strained smile. “I am Tikki, Kwami of Creation and the Ladybug Miraculous.”

 Black Bat pulled away from the group hug again. She grinned back with an equal edge of wariness—though somewhat tempered by her curiosity—and waved at the little thing, then dipped her head in a light nod. “Nice to meet you.”

 The other three Bats stared uncomprehendingly at the Kwami.

 “What the fuck…” Red Hood muttered, shaking his head slightly at the sight. “It's a fucking floating magic bug creature…”

 “It,” Damian hissed protectively, “just introduced herself with a name. Have some manners, Todd. Tikki and the other Kwamis, according to Ladybug, are divine spirit-like beings that grant her and the other Parisian heroes under her leadership, their powers.” He cleared his throat, and quietly and rather hastily added. “If it weren't for our current circumstances, it would otherwise be a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 The slight wariness faded from Tikki as her strained smile became even more so. “It's a pleasure to finally and formally meet you too, even under this situation. Though I must admit due to the nature of how us Kwami interact with the world, my knowledge of what has happened is unfortunately limited.”

 She glanced between the four vigilantes, and then towards the glass coffin, or more specifically the frozen statue of Chat Noir before it. Slowly taking in the full weight of the situation at the unmistakable signs of a powerful Akuma attack and her missing holder. Tikki's strained smile fell immediately as tears began to shimmer in her eyes. “Oh, Chat Noir…” She chewed her lip as she grimaced, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. Cautiously, as though afraid of the answer, Tikki looked to Damian, “and my holder…?”

 “Ladybug was Akumatised.” Damian answered her. “She has been… confronted and prevented from continuing what she was doing. If you could lend us your power so that we may reverse the damage done and return her to how she was before the akumatisation, it would be appreciated.”

 Before Tikki could respond, a chilling—wailing—wind sliced through the frozen repository.

 “No.” In a whirling flurry of snow, Lady Blanc (still donned in that same bleached mockery of the ice power-up suit despite the absence of the miraculous) fully reformed before the frozen form of Chat Noir. Ensuring that she had placed herself between the Bats and her akumatised object before they could even dare approach. Though she was no longer half-melted, the tear-melt grooves down her cheeks had only deepened. She swallowed thickly, shoulders trembling and hands gripping her yo-yo with the desperation of a lifeline. “I've warned you once before. I will not warn you again.” Glowering at them, she let the last of her power—that languishing frigid fury—drown her next words in haunting rime. “It is too late to fix what I have done.”

 “Marinette!” Tikki cried, darting towards her, “that's not true, the miraculous cure will work if you just let us use it on you! It's really not too late, I promise!”

 With the flick of Lady Blanc's wrist, the yo-yo swung towards Tikki, coming far too close for comfort to the distraught Kwami. Slicing through the air as it preceded an arc of blade-like icicles launching from the verglas-encrusted walkway, all of which were aiming not only at Tikki, but the Bats and Bird behind her too.

 Black Bat reacted first, in immediate response she flipped forwards and threw a volley of perfectly aimed Batarangs. Each Batarang struck a blade of ice, shattering them harmlessly between the living and statues.

 Neither Lady Blanc nor Black Bat moved as the ice cascaded onto the walkway with delicate clinks and chimes.

 Black Bat stared icily at Lady Blanc. “You will not harm them.”

 Holding his breath, Damian frantically attempted to scramble out of the blankets binding him and face her, himself.

 It was only thanks to Red Hood and Batman's trained reflexes and familiarity with wrangling him, that they were able to restrain him from doing so, seeing as he was still recovering and sorely lacking in the armour department. Though the prevention was not without a litany of swears muttered by Red Hood in the process.

 Lady Blanc eyed her two main threats: Black Bat and Tikki, ignoring Black Bat's words and the scuffle behind her. The others were less of a threat, as not only was the kerfuffle keeping them occupied but it was obvious they'd prioritise protecting Dami—Robin over targeting her object. Especially due to the fact he was surrounded by field medical supplies and unarmed— vulnerable. “The cure,” she snarled, taking one singular step forwards, “will not erase the experience, the memories of everything that has happened.”

 “That's not true…” Tikki repeated, quieter and more subdued this time. She hovered closer to Black Bat's right shoulder for safety. “You're akumatised, you won't remember once we purify your Akuma.”

 “But the survivors will.” Lady Blanc seethed, in wretched mourning. “And so will you. The cure won't fix the pain and suffering I've caused everyone. It won't erase the wrongs I've committed.” She paused, glancing between them all, eyes blazing like Chat-Blanc's cataclysms; just like her earlier reflection had shown. “But it will erase me. Permanently. There's a chance it could erase this entire timeline from existence. It's happened before.”

 “Before?” Black Bat asked, watching Lady Blanc with a careful curiosity and damning concern. Scrutinising her every expression and gesture for unspoken answers.

 “Besides,” Lady Blanc continued, pointedly ignoring Black Bat—gaze flickering passed her too quickly as she continued to glance between the rest— “even if you cast the cure, it won't undo the effects of my akumatisation… time will still have passed, people will still be traumatised, the damage will still have been done.”

 Faltering for but a second, she added on quietly enough that, had it not been the Bats as her audience, it wouldn't have otherwise been heard… “I will still be a villain once it all melts to nothingness.”

 “You're not a villain.” Batman calmly rebutted. “You didn't choose to become an Akuma, nothing you have done as an Akuma is your fault.”

 “Indeed!” Damian interjected, glaring at her in return, though the effect was dampened via the blanket, jacket, and capes still bundling him. “You were, and still are, under the effects of an emotionally manipulative villain. If you were to face judicial processes as other villains do, in a court of law, you would be excused under duress.”

 Red Hood snorted, muttering under his breath, “yeah, or excused under undue influence, y'know considering how you're reacting right now.”

 “I have slaughtered hundreds and thousands of innocents.” Lady Blanc hissed, stalagmites of ice surged from the verglas around her as her fury spiked. “Others have been declared villains for less.”

 Batman sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and then raising both his hands as a gesture of peace. “Even if you are a villain, as you say you are. That doesn't mean you're beyond help. Contrary to popular belief, I don't dress up as a bat and beat up criminals because I think they're beyond help. If that were the case, I, Batman, would kill. But I don't. Because everyone deserves a second chance and the help needed to change.”

 “Would you give Hawkmoth a second chance? Or the Joker?” She scoffed.

