#distorted. unrecognizable. no longer safe. and looking right at you. and you have a hard time finding out what is so scary about it

[leggyre]

What are your thoughts on analog horror

oh i fucking adore the concept of the genre but i think most of the media that uses it eventually fails to understand what makes it appealing. that or i'm just picky with my view of it. i think it's a type of content that doesn't *need* to have a plot that feels concrete, something that you can watch and be entirely sure of events; it's very much the opposite. the more understandable the events are, the less effective it becomes. just let the brain fill the gaps and see what it becomes. ...this is just a small portion of my essay find out more on the next chapter where i talk about why the mandela catalogue is so disappointing and petscop fuckin rules. release date unknown but the opinion stands

--anyway take these fucking monsters out of the backrooms and face the unreality of loneliness you fucking cowards

[someonexsomeone]

Valentine

Title: Valentine

Author: SomeonexSomeone

Word Count: 2.5k

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: Life is difficult when you're living through a war, but no one told him how hard it would be to handle the after.

Authors Note: Day 4!! I almost missed this week with all the hecticness happening in my life right now, including a stress rash that has spread to my face. Also, because my roommate finally got me to download the FF.net app and all I want to do is read all day. Thank you for everyone who has been liking and leaving kind messages on these! You have no idea how much it makes my day :)

For a long time, the word ‘after’ didn’t exist for Draco Malfoy. A simple word, a word much too short to hold such meaning, such a tight grip on his life, but a word that made his skin bristle like he was hit with a skin-tingling hex. ‘After’ was for people who had the luxury of knowing they were safe in the present, for people who could plan ahead and have some sense of trust that they would make it to ‘after’. Those people were the ones who didn’t have their formative years shaped by a brewing war, the aftermath of being on a losing side (because let’s be honest, Drace always thought, was there ever a time when they could have won?), and then somehow being on the losing side again. His Father was smart to keep things from him, to keep the secrets of the Death Eater whispers just that until they were sure the Dark Lord would actually rise again, but sometimes he wondered if knowing longer would have given him a chance to change, to prepare, to forgo the memory that shot ice through his veins. After all, most people didn’t learn evil incarnate was being resurrected over family dinner.

No, Draco was not ‘most people’, and that made the word ‘after’ that much more terrifying.

During the war, there was hardly time to think about the present, let alone the aftermath. His days were spent hiding, using the one tool in his arsenal he could always trust to get out of participating in the worst of the killing, and using his ability to repress bad memories to cope with those times he couldn’t get out of them. Bullying his classmates, pretending to believe in the Dark Lord’s every desire, playing the role of the perfect heir, all those things he could do in the present. Fake it till you make it, as the muggles say. Those were easy, consequences or rewards come quickly when you have to stare something in the face and not think of the future.

And then one Harry Potter showed up at his house, the building that once made him feel safe and content turned into a dreary cave, face distorted in a near unrecognizable way and eyes that mirrored his own. All at once, the last six years of rivalry came crashing down on him, an ugly truth of near-perfect understanding that maybe, just maybe, the Boy-Who-Lived could actually understand him. Their eyes reflected the same fear, the same pressing desire for all of this to be over, to stop the fighting, the killing, the fear to think about what could come after. Because Harry Potter, the boy, the child, destined to kill the darkest Wizard in the last 100 years, also didn’t have the luxury of thinking of after. He, after all, had people to protect, just like Draco. 

So, in a moment that Draco would never be able to put a feeling towards, he looked at his aunt and lied, and felt the split second of desire to think about an after.

That was many years now, of course. Life continued on, even if it didn’t feel like you could hold on for a second longer. Boy-Wonder and his rowdy crew were able to save the day, Draco begrudgingly admitting to himself that there was always a part of him that hoped they would (though he would rather die than admit it out loud), and he walked hand in hand with his Mother to the apparition point, disappearing before the celebration began. He couldn’t think of an ‘after’ even then, hurrying to help his Mother hide their most prized Dark possessions, helping his Father reach out to anyone that would help their case on the Wizengamot, and burying the last bit of his fear so his hands wouldn’t shake when the Aurors arrived to collect them and any other known Death Eaters that survived the War. 

The last time he had seen Potter, at least in person, was during his trial. His Father, of course, was sent to Azkaban, his Mother placed on probation for her involvement, and him…let free. He couldn’t believe it. Even as half of the Wizengamot looked on with displeasure, Draco was let free, with minor charges, all based on the word of the same boy who he spent half his life abusing. Even Potter’s face flickered back and forth, like he couldn’t believe the decision he made, but his stance was resolute. Drace Malfoy would be let go as long as he paid a fine to rebuild part of the Wizarding World and a promise that if he ever committed another crime he would face the full force of the law. His Mother wept, his Father shocked. Draco, for lack of better understanding, refused to let himself feel anything but disgust. Disgust for being pitied, disgust for Potter’s good heart, disgust for the horrible ball of gratitude he felt swirling in his gut. He glared at Potter, who only met his eyes with a reflection of his own - now what?

He left London as soon as he could. There was, after all, a War to clean up. The decision was fast, too unknowing for even his Mother to comprehend, but there was something posted on the board outside the Wizengamot for a meeting to collect a group of eligible healers and potionmasters to travel the country, volunteering their time and effort to help in those worst off part of the country. He needed to get away, far away, so far that even his Mother’s compassionate eyes couldn’t reach. The effort was so in need of volunteers they only spared Draco a second glance, and a watchful eye for a while, before letting him join on.

What was supposed to be a few months turned into a few years, gaining more skills and knowledge than he would have ever been able to get working at St.Mungos. Not only did the open air allow his lung to fully breathe, something he once thought would be shallow for the rest of his life, but every day was a challenge in the best way, another victim coming forward with new turned lasting injuries, his healing abilities turned wandless, his potions more accurate than he ever thought possible. Pride, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time, weld in his chest every time his supervisor-turned-mentor complimented him and his work.

“Excellent brewing today, Draco,” she would say, patting him gently on the back.

Draco would just roll his eyes, smirking to himself, before muttering, “Naturally, which always earned him a smack on the back of his head. His smirk, more often than not, would turn into a small smile. And, he hated to admit it, he was starting to love the feeling.

Then, the dreaded day came.

“Your Father has passed,” his Mother’s letter said, a statement that to anyone but him would read emotionless. “His body is being removed from Azkaban next week. I’ll write once again when we’ve set a date for his funeral.”

And, like he had been living for longer than he could remember, Draco said a simple goodbye, a thank you for everything his colleagues had shown him, and left without a backward glance.

There was no time for ‘after’ once he left. Mother needed him, whether she wanted to admit it or not, the funeral arrangements needed his input, and the countless letters of condolences needed him. 

His Mother was worried about him as soon as he arrived.

“It’s alright if you need a moment, Draco dear. I can do these things if you need a moment.” There was very little Draco had to work through, if he was being honest with himself. There wasn’t much affection, if any, remaining towards his Father since before the War. When he was younger, yes, Draco can remember fondly the days he trailed behind his Father, imitating his every move in hopes that one day he would be as great a man. But, when War comes knocking, and your Father is a coward, the magical image from a child's perspective can be easily ruined. Though he had his self-preservation skills all thanks to his Father’s example, their relationship had dwindled until nothing remained but that of a ward and their master. His Father was not the one who took care of him all those years, he realized one afternoon as his Mother fussed over him, and had done nothing but prepare him to be a prize offered to the Dark Lord as a bargaining chip to save his own life. 

At the end of the day, Draco knew that though the man was a stranger to him by the end, he was still his Father. His Mother at one point loved him, though he doubted he would ever learn if it was a true love or merely an infatuation of nearness, he would not allow her stress to become overwhleming while trying to grieve properly. 

It was a never-ending stream of work, but it allowed an all too familiar feeling of dread to be easily pushed down in favor of productivity. There was no time to, not when the house needed to be readied for guests, the garden needed to be arranged to allow a mourning space, and guests themselves needed to be invited. Granted, the list had dwindled significantly in the aftermath of the war, but his Father deserved more than just an open invitation in the Daily Prophet. After all, he would roll over in his grave if so much as one person from the winning side showed up to his wake.

The day was just as busy as the preparations. Of course, Draco should have expected this, but there was such a difference between the planning and the doing. 

For the tenth time in the last hour, Draco ran his fingers along the seam of his collar, giving some distance between it and the sensitive skin around his neck. There was just something about the immaculate black robes he wore that made it suffocating to breathe and made the day that much harder. Draco’s resolve hardened. Yes, that must be it.

People were trickling in before the service began, offering their condolences to both him and his Mother. Narcissa was as regal and strong as she had been the day of the War, holding her head high. There wasn’t a hint of the woman who wept openly in front of the Wizengamot, the broken woman who was afraid of losing her only child, and instead found compassion. Even so, Draco occasionally ran his hand down her arm, reminding her he was there. 

“Oh, Cissy!” A woman yelled, practically throwing herself at his Mother. “I can’t believe it actually happened! The Wizengamot should have taken him out of there as soon as his health worsened, what a cruel bunch!”

Draco couldn’t help but stare, watching as his Mother politely took the older woman's hand,  patting it gently as if she was the one who just became a widow. He couldn’t help the scoff that left him.

A giggle beside him startled him.

“Some people just can’t let an event be about someone else.” Your voice was different, older, a little rougher, but the twitch of your lip was exactly how he remembered it. “I’m sorry about this. My grandmother is always for the dramatics.”

When your eyes met, he couldn’t help the clench of his heart. The corners softened, just the smallest bit of pity within them that made his entire body seize. The last time you looked at him like that, he was apparating away from the very thing that plagued his nightmares…

“Yes, well. I would appreciate it if you could get her under control before we begin.” Your brow twitched in surprise.

“Not a demand? My, my, Mr.Malfoy. Who has been influencing you to be so kind?” He bristled.

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re saying-”

“Yes, yes,” you said, waving your hand dismissively. “I promise to keep your secret. No one can know you’re kinder now, image is everything, right?” Despite the friendly tone you tried to keep, he couldn’t help the pang in his heart at the familiar words. The words he said to you so long ago, maybe the last conversation you ever had. “Don’t worry, she’s a dramatic one, but she’s not that heartless.” Draco didn’t respond, merely narrowing his eyes in your direction. “What? Don’t trust me?”

“Those aren’t the words I would use, no.” You winced dramatically. At least he knew where you got it from now.

“Hurtful, Malfoy. But I suppose you have a point.”

The silence that stretched was painfully awkward.

“Thank you,” he said, suddenly remembering where he was, “for attending.”

“I don’t know if your Father would be too happy to see me, but I’m not really here for him.” Draco raised a brow, confusion evident on his face. You met his gaze head-on, smile turning a little fond. “I like this look on you.”

“Can you hear yourself?” He couldn’t stop the snap in his words.

“It’s not very often I can bring you to confusion,” you said, completely ignoring his words. Your hand raised gently, pausing when Draco flinched, before gently resting it against his cheek. Resting, he guessed, was generous. Your hand hovered cautiously near his face, close enough he could feel the heat from your palm, feel the electricity crackled between your skin strongly enough that it felt like you were actually touching him. For a desperate moment, he wanted to push his head into your open hand, take any comfort he could while he could. Who knew when he would get it again.

“What…what are you doing?” Your thumb was near undetectable, smoothing away the scrunch between his brows. Well, trying to at any rate.

“I’ll be staying far past the end.” Your voice was quiet now. “Whenever you’re ready to need me after, I’ll be here. ”

Draco felt his breath hitch. You smiled delicately, meeting his eyes once more, before pulling your hand away and ending whatever moment of peace was created from your nearness. He watched your hair sway as you turned, grabbing your grandmother's arm and gently leading her to a group of people nearby, relieving Narcissa of her duty with a soft condolence. He couldn’t help his eyes as they stayed on your figure, watching and memorizing every one of your moves, letting his mind wander.

“I’m not very fond of the grandmother, but…maybe I can learn to tolerate her.” Draco blinked, meeting his Mother’s eyes.

“Why would you ever need to get along with…her?” His Mother scoffed, the first unladylike behavior she had allowed herself to do in a long time. Draco’s eyes widened.

“Draco, my dear. I know your Father and I weren’t the best example, but I had hoped you learned a little something.” He continued to look at her quizzically. “Go after, okay? You deserve a quiet moment, and I have a feeling your meeting will be exactly what you need right now.”

After, Draco thought. For the first time in who knows how long, Draco let himself be excited for it.

______________________________________________________________

masterlist  l What is Laufeyfest? l Laufeyfest masterlist

[hibiscusangel15]

Phantasma

Okay, so I saw an interesting, angsty post by @cruelfeline​ that wondered if Hordak could feel himself hurting Entrapta when Horde Prime possessed his body. The initial idea then kinda wrapped into a vague idea I had about the Horde clone hive mind, so here’s this lol.

Summary: Hordak's body was not his own. It had always belonged to Horde Prime since the moment he'd been created.

Or, a look into the clone hive mind when Horde Prime possessed Hordak in Heart, Part 2.

Rating: Teen and Up

*Also crossposted to AO3 and FFN!

If you like my fic, please consider buying me a coffee!

Despite everything he'd been taught, he knew Horde Prime did not know all. He did not see all.

A blasphemous thought to hold, and yet, if Prime himself did not see it—did not know it by now—then what else could he not foresee? What else did he not know?

The clone had cradled other blasphemies once, too. A life outside of the hive mind. An army he dared to call his own. A name.

Memories of a time long past. A time where in his darkest heart of hearts, he had dared to wish that Prime would never find him.

And now time had caught up to him. Now the woman at the very center of his blasphemous thoughts was on her knees jeering at Horde Prime.

He clutched the crystal he'd scavenged the other day in his hand. It was the catalyst, the first spark of defiance. A treasure that he might call his own.

The hive mind was filled to the brim with love for Prime. None dared to question his rule, and so none ever suspected this single clone's treachery.

Not until he hesitated to silence the little rebel before him.

Thoughts that were not his own trawled along the edge of his mind.

What are you waiting for, brother?

Destroy her.

Millions of thoughts grasped intangibly around him, as if his brothers wished to take the cannon from his arm themselves. Ghost hands crept along his scalp, over his face, his chest, urging him to get it over with.

She is not worthy of basking in Prime's light.  Dispose of her already.

Not worthy of his light. They were right about one thing, at least.

Entrapta was a light all her own. She outshone everyone, even Prime himself.

Go on, brother.

Hurry before you anger Prime, brother.

Do it now, brother.

Brother!

He turned his cannon onto Horde Prime and opened fire with a cry. 

“I am not your brother.”

Confusion and outrage blistered in the hive mind. The ghost feeling of hundreds of hands, once so reassuring, relinquished its awful hold over him.

"You made me in your image, but I am more than that!"

The clone carried Horde Prime by the jaw, dangling him over the edge of an endless precipice. "I gave myself a name. I made a life of my own! I made...."

He looked back at Entrapta. The woman who mocked Horde Prime to his face. The woman who coordinated a strategic counterattack against the chipped Etherians. The woman who snuck into his sanctum and dared to call his imperfections beautiful.

"A friend."

Yet another blasphemy before Prime's light. But could friendship truly be blasphemy? Could love?

If it was, he'd rather be a sinner than exalted by a god.

“I am Hordak, and I defy your will!”

His fingers went slack, and Horde Prime was no more.

It was over. Entrapta was safe.

Right as he turned to free her, everything vanished. The ship was gone. Entrapta was gone. There was nothing but a pure white void all around him. Hundreds of hushed voices echoed through the very air of this space.

Hordak whirled around. The noise ceased.

A large screen gleamed before him. It showed the image of where he’d been standing not too long ago. He walked to it, swiping a curious hand down the screen as if it would open for him. Its texture was like that of hot gelatin. No residue came off on his hand, but he wiped the unpleasant feeling off on his leg anyway.

He heard Entrapta laugh and say something. The sound rippled around the space, distorting and warping until it became unrecognizable noise.

And then his brother’s laugh rang so distinct and clear, Hordak had to clap his hands over his ears.

No.

“Ah, little brother. So it’s true. You have been thoroughly corrupted.”

A dark mass writhed behind him. Green lights hovered in the space where its eyes should be. Four very familiar eyes burned with rage and scorn.

Horde Prime. Horde Prime had seized control of his body.

“So be it!”

The mass rushed at him, through him to the screen.

His breath caught when the screen moved towards Entrapta. On her face was an expression he’d never seen. No matter how many times he’d growled at her or snapped at her to leave him be, she never seemed threatened by him. Never feared him.

Her look of abject terror etched itself into his mind, and he slammed a fist against the screen.

“No! Entrapta! Get away!” he yelled.

Horde Prime tugged her off her feet by her hair. Her scream tore something within him. He was hurting her.

Hordak could feel each individual strand thrashing against his own hand, trying to pry his grip open. Her hair was being too gentle with him. Too subdued. She was strong enough to push him, if necessary. His defect would make it all too easy. So why couldn’t she do it?

“You have forced my hand. I will unleash the Heart, and so we shall die in cleansing flame together!” Prime’s voice echoed around him.

He could feel his mouth twist up into a wicked grin, feel as his own hand tightened its grip around Entrapta’s long hair.

It was so soft. Softer than he ever thought anything could be. He wished he could have told her that. But his mouth was no longer his own. Nor were his hands, his own mind.

Everything belonged to Prime. Everything was Prime.

“Entrapta!”

Hordak threw himself against the screen, ramming into it over and over again. It did not waver.

“Little brother.”

The voice came from behind him.

He whirled back, teeth bared in a snarl. “You…. You were supposed to die!”

“And you forget your place!” The shadow pulsated like living smoke. “You have committed the ultimate blasphemy. Given yourself a name. Dared to live as if you are your own creature! But you are nothing. One of thousands of clones that all bear the image of Prime! Without me, you would not exist!”

Hordak screamed as he lunged at the shadow of Horde Prime. His singular vision was his downfall. He did not realize it hovered right above a glowing green pit.

His feet caught the edge in the nick of time, and he sucked in a stunned breath when he saw what laid below.

Countless thousands of clones were embedded into the walls of the circular pit. Many were mere half-bodies jutting out like weeds. They all raised their hands up, worshipping the dark mass far above them. Their ruler. Their brother. The all-knowing, all-powerful Prime.

It took Hordak a second to realize that they were all decrying his very existence. They called him worthless. Defective. Unworthy. Forsaken.

Hordak tried to take a step back, only to find he could not move. Several pale hands sprouted from the ground to restrain his legs. They would not let him go no matter how hard he hit or scratched at them. Such was the resolve of a clone-brother’s devotion to Prime.

“Oh, little brother. Do you honestly think you could ever be equal to my own power? All because you came to care for some insignificant creature who pitied you? I would never let myself become so weak.”

The green lights of its eyes narrowed at him.

Hordak dared to glare right back. “Let Entrapta go! She has not done anything to deserve this!”

“On the contrary, brother. I have read your thoughts. I understand in intimate detail how much you have let her affect you. How far she has led you astray from my light. For that, she must be made an example of.”

“No!”

He strained against the many hands stacking over each other to hold him down, struggling desperately to reach the screen. “Entrapta!”

“Do you know why you could never hope to match my power, brother?”

The other clones’ cries ceased. All was silent and white save for the floating shadow enveloping itself around his wrists.

It leaned close to his ear, as if to impart some final secret. “It is because you would not be able to bear the weight of the hive mind.”

Prime pulled him forward. The bodiless hands let him go.

Hordak fell into the pit.

The clones immediately went into a frenzy, clawing and tearing and dragging him down, down and away from the pure light above. The shared thoughts of his brothers he'd heard before was a mere drop in an ocean of suffering. Now all their prayers, feelings, everything they were bore down on him. It was like no gravity he’d ever felt before.

For every clone he managed to fend off, more came to tug him into the fold. And even through all this, he could hear Entrapta crying for him. Feel as her hair squirmed in his own hand. Prime would torture him in every possible way before the end. They would die here together, and the last thing he would ever hear would be his only friend in the universe crying his name.

“Entrapta!” he screamed, reaching a hand up to the edge of the pit.

And then, the hands were gone. The clones vanished. A gentle presence guided Hordak to the top, placing him far from the pit. When he looked back, it slowly closed in on itself.

“Hordak.”

That voice. She-Ra.

The screen showed the edge of a cliff. He no longer felt Entrapta’s hair wriggling against his palm. Instead, there was the brush of grass, a warm breeze on his cheek.

Something glowed just beyond the crest of the cliff. It rose higher and higher until Hordak caught sight of She-Ra. A First Ones glyph shone on her chest, radiating power.