 A moment of silence crackled through the frozen repository with all the grandeur of a guillotine's blade released.

 Red Hood death-glared at Lady Blanc, mouth twisted between utter bewilderment and the curl at the corner of his lips that betrayed the downright chilling wrath lurking beneath. His eyes almost seemed to glimmer green in the reflection of the ice. “Are you seriously fucking comparing yourself to the fucking Joker?”

 There was no response.

 Inhaling deeply, he then hissed through his teeth and gesticulated violently in tandem. “Did you not fucking listen to everything we just fucking said?”

 Lady Blanc stilled sharply, shoulders jerking back into a tense and more defensive position; teeth accidentally snapping down onto her tongue in the process. Snowmelt pooled in her mouth from the wounds, instead of blood. She swallowed thickly, grimacing as she glanced aside—unable to bear looking at any of them for any longer.

 “Further fucking more,” Red Hood continued, “you've only fucked Paris up. One city. That ain't shit compared to how many places those bastards have fucked up.”

 She flinched, thoughts spiralling back to her once-partner's akumatisation. Shaking her head stiffly, her eyes caught on the statue of Chat Noir once again. “You should have seen what preceded me. It could've been far worse...”

 “But what could have been, is not what is and has happened.” Damian cut in, cautiously. “Does that not speak of the person you are, regardless of your own akumatisation?”

 Her hands trembled—shivered, only slightly but just barely enough to be noticeable. Fingers curling and uncurling around the yo-yo like the staccato of her heartbeat. “No. You're wrong.”

 “Why? Why are we wrong?” He demanded, not unkindly but unrelenting in his determination. “You say you could have done worse, ergo you actively chose to limit the destruction you've unwillingly caused due to factors outside of your control.” Damian scrunched up his nose and tilted his head to one side. “Something which many Justice League members ought to aspire to when they're under the control or influence of outside forces. Therefore you have achieved something wherein even seasoned heroes and vigilantes, whom are known globally for frequently saving the world, could not.”

 Gritting her teeth, Lady Blanc swung her yo-yo out towards the four of them. Arcs of glacial blades lashed out in waves.

 Immediately, Black Bat, Red Hood, and Batman slipped into defensive stances in front of Damian. Blade by blade the ice shattered. Batarangs and bullets tearing through them.

 And in the chaos of the attack, Damian freed himself from the blanket and cape cocoon. Sprinting down the walkway, he dodge and weaved between both friendly and not-so-friendly fire—or more aptly, frost.

 “Robin!” Shouted Batman, noticing just a split second too late. His head turning to face his son and hand reaching out but unable to fully draw his attention away from the slashing of the reforming blades.

 Blade after blade, the arcing waves continued. Though every blade that sliced towards Damian, melted before it could dare hurt him. Step by step he approached unharmed. Icemelt puddles formed in his wake, swiftly refreezing into bitter black ice.

 Lady Blanc took a hesitant step back. The shivering was worsening now, as though she was affected by the cold, despite her akumatisation having granted her immunity to such a thing. “Don't.” She warned.

 “No, I will not give up on you.” He insisted as he kept making his way towards her. “I made a mistake in the manner of which way I approached and tried to save you earlier. And for that I am sorry but I promise to do better this time.”

 She scoffed wetly, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes once again. “I'm not the same as the person I was before. No amount of talking or powder snow promises will change that.”

 Lashing out with the yo-yo again, it barely skimmed by his neck. But its effects were instantaneous; his footsteps halting. If her aim had been true, it would have wrapped around his neck like a noose. Faltering at the realisation, she backed away closer to the shattered glass coffin.

 Yet another mirroring of their most recent fight.

 Accidentally, she bit the insides of her cheeks and once again, snowmelt flooded her mouth. She swallowed it thickly, throat constricting as if she had hung a noose around her own neck instead.

 Another stalemate had been reached.

 Back and forth.

 Stopping and starting.

 With every step forwards, a step taken back.

 A deadly dance, wherein all actions either party could make, were missteps.

 They were going in circles.

 Again, and again, and again.

 And it was obvious to all, that it could not be kept going for much longer. One side would have to give out, crack and melt, and languish away.

 Lady Blanc had been on the back foot since their arrival, no thanks in part to Bunnyx's machinations. Hissing through her teeth, she sighed. “It's rather telling, isn't it? How you all keep beating around the bush and going on about fixing this, saving me, and undoing everything! And yet not a single one of you has come up with a refute to what I've said. To the undeniable truth that the Miraculous Cure isn't as all-powerful with its "limitless"—” pausing, she made air quotes with her fingers without letting go of her yo-yo or the wire, “—healing as everyone seems to think it is capable of. It can't cure the time that has been lost, the painful memories made, the suffering endured.”

 The following silence from both Tikki and the Bats spoke a thousand words.

 “Why?” Lady Blanc's shoulders shook heavily as her breaths quickened in time with her rabbiting pulse. “Why can you still not understand, after everything I've said and done? Why can't you understand there is no salvaging what has been broken with my akumatisation? There's no undoing of what's been done unless Bunnyx herself goes back into the past to prevent the timeline from forming in the first place!”

 Tikki tsked. “Marinette, please. You don't have to repeat yourself. There's always a—”

“—Is there?” Lady Blanc cut her off icily, seething, chest heaving, teeth bared. “Is there really? Because so far all you've done is said that it can be and then not given any evidence!”

 Damian hummed inquisitively, narrowing his eyes at her. “Does it matter?”

 “Robin!” Reprimanded Batman.

 “Are you fucking kidding me?” Red Hood snarled, not a second later.

 “How can you say that?” Tikki asked, brows furrowed and mouth twisting as though biting into something sour.

 Black Bat, barring Lady Blanc, was the only one to not immediately react in outrage at his words. His sister merely frowned and began slinking around the edge of the walkway towards the akumatised ribbon, whilst the rest were distracted by him. Just in case they all failed to talk her down peacefully.

 In contrast, Lady Blanc's own reaction was one of suspicious bemusement. Though she made no attempt to move neither closer nor any further away, that didn't mean she wasn't still a threat.

 “Because why does it matter?” Damian lifted his chin up and took a step closer to Lady Blanc, challenging her. “What makes an akumatisation so vastly unique in comparison to say any other tragic mass villain attack?”

 He turned to stare at his father and brother, equally daring them to argue against him. “We have faced villains who have rewritten the universe before, villains who have caused mass extinction events that we fixed before, and we have helped victims who have been labelled villains due to various reasons beyond their control no matter the damage they may have caused.”