Prime's shadow hovered before the screen, flickering like a spark that refused to light. “Though all is reduced to rubble, Prime shall rise again. So it has been, and so it always shall be.”

Hordak knew it was futile. He felt that familiar ache in his shoulders, in his legs. His defect. Horde Prime had not anticipated inhabiting a broken body.

Even so, he no longer had any other body to return to. The hive mind had closed off. All was silent again.

Ah, Hordak realized, shutting his eyes, resigned. This body belongs to Horde Prime now. She-Ra will kill me to assure her victory.

“No! I will not fall!” Prime sputtered above him in a panic. “The hive mind will open to me! I am their ruler! Their god!”

“You are nothing more than a coward looking to escape your fate. Rejoice, brother. For you and I will both die in cleansing flame together, is that not so?” Hordak said wearily.

He did not wish to die. Not now. Not until he knew Entrapta was safe.

But this was his fate. To ensure the peace of the universe, Horde Prime needed to die.

“No, you’re wrong,” She-Ra said. “It’s time for you to go.”

He pressed his forehead against the screen and shut his eyes. He was ready.

Her hands cupped his face. Warmth emitted from her palms, steady and hopeful.

Hordak’s eyes snapped open. Suddenly, he could read her thoughts, and he knew she did not aim to destroy them both.

Prime's shadow spasmed against an unseen force ripping it away. It tried to grasp onto something, anything. It even reached out to Hordak with a smoking claw, so despondent in its desperation.

Hordak merely watched the mass purge from his body back into the nothingness from which it came.

                                                   *   *   *

The scenery changed in a flash of light. He stood in an empty field. Little more than grass and sharp crystals abound the place.

It did not look familiar to him. It seemed Horde Prime had yet to conquer this strange planet. Another dead end. His faulty portal had transported him somewhere even further away from Prime’s light.

The portal itself crackled and sparked. It was unstable. The communication device he brought with him did not even emit a trackable signal.

He threw the device to the ground in his frustration. It shattered into several pieces along the dirt.

A sharp cry pierced the air. He stood up straighter, startled.

There, lying bundled on top of a rock, was a baby.

Hordak squinted and caught sight of a woman running in the distance. The mother? Had she abandoned her child here?

The bundle squirmed, hands outstretched, searching.

He glanced back at the woman’s silhouette. For a moment, she stopped. Perhaps she would come to collect her child. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

Then the silhouette took off and vanished into the woods ahead.

Hordak turned back to the portal. He’d reconfigure the coordinates again and then—

The baby’s cries grew louder. He paused.

He stomped over to where the baby laid. It shifted in its blankets. Were it not for his quick reflexes, it would’ve wiggled its way off the rock.

He held it to his chest and stared. The child stared back. Its cries settled into small whimpers then silence.

“You have been abandoned,” he said, a pang in his chest. “Your creator did not want you.”

Of course he knew that the child would not understand him. It was not a guarantee that it even knew his language.

The baby settled in his arms, pressing its small cheek to his thumb. He could not leave this child here. Not after its own mother left it to die.

“Lord Hordak!” Shadow Weaver’s voice called out through the portal.

The portal’s frame warped. Sprinting towards it would be his only chance. He clutched the child tighter in his hands and ran.

                                                   *   *   *

Hordak gasped and found himself face-to-face with that same child. She regarded him with such kindness in her eyes that it brought that ghost pang back.

“I remember you,” he whispered. Her smile told him that she remembered him, too.

She-Ra helped him stand. No sooner than that, something small tackled him in a twirl of purple pigtails.

"Hordak!"

A laugh burst from his chest when he realized who it was. Entrapta was here. She was safe and alive and so warm. He could not ask for a better future.

“I’m so glad you’re here! Oh, we have so much to talk about!” she said and hugged him once more. “I missed you!”

Hordak smiled back at her. “I’ve missed you, too, Entrapta.”

Her hair reached up to caress his face. It was only then his smile fell.

He'd hurt her. It was not by his own will, but even so.

How could she stand to be near him after that? How could she trust he would not do so again?

The rest of her hair split off and wrapped gently around his hands. Not a single strand fought against him. Her hair willingly weaved around his open palms, his fingers.

"Stay with me. Please?"

Hordak shuddered. This felt too much like forgiveness. He was not worthy of it.

"Always," he whispered.

Without warning, Entrapta shot up and pressed her lips against his. The longer she ran her thumb up and down his jaw, the more scrambled his thoughts became.

Her eyes gleamed with pride when she pulled away. “You’re free now. You can be whoever you wanna be, Hordak.”

“I…. Yes.”

It was the best he could manage.

Entrapta laughed and pressed her forehead to his. He leaned into the touch. It was nice, knowing how soft a touch could really be. Knowing how much love could flow through a simple gesture.

Eventually, she wrapped her arms around his to lead him down the hill. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” she repeated. He could not help himself from laughing once more.

He made it back to her. Prime was gone. He was free, and he made it back to her.

Entrapta peered up at him with a smile. He returned it easily. 

Hordak knew then what he would do with this newfound freedom. He would spend it by Entrapta’s side. For as much as time would allow, he would spend it all with her.

A careful hand ran through her hair. He did not yet have the words to express how sorry he was for hurting her. How he should have fought harder against Prime's control.

He wanted to say so much to her. As soon as he started to speak, however, a strand of her hair pressed itself against his mouth. A gentle admonishment, one that was met with an amused smile.

Her hair curled itself around his fingers, guiding them down to cup her face. Hordak brushed away the small tears spilling down. It was not enough to repair all the damage he’d done. She must have known that.

Entrapta never cared about such matters. She never spoke about recompense, nor did she seem to desire it.

She seemed happy just to stay here like this, smiling at him even through her tears.

The warm breeze stirred leaves and stray bits of grass all around them. The planet was alive and thriving once more.

He took a deep breath in.

Entrapta was by his side. The sun felt good on his face.

He was Hordak, and he was finally free to live by his own will.

A/N: This was legit the fastest I’ve ever written something. I was struck by a sudden burst of inspiration, and I guess that’s where it all led.

Please let me know if anyone's in-character or not. I'm very new to writing for this fandom.

[demiwonder-a]

take me back to the night we met // koncassie

WHO: Cassie Sandsmark & Conner Kent. @kxnel​. With plenty of mentions of Erik Lehnsherr.

WORD COUNT: --- words. (i’ll count later no one look at me.)

LOCATION: Undisclosed location. 

GENERAL NOTES: Kon’s lil roadtrip has been interrupted by Cassie. She shows up after finally packing up her things and deciding enough has been enough. Tears and break ups ensue. (my own tears actually)

WARNINGS: Toxic relationship behavior, mentions of past death/murder.

KON: The trip had begun to drag at this point. What once seemed like a valiant crusade to take down a coward who draped himself in nationalism, xenophobia, and hatred had turned into a series of personal squabbles. Deaths that were only vaguely and flimsily justified under the pretense of gathering information.

At this point Kon was tired, he wanted to go home but with each new memory of a heart slowing to a crawl and then weakly sputtering out he felt less and less like he really had a home at all.

It was a mistake to come here. That, Kon knew.

He had stolen a moment away from the group to try and clear his head, a cigarette that did nothing for him hanging limply from his lips as he let it burn down to tender skin of his lips before he spit it out and let another take its place. 

The sound of rumbling disturbed his bout of self-loathing and his eyes drew up toward the noise only to widen in shock. 

“Cassie. What are- where-how?” He tightened his jaw, glancing back toward where the group was making camp for the night before turning back to his girlfriend. “You shouldn’t be here, Cassie. It’s not safe for you.”

CASSIE: There was only so much bending one could do before the inevitable cracks started to splinter out. The foundation could only withstand so much with cracks in it before its falling apart. Red flags only looked like flags when you wore rose colored glasses. She could only look away so many times before she was forced to stare at the ruins of her favorite mess. Kon couldn’t see the smile she was faking, all because he wasn’t looking either. The shaky ground they stood upon finally had given way. The free fall that followed Cassie was almost welcome, at least she was feeling something again other than the steady ache.

It scared her how welcomed the devastation felt.

A decision had been made. Bags had been packed and she avoided Jon all together. If he had any inkling of what was happening she knew he’d tell his brother in a heartbeat. The wind blew through her hair as all the windows in her car were down, sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose and the unknown on the horizon.

It didn’t take long to find him, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head as night had started to fall. She parked the car and stepped out, taking in the shocked expression of Conner’s face with a sigh. “You still share your location with me. What are you doing, Conner? What are you doing with your life?” She asked, because she truly didn’t know at this point. “I can handle myself. I may not be able to punch a hole through a wall anymore but I still am trained.”

It sounded so tired. She was so tired. There was a resignation to everything about her that she couldn’t hide anymore. “When did it come to this? It never used to feel like me against you. I’m not your enemy.”

KON: His brows drew together as he studied her, the bob of his throat the only indication that her words had gotten through to him at all. He had no idea what he was doing. Trying to do something when it didn’t seem like anyone was doing much of anything, maybe. Trying to find a way to help her become her again? Trying to run, far from New York and its problems and its stresses and its stifling smog and even more stifling aura of hatred that seemed to grow each and every day. It felt impossible to explain and, maybe it was. Maybe there were just no words left to be said.

But he had to try.

“That’s not what I meant.” He tried, and it wasn’t. She had always been larger than life to him. Her dedication, her passion, her unyielding sense of who she was… they had been things he loved about her, they still were, even if they seemed to be drained from her now. It pained him to think that she thought she wasn’t anything without her powers, but it also made him *angry. Were they all defined by their usefulness to her? Was he? 

The two men waiting for him were forgotten as he tried to step closer, his hands reaching out for her before dropping uselessly at his sides. “And I’m not yours, Cassie.”

It seemed fruitless to try and speak now, not when the canyon between them had shifted and grown to the point where everything seemed just a little distorted by the distance, an echo of an echo in a chasm. “Why are you so intent on making me the bad guy? Why don’t you trust me?”

CASSIE: The silence stretched and stretched like a rubber band, snapping back almost violently with Kon's words. Her heart had been broken so many times at this point, it felt like she felt nothing any longer because it was no longer breaking. How many times could you put back together something in pieces only for it to be an unrecognizable mess of what it once was? Her heart had broken with each growing divide between them. It broke with the way she longed to take to the sky once more. There was only so many times she could be punched into the ground before she stayed down.