 Puffing out his chest like an indignant robin as he took yet another step closer again, Damian continued, not letting a word in edgeways. “Why should an Akuma be treated any differently to those similar situations? And despite the time lost, trauma and pain suffered, and the damage remaining, the world still turns. The survivors still live, and the days still pass. And most importantly, those who were victims, are given a chance to heal after the tragedy.”

 Lady Blanc stood frozen in place as she listened and contemplated, face etched in distress.

 Taking his chance, Damian drew further towards her still, until he was between her and the ribbon.

 “As you said, the miraculous cannot fix anything. But no one, not you, nor the survivors, can heal until we undo or mitigate as much of the damage as possible. A wound will not heal if what caused the wound has yet to be removed.” Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, Damian reached out to offer her his hand, nearly begging. “Please, will you let us help you heal?”

 With trembling hands, and a languishing resolve,  Lady Bl—Marinette—reached back. Wincing preemptively, she fragilely grasped his offer like a withering lifeline and clasped his hand in her own. A final sob tore from her throat when for the first time since becoming akumatised, the warmth did not hurt her.

 It didn't burn. She didn't melt. Nor thaw. Nor languish.

 But unbeknownst to Marinette, the ribbon did. The unyielding ice that had protected—sealed, guarded, trapped, imprisoned—it for so long finally thawed, leaving the Akuma inside vulnerable.

 Her knees buckled and it was only thanks to Damian's impeccable reflexes, that he was able to catch her before she could hit the ground. Causing the tension in the air to fracture and fade.

 “It's okay, you're safe now.” He assured her, as he held her in his arms. “It will be over soon.”

 Marinette shook her head, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, listening to the steady beat of his heart in one ear. “'M sorry, 'm sorry, 'm sorry, 'm sorry.” She gasped out in an avalanche, tears choking her words.

 He hugged her tighter in response, channelling how his family's hugs always made him feel—beloved and safe.

 Giving her a moment to recover herself, Damian soothingly rubbed her back in circles and gently asked. “Can we free you from your akumatisation, please?”

 Unable to immediately bring herself to words, Marinette nodded, cold tears trickling down her face and onto his shoulder.

 “Thank you, my beloved.” Damian responded, voice tinged by the hints of a warm smile as he stared at her in relief. Momentarily, he turned his head to nod at Black Bat and shifted his arm away from the hug just long enough to pass the Ladybug Miraculous over to her.

 He spared Marinette one more quick glance before returning his attention to his sister. Who, in a swift and elegant motion, tugged back her cowl and carefully fastened the earrings in place.

 Though Damian was soon distracted by tapping on his other shoulder in rapid succession: two short, two long, a pause, three short, three long, one short—one long—one short, one short—one long—one short, one long—one short—two long. A beat passed, and then the pattern repeated.

 “You don't need to apologise.” He muttered as gently as he could muster, turning his gaze back to her and continuing the soothing ministrations of rubbing her back. “Perhaps, you should focus on matching my breathing instead?”

 Marinette shook her head but ceased tapping nonetheless. Inhaling shakily, she tried to copy his breathing by the calming rise and fall of his chest. Soon, her cries softened, and her grief and fear melted—draining away like her will to fight had before. “Since when did you get so good at… this.”

 Sniffing haughtily, Damian hid his grin. “What are you talking about, I've always been excellent at comforting people.”

 “Yeah, only if we're calling animals people now.” Red Hood butted in.

 “That reminds me, Hood. From henceforth I shall be referring to all my pets as my "fur babies".” Damian replied.

 Marinette wheezed, not quite able to manage actually laughing yet.

 “Don't you dare! You used to agree with me on this!” Red Hood argued, staring at Damian aghast. “B, c'mon back me up here!”

 Sighing wearily, Batman shook his head, more focussed on gathering up the forgotten medical supplies, and re-equipping his own cape. “If Robin wants to do that, then so be it.”

 Red Hood's yelped in mock betrayal. “How could you!”

 “I shall name my next pet in your honour, father, in gratitude for your support,” Damian announced, nodding sagely. “And,” he continued dramatically, “a Furby in derision of Hood's lack thereof.”

 “See! Look at what you've done!” Red Hood hissed, throwing his hands up in exaggeration and turning around as if to leave. However, he moved only to grab his jacket and shrug it on instead.

 Marinette let the conversation lull before nudging Damian with her shoulder and staring at him quizzically. “You didn't actually answer my question?”

 He sighed, closing his eyes for a second. “After Paris remained frozen over for more than a day, I became very… worried for you. When the situation persisted beyond that first week and the Justice League failed to get in contact with you or any known heroes, yours or theirs, active in Paris at the time. Well, father put his foot down and convinced me to attend therapy.” He paused to take a deep breath. “It has helped significantly, suffice to say.”

 “I see,” she responded, voice pitching up on her next words in uncertainty, “that's good?”

 Damian nodded in agreement. “It is.”

 The conversation lulled to a stop again, as Black Bat and Tikki conversed softly in the background.

 Though Marinette still could not help the trembling gasp that escaped her, as she heard the words of the transformation echo in the repository. “Wait—”

 This was it.

 This would be her last moment before her memories would melt away as with how her akumatised form shall. Her last moment as Lady Blanc. As—

 She should do something. Anything. Before she loses it all and the timeline is prevented by Bunnyx, once again. No! She can't let this happen again, she can't let Hawkmoth win after this, after everything. “When you cast the cure…” Marinette started, words sticking to her tongue like ice, “Hawkmoth will—!”

 And yet, the indecision struck, paralysing her as though she were just another frozen statue in the repository. She struggled desperately to get the final warning out. “Don't let him—!”

 “We know,” He soothed, “we won't. It will be okay.” Damian promised, holding her carefully. “I promise you, cross my heart, Habib Albi.”

 Darkness rippled at the edges of her vision and distantly she watched as her icy suit began to boil and bubble that blackish-purple viscous magic of corruption. Desperately, she clawed through the lingering decision paralysis to pull away from Damian's shoulder.

 So that the last thing she saw, was the concerned but affectionate look in his eyes and the warmth of his smile, before being consumed by the bright purifying magic.

 A languishing wraith finally laid to clement rest.

———

 The first thing Marinette noticed, as the darkness and disorientation faded, was the familiar tingling of the Miraculous Cure having been cast. She froze, heart plummeting in her chest as she began to tremble.

 Quickly she took stock of her immediate awareness and blurry memories. One, she didn't remember casting the cure. Two, she wasn't transformed, she was in her civilian clothes. Three, her Miraculous was missing, her earrings were gone. Which can only mean, she couldn't have cast the cure. She had failed. And she can't remember what had happened—Oh, oh.

 The memories before the darkness sharpened in clarity, painfully so and Marinette nearly keened in distress as she connected the dots. She really did fail. Chat Noir and herself had confronted Hawkmoth in his lair and—

 —Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath, struggling to breathe with what little air her shallow breaths brought her.

 “You're okay, just breathe with me.” Damian's voice cut in, through the confusing fog of de-akumatising. Cradling her hands in his own. His hands were warm and gentle, grounding.

 Jerking her head in a shaky nod, she tried to match his breathing. Unsuccessful at first, but getting closer with each following breath.

 As she did so, Damian slowly and softly began to rub soothing circles on the back of her hands.

 Seconds passed like the gentle melting of unsettled snow overnight. And once her breathing finally evened out, she hesitatingly glanced up and towards where his voice had come from, to see him sitting in front of her on his knees. “What,” she paused to find her courage, “what happened? I remember Chat and I finally facing Hawkmoth. We had him cornered and then—”

 A sob tore from her throat as she spoke, cutting off her next words.

 Sighing deeply, Damian glanced away from her for but a brief moment as if to compose himself. “As you are most likely presuming, Hawkmoth akumatised you. We're not sure what was the inciting catalyst as you didn't announce it during our responding presence. Chat Noir does not appear to adequately remember what exactly occurred before your akumatisation either, nor was he conscious throughout any part of it.” He paused, tilting his head to gesture over his right shoulder and at Black Bat, who was lurking a few paces behind. “Before you worry, we dealt with Hawkmoth as soon as Black Bat cast the cure, all remains of what was affected by the akumatisation has been undone, healed.”

 “Oh…” Was all the response she could immediately muster, the numbness of the situation settling in like the first frost of a winter's morn.

 “Indeed,” he nodded, “if it brings you any comfort—”

 —Before Damian could continue, Red Hood cut him off with a lungful cheer from somewhere on the other side of the repository based on the faint echo—“AYY, CHAT NOIR KICKED HAWKFUCKER IN THE BALLS!”

 Which was unsurprisingly followed by Chat Noir making quite the strangled from-mild-embarrassment yelp. “I take back everything nice I've ever said about you, Hood!” Grousing, a slap echoed throughout the repository. From the sounds of it, he had either dramatically flung a hand over his face, or he had slapped Red Hood in the face; though it was most likely the former rather than the latter considering there was no further yelling. Sighing loudly, Chat Noir continued, voice growing more and more distanced as his footsteps faded away. “Let me,” pausing most certainly for the dramatics of it, “become one with the ice again and melt into oblivion so I never have to hear what you just yelled ever again. 'Kay, thanks, bye!”

 If the sudden patter of footsteps followed by the swoosh of the lift were anything to go by, he had truly just up and skedaddled away from Red Hood—perhaps he did actually slap him.

 Huffing lightly in laughter, Marinette cracked a small and hesitant smile up at Damian. “At least things are returning to normal then, right? Since they're both… they're not… y'know.”

 “About that,” Damian closed his eyes slowly and breathed in slowly, when he opened them again, his gaze was one of languishing guilt. “Habibti, you were akumatised for far longer than any previously known victim.”

 And oh, how for a moment she could hear her heartbeat pounding in her chest, like the echoing of an avalanche crashing down around her. Leaving her breathless in a wretched sort of deathless, with the whispers of snow-melt memories that had since rotted into nothingness. Intangible yet frangible as it slipped through her freezing cold fingers. A wraith of what she had become.

 “How long?” She asked, not quite begging—not quite reluctant either. Nevertheless, the words hung heavy in the air as though they were the executioner, readying the guillotine's blade over her neck.

 “Marinette,” he started, voice laden with an uneasy tinge of desperation. Biting his tongue, Damian grimaced and shook his head slightly, gaze flickering away from her to fixate on a point behind her. But still, he swallowed a breath of air thickly, and pulled out the calming hero voice. “My beloved, no one blames you. It was not your fault.”

 Pursing her lips, Marinette prised her hands out of his and curled them into fists upon her lap. Brooking no dispute, she repeated once more, words hanging heavier still. “How long?”

 Damian sighed, flicking his gaze back to her. “You were akumatised for four months before we could purify your Akuma. I'm sorry we couldn't reach you sooner.”

 “It's fine,” Marinette answered automatically, without hesitation, “you tried your best.” She licked at her lip quickly, before chewing at it. “But no, that confirms it.” Lightly shaking her head, she huffed near silently. “Not the longest Akuma then.”

 “What?” Damian cut in, brow creased and lips curling downwards in confusion and concern.

 Giggling humourlessly, Marinette shut her eyes and shook her head again—more forcefully this time—what remained of her earlier smile twisted into something hollow—a ghost shell. “Blanc was akumatised for over half a year.”

 At her laugh, Damian couldn't help but tense and lurch back. Mentally, he rattled through every known Akuma recorded on the Ladyblog or mentioned by Marinette or another Miraculous wielder, but all his answers came up blank. Cautiously, he reached his hand out and gently set it over one of hers. “Who is this Blank? There is no record of an Akuma by that name.”

 “No.” Sniffling slightly, she clasped at his hand like a lifeline, blinking her eyes open for but a second only to squeeze them shut once again as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “No, there wouldn't be. He's the one who preceded me, from before. But it's fine now, he's gone, and the cure fixed it, fixed him, freed him. It's fine. It's—” her breath hitched, “—fine.”

 Softly, he tsked, tenderly rubbing circles into the back of her hand once more. “But you're not fine.”

 “Please,” she whispered, heart breaking audibly like the cracking of ice, “don't. You know I can't afford to not be.”

 Damian was reminded violently of Lady Blanc, the ghost shell of her heart, and the words she spoke during their final confrontation—the slips of truth never elaborated upon, and forgotten memories stolen away by the purifying magic—he shook her hand gently to emphasise. “Not anymore, you do not have to. Hawkmoth has been apprehended—Red Hood and Chat Noir are transferring him to the local authorities as we speak—and his Miraculous has been confiscated, which is currently being overseen by Wonder Woman. You are safe now, beloved. You can rest.”