"Why are you giving me so many reasons to not trust you? Why do you keep lying to me? Why do you keep making me feel like I'm insane for being angry at where we're at? What are you even doing here?! What is it that drove you here? Clearly you're doing something you shouldn't be if you're acting like this. It's not safe? Then what is it that's so unsafe about what you're doing?" She demanded to know.

Cassie's anger always burned bright and fast, a brilliant light like star only to die out. Her shoulders slumped down and she rubbed at her face tiredly. "What have we become, Conner?" Cassie asked quietly.

KON: Sometimes she could be so infuriating, so condescending. Did she think that he was genuinely too stupid to make decisions for himself or did she think that he was just a walking time-bomb like everyone else did.  It certainly seemed like she wavered between the two rationalizations rather than just listening to him. He had tried to get her to come to his meetings in the alien district, begged her to come to a picket with him. He had tried so many times to reach out, to be there for her and now it all seemed for naught.

It seemed like just about everything was for naught, in the end.

“It’s not- look, Cassie I’m scared that you’ll see Erik and fly off the goddamn handle and he’ll kill you because he is not a man you want to fuck around with.” 

And what was so wrong with that? Sure, Erik was a bit testy, and yes, Kon disagreed with his Machiavellian approach to most everything but Batman wasn’t someone to fuck around with either and traumatic brain injury was no more merciful than a painless death. Hell, how many people had Diana killed? How many sentient lives had been snuffed out by Clark’s heat vision? None of their hands were clean, not really, not in any way that mattered.

(Tim had explained the trolley problem to him once years ago. Kon had said that it was a stupid question because he could just lift the trolley off the tracks.)

“I am trying to help people, Cassie. I’m trying to help you! He could figure out how to get your powers back, Bruce brought Erik back to life I swear I’m not just running around the country for no reason.”

He sighed, his voice broken as his head shook. She wasn’t even listening to him, but what was surprising about that?

“I don’t know, Cassie. Why are you even here? To yell at me? To get in one last I told you so? To tell me that I-I’m what? Dangerous? Uncontrolled? To take me home like a good little boy?”

CASSIE: Everything seemed to halt. The world went all too quiet for a moment as Kon's lips kept moving, but Cassie didn't hear what he was saying. Erik. What did he mean Erik? Erik was...he was dead. He was dead because Scott killed him. He was dead because it was what was the right decision, a decision that seemed to have torn Scott to bits and pieces from the inside. A decision that wasn't taken lightly and Cassie had assured him she would never think he was a bad person for. He was dead, but now he wasn't it seemed, and that scared Cassie.

It scared Cassie far too much.

Cassie was brought back to the present and she shook her head quickly. "I don't want him coming near me. I don't want him trying to figure out what's wrong with me. I don't trust him, you shouldn't trust him either, Conner." Cassie said tightly, though she knew he wouldn't listen. He hadn't listened long ago when Cassie said she didn't trust him and she doubted he'd listen now.

And in that moment it's almost as if Cassie could hear the final nail being hammered into the coffin.

"No. I didn't come for that." Cassie said softly. "I can't do this anymore. I don't think we're—" And all the feelings of the multiple heartbreaks rose up like an impending wave and she could feel the water welling up in her eyes, "I don't think we're good for each other anymore. I can't do this. I can't do the lying and I can't watch you go down this path. I've tried...I've tried to tell you how I feel, but you're going somewhere I can't follow. I'll be out of the apartment before you get back."

KON: He barked out a laugh, his eyes a bit more manic than he would really feel comfortable under any other circumstance. He felt like, for a moment, he understood how Lex went insane. There was something about obsession that made you a little crazy and he had always, always been a little obsessed with Cassie.

But now, looking at her, it was a little hard to imagine why.

“You don’t even know him!” He said, his voice harsh. “You don’t know what he’s done for me, Cassie he isn’t all bad. He could help you! He’s trying, he was trying before-“ He huffed a breath. How much did she know? How much had she kept from him while pointing fingers and searching the nooks and crannies of his words to find incongruities and pick apart secrets.

At least his lies were for her, to protect her, to help her.

“Good for each other?” He repeated blankly, his mind reeling as it replayed the words over and over, “Cassie, you’re, what? You’re leaving me?” His voice was small, his shoulders drooping as his hands shook against his thighs.

“Cassie, wait, we can talk about this," He tried, the edge to his voice bordering on desperate as he walked toward her, "don’t leave, don’t- Cass, please don’t- don’t leave me.”

CASSIE: The 'I know enough' was on the tip of Cassie's tongue and threatened to fall between them. She knew she was at fault for the way things crumbled apart too. She was holding this secret firmly against her chest, stuck between a rock and a hard place. It had been weighing on her heavily. Though, she didn't know what else to do. The harsh truth of the situation was there was nothing left to do. They had gotten to a point of no return and it tore Cassie to pieces.

The way Kon curled in on himself and became so very small gripped at her heart tightly. It was her fault, she was going to break his heart and she had to live with that. She already had and knew it. She had long ago and was doing it all over again alongside her own heart. Her fingers were curling around something so delicate and crushing it. Though, her heart had been broken by him as well. He hurt her and she hurt him right back and this was for the best. Right?

The tears finally escaped, slipping down her cheeks as she took a step back in an effort to keep the distance between them. "Conner—" she breathed out with a weak noise, looking up at the dark sky as the rumbling of thunder sounded out. It wasn't her. So clearly Zeus had a sick sense of humor in vocalizing the hurt washing over her. "There's nothing more to talk about. I think we've said enough. I think this will be better in the long run. You can't tell me you haven't been miserable. You keep leaving and I just...I know. I get it. It's for the best." She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat and tried to open up the door to the driver's seat.

KON: He felt like weeping. A not insignificant part of him wanted to climb into the car with her and leave this stupid journey behind, to grab onto her hand and not let go no matter what, but as she stepped backwards unsteadily away from him all he could do was lean onto a nearby tree and try not to wince as it creaked and groaned as its bark gave way underneath his fingertips.

His heart thundered in his chest and he wondered if she cared even a little bit that he would, once again, be left alone.  He glanced up, his lips twisting into a sardonic grimace as the rain pelted his face. How fitting a soundtrack the rain would make for his heartbreak. His life was a cosmic joke, he became more sure of it every day.

“I’m not. I love you- I” he buried his face into the crease of his arm, his shoulder hunching as he fought back the tears threatening to overtake him. If she wanted to go he couldn’t stop her. He wouldn’t continue to make a fool of himself for someone who clearly wanted to be anywhere but here, with him.

“Fine! Go then! I don’t need,” He took a shuddering breath, “I don’t need anyone.” He said softly, the tree falling with a thundering crash as he pulled his hand away.

CASSIE: There was a part of Cassie that didn't want to go. A big part of her. If she listened to that part then she'd stay. She'd stay a thousand times over. She'd let Kon kiss her fingers and she would try to forget about the permanent ache in her heart that resided there. She loved Kon, there wasn't a person in the galaxy, in any universe she'd love as much as she did the man standing before her. And sometimes that love meant walking away even though you wanted anything but that.

That's what she was telling herself at least as her heart screamed at her and the tears dripped down her cheeks with the rain.

She watched him and her feet tried to take her forward, to press her hands to his face and beg him to understand, but instead she stayed rooted to the spot as Kon seemed to fall just as loudly as the tree he had leaned again. It felt like there was some sort of sick metaphor in there that Cassie didn't want to look at too hard.

'I wish things were different," almost came.

'I'll always love you," threatened to fall from her lips.

'I don't want to go,' was trapped in the back of her throat.

"Okay," was merely whispered instead. Cassie knew she couldn't remedy this. It sat broken in pieces at her feet and the breath left her in a quiet exhale as her blonde stuck to her face with the downpour of rain. "I'm sorry, Conner. I love—" a moment of hesitation as she stepped back toward the door. "I do love you. I'm sorry. This is for the best. Please...just, be safe. Please." Slipping into the car, shutting the door behind her, her fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel for a moment before reaching down to start the car.

Cassie couldn't help herself. Her eyes briefly flickered up to the rearview mirror and watched Conner's hunched form get smaller and smaller. She wanted to ask the silence of the car if she'd be alright. She had a feeling the answer would be a mere 'I don't know' as she drove into the night.

[righteoussoldier]

HURT

INFORMATION: Character: Alastor Moody Faceclaim: Joe Manganiello World: Harry Potter Verse: Marauders Era Trigger Warnings: Smut, Death, War Author’s Notes:  A song prompt/oneshot written for an old RP.

___________________________________________________

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting

Flashes of light rushed past Moody’s head as his agile body twisted to deflect the blast. The rush around him, the commotion of others entirely overwhelming. Throwing up defensive spells and flinging out counter curses were second nature to him now, and not just because of his work in the ministry. Ever since he and Albus had started the Order of the Pheonix, the world became a hell of a lot more gruesome.

Working the Order’s missions took him deeper into the rebellion than he’d ever thought he’d go. When the red tape is lifted and all bets were off, you saw the ugly side of evil front and center. Images of pain and turmoil, of injured women and children, of Death Eater’s wretched actions burned into your brain so profoundly and your own actions to protect the muggles and civilians so horrible, there was no way to ever cleanse your soul. No hope for retribution.  

When the firefight was done, the enemy having retreated from a lone Auror who dared face off against them- there was nothing left but the smoke and ashes. The landscape before him utterly barren, except for one shape. Laying haphazard across the ground, casting shadows against the light of the moon. With a rush, Alastor sunk to his knees beside the body, taking a moment to steel himself away before rolling it over….

Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything What have I become, my sweetest friend Everyone I know goes away, in the end

Lifeless eyes met his own, the white haze that arrived only when death had turned a body cold clouded what was once such a brilliant blue. A sob choked out of him, pain filling his chest and blinding him to his surroundings. To anything other than the young man who lay dead beside him. Moody had failed his mission, failed to protect the innocent muggle-born wizard who had been captured.

Blood streaked his pale face, the skin brutalized to a level that made him almost unrecognizable. He’d been tasked to find him, to save him….and instead, he’d failed. The Death Eater’s doing more to his body than what was required of standard Rebellion Questioning. More than spells had been used, his fingernails missing, cuts and bruises distorting his features, ugly words etched into him marring skin…The choking intensified until it became a scream, echoing through the night, deafening to his own ears.