 A sob was wrenched from her throat, tears spilling down her face as she shook her head. “I'm Ladybug,” she scarcely breathed, trembling beneath the weight of the words, “I'll never be safe, not whilst I bear this burden alone.”

  Delicately, he pulled into yet another gentle hug, trying not to think of how easily he could almost hear Lady Blanc uttering the same in devastation.

 Making a small noise in his mouth, Damian lifted one hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “There is no need for you to be Ladybug at this moment, and regardless of whether you continue wielding the miraculous or remain under the mantle, you're not alone. You have myself always, and Chat Noir along with your other chosen Miraculous holders, both our families, Wonder Woman, and the rest of the Justice League. You need not continue to carry your burden alone, my dear.”

 “You make it sound,” Marinette paused to sniffle again, inhaling sharply, heart stuttering, “so easy, mon chou.” A heavy grief drenched her words, clinging like winter's final frost.

 “Because it is, Angel, I know it may not seem like it but it's true. Though it may take time for you to accept this, as I've said, I will be by your side always. If you need a helping hand, then I will lend mine to you. If you need protection, then any of us would happily offer to shield you. If you need a shoulder to cry on, then you have ours to lean upon. It will not be easy, regardless of your choice going forwards, but you will never be alone again, I promise.”

 A hundred heartbeats passed in silence as Marinette chewed her lips before she spoke again. “Is that a promise you can keep?”

 Damian huffed, reaching out to hold her hands once more, with a gentle shake for emphasis. “Not even my last dying breath could keep me from fulfilling this promise, I swear upon my life.”

 As he finished speaking, he placed her hands over where his heart lay in his chest. “I swear, Ya Hayati.”

 “I—” Marinette started with a whisper, she swallowed her words and her breath, feeling the beat of his heart in her hands. “—Okay. Okay, I trust you, Mon Cœur.”

 He nodded his head, still clutching her hand upon his chest as a small smile graced his face. “Thank you, my dear.”

 Then, he leaned towards her until their foreheads met, hers far cooler to the touch than his.

 It was Marinette's turn to huff, in faint amusement this time, her own equally small smile growing the longer they stayed like this.

 They held each other in that loose embrace for a few minutes, before Damian interrupted the sombre silence surrounding them. “What would you say to a kiss, my beloved?”

 “Oh? Well, that'd depend on the kind of kiss, wouldn't it, hmm?” She teased back softly, eyes twinkling in the low light of the lair. And though she tried to hide it, a sliver of sorrow still shone beneath that fragile lightness of relief held within.

 Damian moved to lean back, squinting at her with a furrowing brow and pursing lips. “If you do not—”

 “No!” Marinette cut in frenetically, eyes widening and squeezing at his hand to pull him back in close. “No! No, I do. I really do.” She chewed her lip and swallowed, gaze casting downwards for a moment. “Sorry, I'm still…”

 Exhaling slowly, Damian's eyelids fluttered closed. “You do not need to explain yourself to me, we have plenty of time for you to recover from this ordeal. As such, we can always kiss later, should you still be willing.”

 “No, no, no, it's okay, I promise. I would like one, I would like a kiss from you,” glancing back up to face him, a hint of nervousness to her voice. “That is, if you're still offering?”

 He inhaled just as slowly as before and blinked open his eyes to stare at her unrelentingly. “Are you certain?”

 Nodding, she squeezed his hand again, gently. “Yes.”

 “Then you are okay with me kissing you now? Upon the lips?” He questioned just as intently but no less softly.

“Absolutely.” Without hesitation, she uttered as she nodded once more, lips curling into a small soft smile.

 “Okay then.” He answered.

 Ever so slowly, Damian gradually leant in once more, giving ample time for her to interrupt or stop him if she desired.

 But she did not. She, instead, also leant in.

 And so hand in hand, cradled against Damian's heart still, their lips met. Ever so warmly did they tenderly kiss.

 After a few moments, they parted, leaning back from one another again, neither out of breath so much so as the kiss had come to its natural gentle end.

 Marinette's shoulders shuddered as she drew in a breath. Tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I love you.” She whispered under her breath.

 Damian, on the other hand, seemed just as unshakeable as usual. He frowned at her, “are you okay, beloved?”

 Wordlessly, she nodded once more, sniffling slightly as the pricking tears began to fall.

 Alarmed, Damian let go of her hand like it burnt, desperately hunting for a tissue or for something—anything—else that could help.

 Only to be interrupted yet again, as Marinette darted forwards, head falling into the crook of his neck, and arms wrapping around him in a tight hug. “Thank you.” She whispered, with a voice trembling just as much as her body. “I love you, Mon Cœur, so, so, so, so much.”

 He hesitated, frozen in position like a dreaded ice statue, before slowly wrapping his arms around her in return. “And I, you, Ya Hayati.”

 Damian rubbed soothing circles into her back. “When you're ready, the others are waiting for us outside in the courtyard of the Agreste manor.”

 Marinette sniffled. “I don't know if I can face everyone, not after this.”

 He faltered for a moment, hands stilling as he was sharply reminded of the near similar conversation they had had earlier, whilst she was still akumatised. “You may not remember but you implied something not dissimilar to that, as an Akuma.”

 “I did?” She asked, blinking back tears, an edge of morbid curiosity and dread in her voice.

 Humming in confirmation, he continued to try and soothe her. “You did. You didn't believe that you deserved to be de-akumatised—forgiven—for what you had done under Hawkmoth's influence. But you're not the first person we've cared for, who's been forced to hurt others because of the influence of another. The others won't hold it against you. Nor will your city. You've told me before, how the other heroes have all been akumatised before, Chat Noir and yourself included now.”

 He paused, both in breath and movement, to let his next words sink in. “No one will blame you, you tried your best and it worked out in the end. It's over, Hawkmoth has been defeated thanks to you.”

 Unable to hold back the tears of relief, she sobbed into his shoulder. “Thank you.”

 “Of course.” He answered gently, resuming the soothing motion.

 A good five minutes passed, of him cradling her in his arms, before her sobs and shaking faded to faint sniffles and drying tear tracks.

 Breathing in slowly, she squeezed her eyes shut and nodded in determination. “I'm ready.”

 “Are you certain?” Damian checked, leaning back and dropping his arms to his sides.