Clinging the boy’s body to himself so tightly, Alastor could no longer feel a thing. So numb to his own pain, he didn’t hear the crack that rang out against the void around him. He didn’t see Kingsley take the boy from his arms and disappear, didn’t feel Minerva’s dainty figure as she wrapped him in a soft embrace. Not until the world shifted in a blur and his eyes opened to his safe house. The one separate from the Order’s Head Quarters, the one few knew about at all…

And you could have it all, my empire of dirt I will let you down, I will make you hurt I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar’s chair

When the fog thick in his mind lifted, and he realized who had brought him home, his heart threatened to break all over again. He couldn’t let her see him like this, he tried to walk away, to run and hide like the coward he had become. A man didn’t break in front of another, especially not in front of her. Pain tore through him, cut deep into his soul as he stumbled backward, only for Minerva to follow him, to hold him in place. Trapping him on the spot, stuck between how he felt and how he should act.

“There are no walls here, Alastor.” Her voice was grave, heavy with the weight of the war, of what they’d seen. Closing his eyes, he tried to will it all away, to change the course of events that brought them to this moment. “How did you find me?” He finally asked. His voice so unlike his own. Ruined, not broken. “I will always find you.” The words a promise, a vow…and he didn’t doubt them, but that scared him even more…

“I can’t do this anymore”

And by this, he meant so much more than the fight against the Dark Lord. He couldn’t do this, with her, he couldn’t love her. He could lose her. The way she looked at him, with warriors eyes along with the gravity of their situation weighing so hard on him, he feared he may fall and never get back up again. “I know” she replied, and the Auror knew that she understood all of it. Understood why he’d never committed himself to her in the way a couple should. Because Minerva felt the same, and that’s why they worked. “I will not love you either, Alastor.” Her reply to his unspoken thoughts solidified their link further…the truth was, they were both lying- it was too late.

Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear You are someone else, I am still right here

Without another word, like she knew what he needed like she always did, her hands tugged his face down to her level. Soft lips pressed against him in a hard surge, as if she was giving him permission to let go, to release the pain and take it out of her willing body. Alastor wasted no time, he clicked his fingers and her robes had vanished, leaving behind the supply body of his greatest love. His own, too… and suddenly, primal need took over. His primary instinct was to bury himself in what she was offering him…and god help him, he would.

When their bodies met once more, it was with intense force. His large hands slid down her sides and locked on her thighs, picking her up and cradling that petite form against his chest. Minerva’s legs wrapped around his torso, heels digging into his lower back as he surged forward, not stopping until her back hit the wall and hard. His cock was already hard, immediately awoken by her courage and it was the work of a moment for him to find home; deep inside her.

Her screams replaced the sound that still rang in his ears, a different kind of white noise as his hips thrust against her own. Fucking her with a kind of raw desire that no woman had ever been able to elicit from him before. Fingers locked tight in his hair as she begged him to move harder, faster, deeper…and he so willingly obliged. Her sex tight around him as he moved.

If I could start again, a million miles away I would keep myself, I would find a way

When they orgasmed, it was together. The kind that rocked the ship, that made them blind to the world afterward. Their skin slick from the exertion, breathing ragged as he gazed at her, still deep inside. The connection was what he needed the most, she was what grounded him to this earth, what kept him alive on the harshest of nights. He needed her in the way fire needed oxygen to stabilize and gain ground.

“Stay…” she whispered, almost pleading as she bit her lower lip. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed pink from their efforts and in that moment, he loved her even more. He was still hard inside her and with legs still wrapped around him, Alastor moved from the wall leaving behind a crack on its surface…not stopping until legs hit the bed and he collapsed on top of it, on top of her, before he began to move once more. Hips rocking between her own, taking the wild beauty with long and slow strokes. A deeper desire to pour his h e a r t into her, rather than the pain of his mind.

And as she moaned, the sound breathed life into his chest. Nails raking down his back, leaving deep red marks that bled into his soul. The stain of who they were something he hoped would never be removed. Lips locked onto her own, and his thick arms moved either side of her head, caging her against him, closing her off to the world, to anything other than the way their bodies moved as one…

If only he could say it, just once. If only he could tell her what she meant to him, how she made him feel…if only he could find a way.

[fallenhero-rebirth]

200 subscribers! (actually 208)

I’ve pondered long and hard what to do, and came to the realization that I did not have time to write anything since I am right now working on book two. But, I wanted to give you a bit of fun, so I went back through my archives and found some outtakes. You remember when I said that Fallen Hero was originally meant to be a novel? Well, I thought I’d share some scenes from there that hasn’t made it into the game (yet). Be warned, this is from 2011, first person, Cyrus and Yasmin, a male Ortega and Dr. Mortus (not Mortum) and in no way canon anymore. Also a lot more swearing.

Snippets under the cut:

1: Yasmin runs into problems (cut from book one)

I am insane. It’s not the first time I have thought that in the last year, and it will probably not be the last. How did I ever imagine that I could pull this off? My mind is fire and ice as I face the gun aimed at my face, but Yasmin’s lips simply curls in a smile. “This is a mistake” I assure the gun, and the masked man behind it, my voice a honeyed mumble.

“No mistake bitch” the man with the gun replies, a faceless goon with high-tech weapons that rings bells I can’t quite make sense of. In Yasmin’s body I can’t read thoughts, only the body language of a man that really doesn’t care whether I live or die. “Word has it that you were the one that made off with the Aipherion, and I’ve been hired to retrieve it.”

The gun beckons, and I take a step towards it, flirts with death and pain as I let my eyes widen a little, confusion vying with worry on my face. “I had nothing to do with that” I lie, because stealing from heroes was one thing, but the mystical gem called the Aipherion had belonged to Lord Modius, and one did not play games with him. Who had talked? Dr Mortus? It seems unlikely, if he had I would be dead already and the gem returned to its owner.

“I am sad to hear that” the goon replies, the gun never wavering from my face. It’s large, imposing, and like all guns overtly phallic. “Because my sources all point to you being involved.”

I am growing annoyed at the presence of the gun by now, so I do the only thing I can. I take a step forward and lick the tip of it, whispering into the barrel “Listen, I don’t know what magic eightball you’ve shook to have my name come up, but you are barking up the wrong tree. I’m a tech-girl; the mystical is wasted on me.” As if to prove the point I wrap my lips around the barrel and is rewarded with a shiver I can feel through my lips. I pull my head away, glistening strands of saliva still connecting me to his weapon. My smile has turned sensual, as I slide my tongue down the gun, softly stepping even closer as I nudge the weapon to the side. Sucker.

“My sources…” he starts, voice distracted, and this is the chance I need. The gun was aimed past my head now, not at it, and I move fast as a rattler as I grab his hand and punch his elbow hard enough to almost dislocate it. His words turn to a scream and the gun drops from dead fingers.

“Fuck your sources” I swear, driving my fist into his stomach as hard as I can, but he’s a big man and well armoured, and doesn’t fold like I want him to. Damn. This could be bad.

“Bitch” he growls, left hand snatching out and grabbing my hair. I should have seen that coming, but I’m not Sidestep now, I’m Yasmin. I can’t see what people will do; I am no longer three steps ahead. I am caught, and he has longer reach and is stronger than me. I am fucked. He knows it. I know it. His knee catches me in the stomach and I fold, gasping for air. “You will pay for that” he snaps, and I don’t doubt his word.

“Wait” I manage to get out before his next kick drives what air remains from my lungs. I curl up on the ground, trying to protect my face. But he leans in and traps me against the ground with a knee, slaps my face a few times hard enough to make my ears ring. He doesn’t even take fighting me seriously, and the shame of that makes my cheeks burn from embarrassment as much as pain. I feel more helpless than I’ve felt since the farm, and I want to run and hide, withdraw and leave an empty doll for him to play with. But if I do, I can’t be sure if I would find my way back to her. I would have to give up two years of plans so very close to fruition. I need her, I need my Yasmin.

“Did you have anything to say to me?” He has me pinned down now, captured beneath his weight. I don’t need my telepathy to see that he is enjoying this. That he is enjoying my swollen lip and tearful eyes. He has me now, and he knows it, his gloved left hand caressing my bruised cheek.

“I’m telling the truth” I sob, deciding to play up the fear if I can’t escape it. “I don’t have it. But I can find out. People tell me things…” it is my final gamble, to play the girl to the end. To not be important, to be pretty and smart, but never dangerous. I was not the threat; I was a norm, a tool, like his gun. A sexy girl employed by somebody, just like he was. I did not know now, but I could find out.

“I’m sorry hon, that just ain’t good enough.” He backhands me again, and I taste blood and metal as bright spots distort my vision. “Can’t take the chance of you running off to Dr Mortus for help. I don’t care what the pair of you is cooking up together, but my instructions were clear.” He reaches down and grabs my dress, my breasts spilling out as the fabric rips in his hand. The sight distracts him momentarily, and I know I won’t get another shot at this.

I yelp and move up an arm to shield my nakedness, but the moment he reaches out to grab my wrist I lash out with my other arm and jab a piece of broken bottle into the side of his thigh. It doesn’t penetrate deeply through the coveralls, but it makes him shift his weight enough for me to crawl away as he struggles to pull it out. I crawl fast, on knees and elbows with the tattered remains of my Ungaro around my waist. I don’t get far before I feel his hand around my ankle, pulling me back. I didn’t get far, but I got far enough and oh God how I enjoy the look of terrified surprise on his face when I roll over on my back and shove the gun he dropped back in his mouth. I know I should say something witty in the line of ‘suck on this’ if I want to have a future in this profession, but my hands are shaking with rage so I simply pull the trigger and nearly deafen myself at the roar the gun makes in the narrow alley. Idiot. He didn’t even have a silencer.

I lay there on the ground, his bleeding corpse draped over me, ruptured head leaking brains over the remains of my dress. I should reach for my phone and call the police; I am clearly the victim here. But that would mean more exposure than I would like. Instead I swallow my pride and calls Dr Mortus. Let the man earn his keep and damn my dignity.

2: Yasmin and Ortega at the bar (Might happen in book two)

The bar is filled with the muted hum of drunken conversation, unrecognizable through the rockabilly blare of the speakers. The green velvet seats in the booth are greasy from decades of the unwashed and uncaring, and the light that filters down, does so through a haze of cigarette smoke. In a corner two men in purple suits are having a pantomime argument, while the hunched bear of a man at the bar hides his gang colors under an oversized trench coat. I don’t even want to know what else he has under there.

I shouldn’t throw stones.

We must be quite a sight where we sit in our booth. A bedraggled young woman in ill-fitting lab clothes and messy hair, and a middle-aged hispanic man in blue coveralls and stolen wellingtons. Honestly, it’s a miracle that we’re sitting here at all; I didn’t expect to escape from Dr. Mortus lab this easily. Granted, Liz had told me that he was gone for a few days, but in the back of my mind I expected him to pop up behind us with a plasma cannon just as we were getting out of there. He probably didn’t think I would try to escape. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he trusted me. Maybe he really wanted to help. Or maybe we were lucky. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Ortega keeps staring at me in silence, and I keep the gun aimed at him under the table.

In front of us, both our beers remain untouched.

Not that anybody cares to take a closer look at us. That is the reason I dragged Ortega here at gunpoint. It is one of the many villain bars I combed through before settling on Joe’s as my favored haunt. This one, aptly named Garage Sale, always felt too low-brow. The people I wanted to meet didn’t go here; this is a place for the down and out, for the upwardly mobile henchmen and supervillains on the skids. In here, nobody cares and nobody smiles. Neither do we.

“All I have to do is make one phone call and you’ll be safe.” Ortega does his best to sound calm and convincing, but he just doesn’t look he part right now. His age has caught up to him and weights heavy on his brow, black rings shadow his eyes and he’s mottled with bruises where he had been hooked up to Dr. Mortus generator. That is the only reason I’m able to threaten him at all, his powers still hadn’t recharged, and for the moment he’s just as ordinary as I am.

But I have the gun.

“I won’t go back to jail,” I reply, my voice as cold as my face. I have no idea what I am supposed to do now, my brain has locked itself into a death spiral, and I don’t know how to get out of it. The crash seems inevitable, and the ground is painted with prison bars. That’s why we ended up in this bar; I needed someplace safe and neutral, somewhere where nobody would care or ask questions. And Cyrus would never come here. At least I hope that whoever stole his body still has an interest in keeping up the charade that he is a good guy. It’s too valuable to waste. I hope.

“It was a hospital, not a jail,” Ortega tries, raising the beer to his lips for the first time since we got here. As he moves he makes me tense up and I clench the gun harder, which makes him tense up, and the beer shivers a moment before he puts it down again. Very gently.

“It would have been. Once I’d recovered and given up whatever information I had. I’m not stupid, I know how this works.”

“Why do you still protect him? You said it yourself, the Annihilist threatened you, and you had no choice.” I almost feel sorry for Ortega, it is obvious that he wants to believe that so badly.

“It’s… complicated,” I sigh, the gun heavy in my hand. Part of me wants to let it go, wants to just confess and ask for help. I think I need it. But I know it’s never that easy. If I told Ortega about Cyrus, about who I am and what I did, would he believe me? Even if he did, he would be disgusted. I am not a victim, I’m a villain, and my acts are conscious choices. Nobody holds a gun to my head.

“Life is complicated,” Ortega finally admits, looking into my eyes. “I don’t believe you are an evil woman. You didn’t have to rescue me; you could just as easily have left me there.”

I could just as easily have killed him too. That would have simplified things. The thought nauseates me, so I distract myself with words. “It’s just that…” I have lowered the gun now, but he doesn’t know that. “It’s not loyalty, but you’re asking me to give up my life and my freedom. You can’t stop him, I’ll either end up in jail for what I’ve done, or I’ll end up dead. I don’t think he’d let me live through a plea bargain.”

“And what if you go back to him? Do you think he would ever trust you again?” His words hit too close to home, even if it is for the wrong reasons. I hope it doesn’t show. Because he is right, I can never return to what I was. Not without a means to get my body back. And to pull that off I need contacts and friends. I just crossed Dr. Mortus of the rapidly shrinking list. Ortega is about the only one left. The one bridge I’m finding it hard to burn.

“I can’t go back, but I can’t go to jail either,” I repeat, as if words would somehow fix the world. The situation is rapidly turning into one of those nightmares where it’s just too hard to continue to struggle. It’s much easier to just go limp, roll over, pretend to be unconscious and accept what is coming to you. But in this nightmare, I am the one holding the gun. I am still in control.

Things change so quickly.

“Hey, isn’t that Charge?” Words strike like a lightning bolt from a clear sky, and suddenly all eyes are on us.

“I always said you were an idiot for not wearing a mask,” I snap without thinking. Cyrus’ words from Yasmin’s lips, but there is no time for more than a confused look on Ortega’s face. I’m on my feet with the gun pointed at the men that spotted us, but a well aimed bottle from the bar knocks it out of my hand.

All hell breaks loose.

Ortega is on his feet and we’re back to back against the surging bar. It’s late enough for most of the patrons to be desperately drunk, trying to escape from the drudgery of their existence. But they are many, and I’m just happy that Ortega holds his own, because giving up is not an option. I knee a CerberUS henchman in the groin, slipping sideways as he crumbles. Ortega matches my step; moving into the spot that I left. I had forgotten how good it felt to have someone watch your back.

Someone you trust.

I am no longer a telepath, but apparently my reflexes are not gone. A movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn; reaching up to grab the descending arm before I even register what happened. His lack of balance makes it easy to turn his punch into a throw that sends him flying over a table. Bottles crash like firework.

I had forgotten how much I missed this.

I break into a smile as I break someone’s nose, the bottle splintering in my hand. People back away from my broken bottle, and I laugh in their faces, bolstered by the feeling of Ortega behind me, his back against mine. Then a sense of fearsome urgency hits me.

I’m not sure what it is that makes me push back hard enough to topple us both, but we hit the floor a moment before the blast hits the spot we just left. Suddenly the booth is on fire, the air aglow in freakish colors and I’m crawling for my life beneath the tables. The gloves have come off and the powers brought out, and if you shouldn’t drive drunk you probably shouldn’t wield biogenic flame or solid light constructs while wasted either. People are screaming, someone is on fire, the fight is escalating and it’s everyone against everyone.

At least until someone remembers that this wasn’t just about venting their frustrations, it’s about kicking a hero when he’s down and they can reach him. I watch Ortega disappear under a pile of has-beens wishing for a starring role in the story of Charge’s defeat. I don’t think I screamed his name out loud, and even if I did, nobody heard me amidst the chaos. I scramble free from the broken table I’d been hiding under just in time to dodge and shield my eyes as every single light in the bar explodes in a shower of sparks and glass. The mob around Ortega falls away, twitching and screaming as if they’d just pissed on the third rail. I am probably imagining the ozone, there’s no way that could ever overpower the stench of cheap alcohol, unwashed bodies and voided bowels.

Ortega untangles himself, pale blue lightning arcing between his body and the now empty sockets. The room is dark, but his eyes are throwing sparks. He’s shed the guise that he belonged here, another has-been slumming with the losers. Suddenly nobody seems eager to continue the fight.

“I think we will be leaving now,” he says, gesturing in my direction. Nobody protests. I straighten my back and walks out with Ortega, my hair alive with static electricity. My skin tingles from his aura, but I don’t bat an eyelash until we’re well outside the door.

And gone.

Two blocks of frantic running later we’re both out of breath, and Ortega looks less than imposing as he leans against a dumpster.

“Would you please accept my invitation and stay in my apartment at least? I’ve had enough excitement for one night,” he gasps.

“Not one night. Weeks. Technically you’ve been a captive for a couple of weeks,” I say, because I realized he had probably no idea how much time that had passed. My hair is tangled and sticking to my face so I wipe it back with a look of disgust.

“Weeks. Right. That’s good to know.” Ortega takes a step back from the dumpster; the smell coming from it is not pleasant now that he had regained his breath.

“Your powers. How long has it been since they recharged?” I’m through resisting the inevitable, but I need to know.

“On the way to the bar. I borrowed a jolt from a badly insulated lamppost.” Ortega looks sheepish, as if he was a bit ashamed of his subterfuge.

“So you could have taken the gun from me at any point?”

“You… looked like you needed it. I didn’t want to push you into doing something rash.”

I nod, defeated. “That was probably very smart. I meant what I said; I won’t go back to jail.”

“It won’t be jail. It’s just my apartment. You can leave at any time, but I really wish you wouldn’t. You’re too interesting to end up just another statistic.”

“Thanks. I think. Just don’t tell anybody I’m there.” It sounds more like begging than an order, even though the ‘please’ remains unsaid, sticking in my throat. “I need time to think. Time to make my own choices.”

“I won’t tell anybody. I promise. I respect that you need time. Do we have a deal then?” He holds out his hand, battered and bleeding from the fight.

The sad thing is, I believe him. I know how this works, the sympathetic ear, the understanding friend. You catch more flies with honey and all that. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve let him save me enough time in the past that one more time won’t make a difference. It’s the least painful of my choices, so I sigh “deal,” then grabs his hand and shakes it.

Probably a little too manly again, because he gives me another look.

This won’t end well.

[nodecaff4me]

Echoes and Memories 

(Post Chrisis On Earth X ficlet originally posted on AO3)

Felicity and Oliver are back in Star City after the events in Central City and have spent two blissful days alone like the newlyweds they are... But no matter how happy and joy-filled their days are the nights prove to be a whole different story...

Oliver finally decides to tell Felicity about that moment he saw her Earth-X alter ego and the nightmares he had been having since they came back home.

“Felicity?!” Oliver woke up to his own raspy voice calling out his girlfriend’s name. His wife’s name… It was the second night after their return from Central City and the second night Oliver woke up to a nightmare only to find the place in bed beside him empty.

They had spent those two days holed up in the loft together talking and laughing, cooking and eating, kissing and making love… It felt like a little honeymoon only the two of them and Diggle knew about. And since they had already planned to stay a in Central City a little longer after the wedding, William was still with his grandparents for three more days.

There was nowhere to be, nothing to do and no obligations waiting for them. It was only the two of them, just like that time they left Star City together on an adventure of their own after they had defeated Ra’s - it only felt so much better.

Maybe it was because he could really appreciate it this time around. Love had never been the problem. Felicity was the love of his life and he knew she felt the same way about him. He knew that, he always had… but unlike the last time around, he was finally able to trust it.

Maybe it was also because they weren’t running away from reality anymore, unlike the last time. As much as he cherished the months they had spent in Ivy Town, he also knew it hadn’t been real, because that life was never for them. It hadn’t been them and it would never be. Their home was Star City with every ugly side and all the craziness it entailed, but he knew no matter what that they would be happy here. All three of them and he couldn’t wait to tell William the big news.