 She opened them again and looked him in the eyes. “Yes, I am, Mon Chou.”

 “Good.” Damian responded, already moving to stand, offering a hand up to her as he did. “Then let us go join the others.”

 Hand in hand, he lead her back across the walkway (they had fought upon it, how strange that it felt like a lifetime ago already), over to the lift.

 The walk from the lift's exit in Gabriel's study, to the courtyard was quiet and uneventful but it was comforting just to have Damian by her side. Waiting in the middle of said courtyard, was the unmistakable sight of the Batplane.

 With hesitant steps, Marinette let herself be led into the batplane's interior, a warm rush of air greeting her from the vents of the vehicle. And there, within, with gentle smiles of relief, stood them.

 Batman, at the emergency medical bed of the plane, pausing in the packing away of the medical kit and containment of used supplies to look up at her, relief etched into every wrinkle not hidden by the mask. He nodded at her firmly, and hummed in consolation before returning to his task.

 Nightwing, lounging across the pilot's seat improperly so that he was facing both his family and the console screen of the plane's controls, seemingly in the middle of contacting Oracle. He spun around in the seat, grinning dazzlingly at her, as he waved a hand. “Hey! Good to see you back!”

 Oracle, though not in person; her symbol on the console screen flashed brightly for a second. “Marinette! We've all missed you. Hopefully, you're feeling okay now?”

 Cass, stepping forwards from the shadows by the passenger seats on one side, and offered out her hand; in which the ribbon, that had been Marinette's akumatised object, and the ladybug Miraculous earrings lay. A requiem.

 Jason, smirking at Tim and Adrien from his seat next to her, turned his attention to her and cocked his head to one side, staring at her unperturbed. “You're looking a hell of a lot better than you were earlier. Good for you.”

 Tim, nursing a travel mug of coffee, smiled tiredly and waved at her with one hand for a second, then continued listening idly and patting Adrien on the shoulder in a sort of awkward half-hug of commiseration.

 Adrien, huddled on a seat, still clearly mortified from earlier apparently, as his face was in his hands until he heard her footsteps. His face pinched, a thousand words left unsaid as the weight of their heroics pinned him in place. “M'lady…” He grimaced though the corners of his lips twitched up into a little grin, tearing up slightly as he watched her. “I'm glad you're safe now.”

 Damian, behind her, took her hand and squeezed gently, offering a tender smile.

 If she hadn't already cried her heart out minutes ago, then undoubtedly she would have burst into tears once again, at the warm and welcoming sight.

 She was home, happy, safe, loved, and warm.

 And at the end of it all, she had been wrong; it was never doomed from the start.

———

| Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this long oneshot! Comments, Kudos, and Bookmarks are much appreciated! |

| If you want to try braving the shorter uwu-speak version, see the [UwU] and [OwO] links here, or at the beginning! You will not be compensated for any psychic damage taken due to reading that, however! |

| Feel free to send me any comments with any questions you have regarding this fic, I’ll be more than happy to answer! |

| However, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

| Lastly, if you want to create fic, or art, or podfic, or anything else based on this fic/au, or use it as inspo then feel free too, just as long as you tag me (if on Tumblr), or (if on Ao3) use Ao3's inspired by option, as I'd love to be able to see it! <3 |

| Once again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading! And I hope you have a wonderful end to the year, and a happy new year! |

[robbie-roo]

hey guys whats up I've been working on taxidermy in one of my classes and I thought I'd document the process here!

a fair warning I will be showing images of a dead animal and the pelt of said animal it isn't too gory (at least by my standards) but please proceed with caution if you are sensitive to these topics

my specimen is a female fox squirrel I don't know how she passed away but her pelt will be used in my college's zoological museum as a mount to teach other students about their physiology.

(photos under read more- final warning)

left: me holding the fox squirrel's upper half in my hands for comparison

right: same photo but zoomed out you can see the skinned carcus in the bottom right corner

you'll also notice there are bloody tissues and a bag of snarge behind me (snarge is basically the guts/remains of an animal that's the actual term for it I didn't make it up I promise)

(side note: her head on top is not supposed to be that flat her skull was unfortunately crushed and shattered into quite a few pieces)

so when skinning an animal first you make a ventral cut from the midpoint of the stomach to the genitalia

I am really bad at this part.

I accidentally cut into the muscle lining holding together all the guts and innards this isn't a huge deal as you can just sorta pull them out and set them aside since I didn't need the carcus for future specimen mounting. So that's what I did I took the snarge out and set it aside so I didn't have large intestine sticking to my fingers

the problem that occurs when you do this though is you open up bleeders the body cavity will start to fill with blood as the specimen thaws (they are kept in a freezer until skinning NOT formadahyde or other embalming chemicals) and there's really nothing you can do about it so that's why there are bloody tissues I basically re-stuffed the squirrel with paper towels so I didn't get blood all over the pelt

ok so on to skinning I have done this one other time with my lovely little mouse corn dog (I'll explain)

after you make a cut and DONT fuck up the guts like I did you can start skinning which is honestly way easier on a squirrel than it is on a mouse (who would have thought)

you start with the hind legs and you pull the meat out all the way to the ankle joint and then we cut right at that joint to keep the foot bones intact connected to the skin some people will take these bones out but we don't just to make it easier on us once you have both legs out you pull all the bones out from the tail (you basically deglove it it's kinda cool to look at after) and then you pull the rest of the skin off like a jacket until you get to the arms (follow the same steps as the hind legs) and the head

the head in complicated once you get to this part you have a lot of things to keep in mind- the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth and you must keep as much skin as possible in the eyelids and lips while keeping the ears completly attached

it's very difficult... also TW for gore in the next photo

so corn dog

(jumpscare lol)

Corn dog is a little different thus mouse was prepared the same way as I just described however we mounted her to become a study skin

once she was skinned we made basically a tube of cotton to stuff up in there and sewed her up she looked like a corn dog- hence the name

this post is getting a bit long so I'll break it into two and traumatize you some more later

[ifacotarwasgood]

CHAPTER 7 - page 8/?

original word count: 5525

revised word count: 2742

click for ch 7's full comparison document.