He knew Felicity was a little anxious about it, but he already knew that his son was crazy about her. William genuinely liked spending time with her and it was the same the other way around.

Felicity had an instant connection to William, that went beyond schoolbook knowledge. They had just clicked from the start. It was something Oliver felt a little envious about, but not in a bad way. He was glad to have someone beside him who had a calming impact on his son when he couldn’t find the right words.

But as carefree and happy as the days had been, the nights seem to tell a whole different story. The moment Oliver fell asleep, he saw her.

Felicity.

He saw her face. He heard her voice echo through his mind and soul, through his whole being. He heard those rasped words. Words rough from what he could only imagine were years of physical and emotional torture and yet still so strong. They kept repeating on an endless loop in his dreams while he looked into her eyes as he pointed a gun to her head as her eyes pierced through him right into his heart.

“Those children were starving.”

They resonated with him when she flinched at his touch. He heard them when he looked into her terror filled eyes the moment he approached her. Afraid of him. Scared of his presence, of the monster - the devil incarnate - he was on that earth… And it nearly tore his heart apart.

To see those familiar eyes looking at him like this was something out of his worst nightmares and there he was… Trapped in one of his worst fears. That the woman he loved more than his own life seeing him for the monster, as something unrecognizable, he sometimes still felt he was.

Oliver turned on one of the bedside lights and moved out of bed. There was no way he would be able to go back to sleep after his dream. Especially with Felicity not being there.

It wasn’t unusual for her to wake up in the middle of the night and going to work on an idea her brilliant mind came up with in her sleep. But she usually made herself comfortable in bed beside him, knowing fair well she didn’t have to leave their bedroom to work. He might have been a light sleeper but her late night working in bed habits never woke him. Her presence beside him always seemed to be enough for him to have a good night sleep. It always had been her absence that woke him. Just like yesterday. Just like now.

But he knew Felicity wasn’t up the night before because of some brilliant idea she had. He had woken up from her trashing beside him and found her three hours later slumped over

the keyboard at her workstation downstairs.

It only took one look for him to know that’s not where she was that night though. Instead the two fireplaces were on, bathing the whole lower segment of the loft in a warm deep red light and it only took one more look for him to spot her as he took a few steps down the stairs.

She was curled up on the sofa, asleep with what looked like a book hanging from one of her hands. Only it wasn’t a book, Oliver noticed as he moved over to where she lay. It was a photo album.

He sat down next to Felicity sofa as he took it out of her hand to have a look at the pictures. They were photos of a family through the years. Some of them still in black and white and slightly yellowed while the others were in color.

One of the first pictures he looked at was a black and white photo with a handwritten date of April 1938 in the lower left corner. It showed a very young and happy couple at what he assumed was their wedding day. Oliver couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between that young woman and Felicity. They shared the same smile and the same gentle eyes.

Eyes he knew, when he looked at Felicity, had shed tears before he came down to find her. The trails still visible on Felicity’s cheeks as Oliver traced them with his fingers, wishing he was there to prevent them in the first place.

He laid down on the sofa behind her as he watched her face distort in her sleep. Tears were forming in her eyes again as she mumbled the same incoherent words over and over again.

They hadn’t really talked about what had happened in those hours they were separated from each other on two separate earths. They were too busy being happy and in love in their newlyweds’ bliss, so he could only imagine what must have been going through her mind in that moment.

She had waived him off when he had asked her about what kept her from sleeping the last night he carried her back to bed. He had accepted it. Trusting she would tell him when she was ready. But in this moment - seeing her like this - he really wanted to know… No. He needed to know. He needed to know what had happened those hours he wasn’t there with her.

He instinctively curled up against her and pressed his face into the crook of her neck in an attempt to create a safe cocoon around the both of them as he let her scent and the warmth of her body take control over his senses and let her calming down heartbeat and slowing breathes sooth him.

“Felicity, you need to wake up.” Oliver hushed against her ear as he gently rocked her body. “You’re safe, honey. We are home and safe…”

“Oliver?” Felicity rasped as she blinked her eyes open, listening to Oliver’s hushed words warm against her skin. She turned around in his arms to look at him.

“Hey.” Her forehead crinkled in concern as she saw the sad look on his face “What’s wrong?” she whispered, as her fingers ghosted over his jaw.

He gently took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the pulsepoint on her wrist. “I couldn’t find you when I woke up.”

“I just... “ she bit her lip. Just the way she always did when she was contemplating what to say next… Oliver took his queue, knowing he couldn’t go to sleep again before he told Felicity about… well - Felicity…

“Whenever I close my eyes I see myself pointing an arrow at you.”

“That wasn’t you, Oliver.” Felicity shook her head as she looked into his eyes. Her voice firm.

“But it was me… Just like it was you.” He pressed his forehead against hers. He needed her to understand. He needed to tell her, needed for her to know what he had seen and done while he was away on that dark earth and he could only hope she would understand.

“Those children were starving...”

Oliver sat up as those four words still rang in his ears and those fear filled blue eyes of hers, however clouded from all that time in captivity, still dared to look right back into his as his finger curled around the trigger stung like burning hot metal on his skin.

“I don’t understand.” Felicity looked at him, confused, as she sat up beside him and reached for his hands. She laid them in her lap while he still tried to find the right words to explain what had happened in those minutes that kept haunting his dreams.

“I can still hear her voice, her words, every time I fall asleep.” Oliver swallowed hard as he looked at her. “It’s your voice, Felicity… I saw you on Earth X.”

“Oh.” Felicity began to understand in that moment. She didn’t say anything but just answered with a sympathetic smile and a tug on his hand, encouraging him to continue with his story.

“We were infiltrating their headquarters in an attempt to get back home…” Oliver took a deep breath. He really did not want to talk about that place any more than he had to, about what he saw... “I was in that room and they brought her in. They wanted me to shoot you, her…”  Oliver fought hard against the tears forming in his eyes, but lost the battle. “She had done nothing wrong… she’d just given away her food to starving children.”

The logical side of his brain knew that the woman he had held a gun to the head wasn’t ‘his’ Felicity. Yet every time he closed his eyes, he couldn’t help but to think of her. About that woman who he knew wasn’t her, and yet still was … How couldn’t he. They not only shared the same eyes and the same voice and face. They also shared the same unmatched compassion and courage and he knew he would never be able to forget the image of that woman.

And so Oliver told Felicity the whole story. Where they’d found themselves back on Earth X, how they were rescued by Leonard Snart - sorry, Leo - how they found their way back with the help of the Resistance and how he ended up in that control room with a gun in his hand pointed at that poor woman’s head.

“I will never forget the look in her eyes when I pointed the gun at her... God, she was so scared of me… And I know… The rational part of me knows that it wasn’t you… But I swear there was so much of you I could see in her. Her strength, her bravery… her unwillingness to give up on people… It reminded me so much of you and I can’t help but to see you looking at me like this. It...“

“Hey.” Felicity hushed and moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she watched him struggle. “She was not scared of you. She was afraid of that other man and what he represented,” she said with a conviction. Because if there was one thing Felicity knew with a bone deep certainty it was that on no earth, under any circumstances this man she loved with all her heart would ever give her any reason to fear him.

“You,” she gently poked at his chest, “Have one of the kindest hearts I know, Oliver. It’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with you. Why I love you… That other man? He had nothing in common with you other than your shared looks. I couldn’t see anything of you in him.”

“I hope not,” Oliver responded weakly.

“Oh, Oliver… Me not being able to sleep has nothing to do with you or that other version of you.” Felicity then reached for the photo album he had put on the table and showed him the picture he had already wondered about.

“These are my grandparents, my mom’s parents…” she handed him the album for him to look at it. “They were both only 19 when they met and married a bit more than a year later. That was only one year before Germany attacked Poland.”

“They look really happy…”

“They were. Even when things got worse.” Felicity said as tears started to form in her eyes.

“What happened to them?”

“They somehow managed to escape from the Warsaw ghetto… They left everything and everyone they knew behind that day and fled. In August 1946, they came to the US.” She smiled sadly when as she turned the pages of the album. “They never really talked about that time and I can’t blame them for wanting to forget.”

“I couldn’t help but to think of them… Just thinking about that small chance of the same thing happening again.” She broke off there and Oliver pulled her into his arms and she lay her head on his shoulder as she both looked through the family pictures.

“I wish you could have met them. My bubbe would have loved you.” Felicity cocked her head to and looked into Oliver’s eyes. “She always said, ‘Lissy, find yourself a kind man that knows how to handle that big brain of yours and respects and loves you for it’. I say I pretty much nailed that one.”

“I wish I could have met them too, to tell them what a brilliant and amazing woman their granddaughter become and how much I love her,” Oliver replied, and pressed a feather light kiss to the tip of her nose.

“You’re a sap, Oliver Queen,” Felicity yawned and cuddled against his side.

Oliver huffed out a chuckle. “How about we continue this conversation in bed?”

“How about we do that after a few hours of sleep?” Felicity asked tiredly as he pulled her off the couch with both hands and guided her upstairs again.

“I think that’s a great plan,” Oliver said as they both crawled back under the covers and he pulled Felicity into his side until her body was flush against his side and her head rested against his chest.

He followed Felicity into sleep only a minute later, both of them finally getting the first hours of restful sleep the first time since they returned - safe in each other’s arms and their shared echoes and memories.

[idk-mlb-is-reals-cute44]

Miraculous Secret Santa Gift Part 6

For @clockworkgalaxies

~••~

The castle was a ghost town.

Even worse were the fields.

It was midday, bright outside. The castle grounds would on a normal day be full of activity.

It was empty. And despite the cheery sunshine, it was terribly solemn.

They raced to the forest.

“Wait up!” Alya ran to join them. “I’m helping.”

Ladybug gave Alya a grateful smile.

They ran through the trees, trying to find the place they’d stumbled on while ingredient-hunting.

The crashed into the clearing, startling the king—or whom Marinette assumed was the king, although from the back he was unrecognizable in his purple suit.

He whirled around.

Yep—definitely the king.

“You’re too late!” he declared, laughing. “I even ran past you, you knew where I was going. But you had to save your friends. And now it’s too late.”

Something cracked and popped. There was screaming. A terrible, terrible smell.

Marinette. The voice was crying now. Don’t give up. Help. Help! Marinette.

Ladybug didn’t have any intention of giving up.

“Whats that?” Chat asked, “That sound?”

Gabriel, or rather, Hawkmoth, laughed and said, “See for yourself.”