original:

the wall, if you flee, your family will no longer be cared for.” His words were like a stone to the head. If I escaped, if I even tried to run, I might very well doom my family. And even if I dared risk it … even if I succeeded in reaching them, where would I take them? I couldn’t stow my sisters away on a ship—and once we arrived somewhere else, somewhere safe, we’d have nowhere to live. But for him to hold my family’s well-being against me, to throw away their survival if I stepped out of line… I opened my mouth, but his snarl rattled the glasses. “Is that not a fair bargain? And if you flee, then you might not be so lucky with whoever comes to retrieve you next.” His claws slipped back under his knuckles. “The food is not enchanted, or drugged, and it will be your own damn fault if you faint. So you’re going to sit at this table and eat, Feyre. And Lucien will do his best to be polite.” He threw a pointed look in his direction. Lucien shrugged. The invisible bonds loosened, and I winced as I whacked my hands on the underside of the table. The bonds on my legs and middle remained intact. One glance at Tamlin’s smoldering green eyes told me what I wanted to know: his guest or not, I wasn’t going to get up from this table until I’d eaten something. I’d think about the sudden change in my plans to escape later. Now…for now I eyed the silver fork and carefully picked it up. They still watched me—watched my every move, the flare of my nostrils as I sniffed the food on my plate. No

revised:

Tamlin pushed a hand through his golden hair. “I’m only going to say this once. If you cross the wall, my side of the bargain is over. I will no longer take care of your family. If you flee, and someone less kind than me retrieves you, it will be your fault that they suffer. Do you understand?” I fought to nod against the invisible restraints. Pressure held tight against my throat. He repeated, “Do you understand?” I swallowed thickly. “I understand.” “Good. Now, you’re going to eat, and we’re all going to be polite. Right, Lucien?” Lucien shrugged but said nothing. The bonds on my arms loosened, and my hands smacked the underside of the table. The bindings on my legs and torso didn’t let go. One glance at Tamlin told me, guest or not, I wasn’t going to get up until I’d eaten. Stabbing a piece of chicken, I took a bite. It was an effort not to grunt. The meat was tender and savory, salty skin crackling deliciously on my tongue. I ripped off another piece. I’d never had food like this before. I was shoving in mouthfuls of creamy potatoes before I’d even swallowed. A plum so juicy it dribbled down my chin. The wine was sharp and effervescent, bubbles tickling my nose.

[iimexpensiive]

✧ @dxwnxdusk ✧ — A low growl emits from underneath one of the fallen statues. The entire area is a mess, papers scattered along with some bodies that have begun to rot. No doubt bodyguards for the target, bullets and swords alike spread around with splatters of blood everywhere. Given the entire ceiling had come down its a surprise that even a segment of the room is intact. A broken arm, that and his entire body being pinned while trying to not further aggravate the sword through his leg. Pushing against the statue became second place to using enough strength to keep it from fully crushing him. Still given that the target has finally returned and is now gloating, he might just kill himself first before this bastard has the glory. And that train of thought is immediately dismissed when they look to the side. Beyond his field of vision but not his hearing. Seriously? Did he follow him here? Bah. Not like he'll openly admit he's glad if that's the case. Not many can get the drop on him but it has to be something big. Given the size of this brute of a man. He'll say it's fair

"Whew, looks like you all made quite the mess here huh?"

His voice rang out across the devastated and destroyed area, drawing the attention towards his sudden appearance. It wasn't that he didn't trust Dusk to be able to handle his own — it wasn't every day that the Great Sage had someone who was on equal footing to his own power. Even most deities paled in comparison to the might that was the Monkey King. Plus, his beloved shadow had earned his reputation he currently held, there was no doubting what he was capable of.

Still, he had a feeling he might need some assistance when he took a job — having followed closely but not enough to be detected. Even by the six-eared simian. He knew ways around that enchanted hearing after all, ones that no one else would ever figure out.

Like always, his posture was relaxed and loose which was in stark contrast to the tension in the area. Course, anyone who knew what subtle hints and details to look for in his presence knew he was anything but relaxed. An aura of pure anger radiating off him at present even as he scratched his neck with the small medal rod he held in his hands — the act almost making it seem as if he was bored right now. Which only caused foes in question to THINK that they would have an easy time with him. The fools, they were hardly worth the effort...but that didn't mean he wasn't going to show them any mercy.

Which was proven right when the hulking form charged at the masked simian, barely stirring much of a reaction from him. The blow never landing as he held it back with little effort with his metal rod, slowly turning his head up towards their stunned expression. Seems he realized a little too late just how fucked he was right now — that caused an amused chuckle to spill from Wukong in the moment. It would never get old how many underestimated him only to find out the hard way in the end. He was not someone you wanted to trade blows with.

"I can't believe you had trouble with this one darling — "

" — try to hold on a little bit longer, I'll finish this up and we'll go home after to get you patched up."

Turning his attention to Dusk, speaking in such a cheerful manner in stark contrast to the whole scenario before him. Completely ignoring his opponent in the moment. This shouldn't take him too long to finish, the foe before him was pathetically weak — almost felt bad for what he was about to do. Almost. He had hurt his beloved after all SO any sympathy he might've felt was long dead. As would be the other soon enough.

Raising his unoccupied hand to his forehead and flicking, causing him to fly backwards with such speed and force. Crashing through one of the walls and destroying it upon impact. Humming as he casually strolled over to the crumbled over brute, hands crossed behind his back as he did. This definitely wouldn't take too long, than he'd take Dusk home and set to work patching him up.

"Be right with you darling."

[gradible]

The Same Rainbow’s End ༊*·˚ 

His heart is stone, but she is its sculptor.

Never did Sirius anticipate reuniting with her, but he is glad he took every precaution just in case. Glad he kept his mask of Valentian porcelain, glad he wears his shroud of mystery, glad he still dons the name Sirius. It would be unbecoming of her to see Camus of Grust in a state like this.

Both in body and mind, he is damaged. His last mission with the Knights of Seiros, though ultimately successful, came at a high cost. He is not parading into town on horseback, accompanied by fanfare and cheers of the townsfolk, but being dragged in a cart. He can seldom feel his fingers as they twitch, and his legs as they readjust. His back is riddled with arrow-holes, his front an easy target for all-consuming fire. All injuries are compounded by the unhealed wounds from his latest shipwreck, but pale in comparison to what the mere sight of Nyna does to him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way; he was simply to return home to his love, his expedition in Archanea kept short and for the sake of others. But for her to be among the ranks of church-workers who will tend to his wounds... a kink is etched into his unflinching marble. 

He coughs and sputters when his cart is driven past her, eyes double--triple--checking to put doubt to rest. But no matter how many times he tries to convince himself she is not really there, that she is some trick of the light or freak hallucination, a sculpture does not forget its maker. Would she interact with him, he wonders? Would she even recognize him? Would rekindling a bond with Nyna of Archanea put in his gaze for Tatiana the same regret and longing hers had for her lover? 

Sirius, and more importantly Zeke, wishes not to find the answer to these questions.

But one can only hide so well when their beaten, broken body is so proudly put on display in the street. Sirius can slouch over all he wants, cover his iconic white mask, speak not above a whisper to conceal his voice, but he will always stick out like a sore thumb among these knights. Compared to the rest with permanent scars and bodies barely intact, he is easily identifiable as one of the more experienced combatants. His golden locks glisten in the afternoon sun, perhaps the only bit of color among such a drab scene. And though he tries to drape them over with his cape, his burly features would not be missed by an eye as keen as hers. 

Every last wish for the path of the knight to not be such a lonely one is retracted in this moment; for once, he would be content with isolation.

//starter for @alunyna

[vikingsong]

WIP Wednesday (3/29/23)

Shortly after midday, Merlin stood on the rim of the desolation that had been his lab and breathed a resigned sigh as he surveyed the mess.

“It’ll be like fieldwork,” he told himself, repeating the justification he’d offered Freya. Freya hadn’t been impressed by that comparison; to be honest, neither was he. Still, he was determined to salvage as much as he could. Freya had helpfully pointed out that the fossils had already survived for eons without his protection and could stand to wait in the wreckage until the alien invasion had been dealt with, but Merlin was nothing if not stubborn. He adjusted his mask and rummaged in his messenger bag to fish out a pair of work gloves he’d scrounged from a maintenance closet in RMoSH’s largely intact east wing. Taking a deep breath, he tugged them on, ducked under the lines of yellow caution tape, and began the perilous descent.

He painstakingly picked his way down the side of the crater, climbing over twisted I-beams and fractured remnants of marble flagstones. Whole sections of the above-ground floors—the public exhibits and educational lecture spaces—had collapsed when the west wing had sustained a direct hit. Three, actually. The alien vessels had punched holes all the way into Merlin’s below-ground lab, and the scorched wreckage of the collapsed floors lay strewn across the gaping pit. Broken glass crunched under foot as he reached the lab floor. The wooden legs of the lab tables had burned to ash, leaving behind only the tops, cracked and partially melted. So much for the manufacturer’s heat and impact resistance ratings, he thought sardonically.

In the middle of the lab floor lay the three hulls of the ships. The aliens were long gone, having disappeared into the streets to wreak havoc elsewhere, but scorched spots and claw marks criss-crossed the linoleum tiles. Merlin approached the hulls as though drawn by an invisible thread, the noise of the city fading from his ears with each step. He’d expected something out of a sci-fi film: sleek, seamless metal and gleaming instrument panels. Instead, the hulls reminded him of the meteorites that had been on display in a now-collapsed exhibit upstairs. The rocky surface had a smooth texture as though the outer layer had melted when it hurtled through Earth’s atmosphere, and small regmaglypts littered the shells like cosmic pock-marks. A feeling he couldn’t explain compelled him to reach out and place a hand in one of the larger depressions. A spark of static shocked him as his fingers grazed the rock, and he jerked his hand back.

Nothing happened.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he’d expected something, and he couldn’t explain the hint of disappointment that curled in his chest. Stepping back, he circled the perimeter, standing on tiptoe to peer inside where the hull appeared to have cracked open like an eggshell. Just as he was about to turn away and begin his clean-up work, a pinprick of light in the corner of his eye drew his attention. He stared, entranced, as strange symbols flickered into view along one section of the hull’s interior. He couldn’t read them, but they reminded him of the runestones he’d seen once while trekking on Mt. Snowdonia. For a few moments, the strange, angular symbols glowed like embers, flaring and ebbing, before fading away entirely, leaving no trace on the rough stone interior.

The strange tug in his chest faded with it, and a wave of sound came rushing back into his ears: the crunch of broken glass as he stepped back abruptly, the whistle of the wind gusting through the gutted window frames on the section of the facade that hadn’t collapsed, the distant wail of an emergency siren. He shivered, then resolutely turned his attention to the task at hand.

“Just like fieldwork,” he murmured again, pulling a plastic collection pouch and a small brush out of his messenger bag, and crouched to examine the scattered bits of rock and metal around his feet.

He picked up a small fragment, turned it delicately in his gloved hand, and brushed some soot from the surface. Nope. He set the disappointing rock aside and picked up the next promising object. Nope. The second disappointment joined the first, and soon he had a proper pile of rejected rubble beside him. He persevered until, as the sun approached the horizon, he picked up a putty-colored fragment and recognized the shape and texture immediately. Giddy with success, he carefully placed it in the clear collection bag.

“Merlin.”

“Not now,” he replied absently, squinting at the fragment in the fading light. Pulling out a marker to label the bag, he muttered as he wrote. “Partial hollow vertebra, fragments of helical struts and—”

“Merlin.”

“What?” he demanded, glancing over his shoulder.

There was no one there.

He craned his neck to scan the rim of the crater. No one there, either. He paused, marker dangling loosely between his fingers. “Hello?” he called. I thought they’d accounted for everyone? He stood abruptly, nearly slipping on the loose grit coating the ground. They’d accounted for staff. The public exhibits had been scheduled to close early because of the gala. But what if—? “Hello? Is someone down here? Are you trapped?”

Only the wind whistling through the gaping window frames answered him.

He tucked the labeled sample bag into his satchel, eyes scanning the wreckage for any signs of life. He twisted the marker between his hands.

Silence.

He sighed. I’d better go find someone and ask, just to be sure. I’d never forgive myself if… He shook his head, tossed the marker into the bag, and began the arduous climb back to the surface.

[journeyofbell]

If you run into neurotypicals like this, I find this comparison useful: if you asked someone who's missing a leg to run a marathon, would you then get mad and tell them: "Wow, you were so slow, you need to run faster" when they don't finish as quickly as the runners with both legs intact?

The face the NTs make when I give them this, it's priceless.

Neurotypicals will be like “I know you have a disability that affects your ability to stay organized, manage your time properly, socialize, or control what you’re able to think about or focus on, but that’s not an excuse to have trouble staying organized, managing your time properly, socializing, or controlling what you need to think about or focus on.” And then demand that they aren’t ableist. I’m tired.