He swept away the branches to reveal his wife, and—

Somehow he’d manage to clear the forest, a big chuck of it. A field larger that the whole castle lay behind his dead wife, a field large enough to hold hundreds of Mayura’s terrible monsters.

But instead, crowding the field, was something worse than the monster.

Thousands (upon thousands!) of the possessed civilians stood there, screaming, wailing. Their usually unbothered, emotionless faces were filled with anguish.

“I call them my akumas,” King Gabriel said, twisted glee evident in his tone, “They’re helping me.”

Ladybug felt tears well up in her eyes. There were so many more people there than had been in the room. Scanning their faces, she gasped upon finding the familiar faces of all of her friends, every guard, almost all the nobles she’d seen at the dining table.

It seemed not all of them had gotten away when they ran.

There were also people from the village. Merchants, bakers, the blacksmith.

Her parents.

“What are you doing to them?!” she demanded, fighting back sobs.

She would not give the king the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

He laughed. But didn’t answer.

Ladybug turned on him, eyes blazing.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THEM?!” she roared.

Hawkmoth’s cocky smile disappeared, but only for a second.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

She punched him right in the jaw.

He staggered back, eyes darkening.

“You’ll pay for that.”

Alya found her knives, one for each hand. Chat showed his claws. Luka started chanting something about eagles.

Hawkmoth got out his staff.

Bright purple energy crackled around his form.

Ladybug readied her yo-yo.

Hawkmoth aimed a swing at her, which she blocked with her forearm—barely.

And it hurt—the purple light shocked her like static.

“Nobody hurts my best friend!” Alya yelled, getting in close with her knives. She managed to get a good slash on his thigh, before he knocked her back.

Chat pulled out a staff of his own Ladybug hadn’t noticed—probably because it was extendable.

He blocked two blows and managed to hit the man in the shoulder, but it was barely a bump. It soon became readily obvious that Hawkmoth had been using a staff for quite a few years longer than Chat.

Ladybug circled around to his back, thinking. There were four of them and one of him—they should be winning.

Alya got back up, and launched herself at him with her knives while his staff was occupied with Chat.

Ladybug tried to tangle him up in her yo-yo. Then she gave up and hit him in the back of the knees.

(Luka was still there in the background, chanting.)

But no matter what they did, it was like they were toddlers kicking at a giant’s leg. He brushed off all their attacks with ease, parried their blows. It was like his super suit was stronger than theirs somehow.

Then Ladybug gasped.

The purple energy surrounding him.

It was the same energy filling the field—surrounding the people.

He was sapping power off of them, somehow. And probably using it for far more dangerous things as well. Otherwise, why would his wife—

Ladybug gasped.

The pieces clicked into place.

“This isn’t going to bring your wife back!” she yelled, although the pit of dread in her stomache showed that she wasn’t so sure.

That was a lot of people. A lot of people, being drained, being... who knows what.

Would it take that many to wake just one person up from the dead? Would he... kill them?

Ladybug shoved the terrible thought, and the rising panic, out of her head.

She had a fight to win.

The first step was to figure out how to get him away from his power source, make him beatable again.

Alya and Chat were tiring. But they had it handled for now. Marinette studied him.

“The pin!” she yelled, lunging for it, “His miraculous must be the pin!”

Hawkmoth sidestepped her, and for the first time worry showed on his face.

She must’ve guessed right.

“It’s no use!” he called, “As long as they’re near my Queen, she will continue to drain them. The process is already in motion! Taking me out of action won’t stop anything.”

Ladybug faltered. There was no way they could free all of those people in time. By the time they’d freed enough akumas to even make a small dent, who knows what Hawkmoth would have accomplished—he might finish long before then.

So she lunged for the pin again and hoped he was bluffing about it working even when he was detransformed. It was their only chance.

Alya and Chat helped her, tripping him up and snatching for the pin, slashing and kicking and hitting. But he was still untouchable—always one step ahead. Always on balance.

“What do we do?” Ladybug cried.

No one answered her. No one else knew either.

Hawkmoth began to not just evade, but thrive.

He knocked Alya a foot away, and sent Chat flying. He cornered Ladybug, backing her into a tree, his staff allowing no means of escape. He even hit her yo-yo down.

“How does it feel,” he asked, “To have failed so thoroughly? I wouldn’t know. I have the rest of the kingdom to rule. I have an heir. And soon, in exchange for all these inconsequential lives, I will have my queen back too.”

Ladybug looked defeated. She let him corner her. She looked like some one who had lost everything and knew it.

Key word: looked.

As soon as he was close enough, as soon as his guard was down, she lunged for his tie and ripped the pin off, grinning.

As Hawkmoth detransformed to King Gabriel right before her eyes, he laughed.

Laughed.

“I wasn’t lying, you know.” And the tortured screams continued.

Ladybug ran to the clearing’s edge. They were still there, encased in purple light, writhing in pain.

Now, the key word was no longer looked.

The tears fell this time. The only person she hadn’t wanted to see her cry was cackling behind her like a madman.

All those people. This was supposed to be her destiny and she failed them.

She fell to her knees. Chat and Alya did too, besides her.

“W-what’s the plan?” Alya asked besides her.

“The... there... there is no plan,” she chocked out.

What could they do?

What could they do to stop this?

...Now readers.

All hope is not lost.

While Ladybug, Chat, and Alya were staring desolately at the clearing, no clear next step before them, something else was happening in the background.

You may be thinking, “What about Luka?”

What about Luka indeed.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

Ladybug looked up, and thought her tears were making things look blurry and distorted. She was wrong.

Sixteen giant (giant!) eagles flew in circles above them, summoned by Luka’s spell.

Luka joined them, and smiled, no longer chanting.

Ladybug looked at him, and then at the eagles, and knew exactly what he was thinking.

Going around and breaking every akuma’s object would take ages. Time they couldn’t afford to loose.

But the king had said as long as the people were near his wife she would drain their energy.

And those eagles had claws that could carry at least two people each, and backs that could fit double that.

And there were sixteen of them.

Maybe, just maybe, they could do this.

Marinette nodded at Luka. He nodded back.

“Lucky charm!” she called, because she couldn’t whistle, and a flute landed in her hands.

Close enough.

She let out a shrill, piercing note, trusting (hoping) the eagles would know what to do. They did.

Swooping down, they landed as Chat, Alya, Ladybug, and Luka rushes from eagle to eagle, loading them up with as many people as they could carry.

By the time they were finished, the first of the eagles were coming back, ready to bring more people to safety.

It took two hours in totality.

Long enough that at the end Ladybug was a little panicked, hoping they hadn’t run out if time for the last of the akumas.

Short enough that it worked. Everyone got out. Everyone was safe.

“Are you ok?” Luka asked Adrien, staring at his mother’s casket.

“I will be,” Adrien said. And Ladybug believed him, again. Even though they were all crying a little, all a little messed up.

As they watched the last eagle fly away, off off into the distance, Ladybug dropped her transformation.

She grabbed Luka and kissed him, and did the same to Adrien.

Then she left her two boys to lock lips as she ran to Alya and tackled her with a hug.

“What a day,” Alya said, somehow managing to laugh, “We battles a monster and a super villain. Plus you got the boy...s! And they got each other!”

Marinette looked fondly towards them.

“Yeah. Yes we did.”

“I think the most challenging part of the day, though,” Alya joked, “Was meeting Chloe.”

Marinette laughed, and hugged Alya again.

What. A. Day.

“Thank got it’s over.”

Then she gasped.

The pin.

They searched everywhere. It was missing. So was Gabriel—he’d slipped off in all the commotion.

And no matter how hard they looked, they found no trace of him.

~••~

Marinette held one of Adrien’s hands, and Luka held the other.

It was raining. Appropriately.

Queen Emilie’s funeral was beautiful. And heartbreaking.

Everyone was crying. Adrien was most of all.

But he had Luka and Marinette there to steady him. He was going to be just fine.

When Chat Noir and Ladybug had gone to escort all the people home, they found no one had any memory of anything—the time past. The pain. Thank goodness.

They had filled them in on everything. Marinette was proud of them—their voices had only cracked a few times.

Transporting such a large crowd back to their homes had been an ordeal—mostly because they had to pass Emilie’s casket to get back.

No one was repossessed, though. It seemed once the link was broken, it was broken for good.

It hadn’t taken too long for things to go back to normal.

Or, normal enough.

Ladybug had been honest. She wanted her family and friends to be prepared. She told everyone—everyone—that Hawkmoth has gotten away. He wouldn’t catch them by suprise again.

And even though Ladybug felt a little bit like she had failed, the crowd had cheered for them.

Luka and Alya has chosen not to stick around, being as that they didn’t have a magic costume to make them unrecognizable.

They had met up back at the castle.

They had a lot of planning to do.

(But first, they napped.)

Marinette gave Alya a small smile from across the yard, in the rain.

Alya and Adrien had broken off their engagement, citing “stress and grief” as their reasoning. The truth was Adrien didn’t need a full time guard anymore—just an ally from a little bit more distance. Alya and Marinette were welcomed back into the kitchen. Although, ever since they had returned the kitchen saw an increase in visits from princes and wizards.

Marinette wrapped an arm around Adrien, fishing a mostly dry handkerchief from her pocket.

“Here,” she said. He took it and thanked her, his gaze never moving from his mother’s face.

Soon the ceremony was over. The guests shuffled back into the castle, dripping rainwater and tears onto the polished marble floors.

“Let’s go to your room,” Alya whispered, and Adrien shook his head.

“Too many pictures,” he said. Of her. “I don’t think I can deal with that today.”

“My room, then.” Luka said.

Luka’s room (not his lab, that is—he didn’t sleep in his lab) had a rarely used second room for entertaining guests.

They all collapsed on the coaches, shedding soggy overcoats.

Adrien sighed and smiled for the first time that evening.

Marinette smiled back and squeezed his hand.

They were going to be okay. They could deal with Gabriel, whenever he showed up. They had done it before. And Master Fu was already working on finding more miraculous wielders to aid them when the time came.

(Alya and Luka had even received their own miraculouses—Luka had been a suprise. He hadn’t heard the voices that first night in the dungeons. Master Fu said he hadn’t been ready for his destiny then. But he was now.)

And as Marinette looked at all of we friends, all a little sniffly and probably about to catch a cold from the rain, she knew they would have each other. And that would always be enough for her.

They could do this.

Her friends, after all, we’re truly miraculous. (Pun definitely intended.)

The end.