#canon compliant oneshot

[elmundodeflor]

And just like that, she’d fallen for him.

Spring. Summer. Autumn. The world had its cycles. There had been peace before war, and peace would come after bloodsheds and battles.

Katara looks at Zuko, at how he stares out to the width in the horizons. The curves of his nose and lips are soft, much like the colors of the leaves around them. The lines of his jaw and cheeks are sharp, in contrast.

He’s a beautiful man; she’s always thought so, even when they were enemies and he’d sworn he’d kill them. She likes it better this way, though— being friends, confidants, long-time companions. Kindness suits him more, either way. She likes how his face looks when he’s calm, — when there’s no rage to contort his scar, no scowl furrowing his brow.

She also likes that he knows her. That they can stand, silence pending between them, and it’s never too tense or uncomfortable. Zuko is just that good to her. He never puts too much pressure on her shoulders, — she’s had enough of that already. Instead, he soothes the rough edges. Lets her make her own choices and never judges her for them.

He looks back at her. An easy smile grazes his features; baffling, tortuous, beautiful. Katara has to fight the urge to freeze some water from her bottle and smash it across her searing face.

“Do you wanna…”, his voice cuts through the wind, raspy as it ever was. When he talks, it’s evident that he’s nervous. That he’s been circling around his thoughts and can’t seem to find the words. “I mean…”, he tries again. “Do you wanna stay here until you decide what to do?”

She hums, then turns her gaze back to the gardens. Aang had asked her to travel the world along with him, — to be by his side and help other people, from other nations and villages. She had yet to give him a proper answer.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to— go on missions, hear the masses’ suffering and be present in whatever way she could. Maybe, it was that she simply had pictured something different for herself. She could be so much more than just the “Avatar’s girl”! She could go home, lend a useful hand to Sokka and her dad advocating for their tribe. She could be an ambassador.

She could be with Zuko.

She can imagine the whole thing all too well, actually, — being on the palace, with him, until she could confront Aang about what to do. They could go for an evening stroll, feed turtleducks by the lake. Zuko’d make tea way past dinner time, and she’d laugh along with Suki when he’d burn his tongue by the first sip.

“There’s nothing I’d like more.”, she tells him, then. They are in one of the many balconies, staring out at the sun. The last scraps of summer have flushed with the breeze, and now the trees look all kinds of reds, yellows, oranges. Almost like they’ve caught on fire.

Zuko smiles at her again. A shy, wonderful thing that makes his eyes glint. His hair’s shaggy and overgrown, and falls limp between the honey of his irises. His cheeks burn a bright pink that, Katara deduces, might be from the gentle light warming up their faces.

“Okay.”, he says. He likes this, as well, — having her around. That he can open up to someone he can share his scars with, both the physical and the ones that lay underneath.

Katara inches close to him, just enough so that their elbows nudge together. The world has its cycles, she believes. Blue skies bleed into the darkness of the night. Ice defrosts when heated-up. And just like that, she’d fall for Zuko— delicate, and raw, and over and over. Helpless, like the moon that carries down the tides. Hopeless, like the autumn leaves that fall, ever so slow, and now gather at their feet like sea-foam.

“Okay.”

#zutara #zuko #katara #fire lord zuko #fanfiction #fanfic #drabble #oneshot #post canon #post war #canon compliant #canonverse #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #avatar the last airbender #atla #enemies to friends to lovers #enemies to lovers #established friendship #friends to lovers #best friends #realization of feelings #feelings realization

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

How to Find a Werewolf (a week before the full moon)

The title will probably change lmfao

7 days

Sirius notices the signs from the moment Remus is awake. He's flinching every single time a fork hits a plate in the wrong way, for starters. Sirius ends up gently kicking both James and Peter, forcing them to catch on. It's clearly much too loud in the hall itself, Remus is barely contributing. Not for lack of trying, but he seems more than a little dissociated.

Then it's the walking.

As much as he's trying to hide it, the slight exhales that come with every step is enough to show Sirius that he's in pain. The hip's usually the first of his joints to start acting up, so Sirius wordlessly starts picking up and shoving Remus' textbooks into his own bag. Thankfully, Remus isn't ready to bicker about that.

No, it's much too early for that.

5 days

It's two in the morning when Sirius notices.

He's a light sleeper, so Remus' tossing and turning is more than enough to wake him up.

For a moment he just observes carefully. He knows full well that Remus is going to be exhausted, and the fact that he's still up means his skin must be crawling.

"Moons?" He says softly, and Remus stops in his tracks.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Nah, s'fine," Sirius waves him off easily. "We can go sit by the window, if you want?"

For a moment, he thinks Remus is going to say no and resign to a sleepless night, but instead he just sighs.

"...yeah. If that's okay."

Sirius is already sliding out of their bed, glancing at James and Peter to make sure they're still asleep. Then, he reaches out and offers Remus his hand. Remus takes it, letting himself be led to the big window. The windowsill was charmed years ago. Initially it was to fit the four of them, but four seventh years can't fit on it even when it's been extended. Two, though? It's absolutely perfect.

That's how the two of them end up sitting together on the sill, Sirius wedging the window open slightly and letting the cool air hit them both. He can see the way Remus relaxes as he starts to cool down, eyes sliding shut. He leans his head back against the wall, and Sirius smiles to himself as Remus finally starts to fall asleep.

3 days

It doesn't take long for the anger to hit.

Remus isn't what people expect when they think of a werewolf before the full moon. He doesn't have all consuming, blinding rage. There's no world where Remus Lupin will turn and start screaming at teachers.

Instead, it usually starts pretty suppressed.

At breakfast, he sees Remus' hand tighten around his goblet the moment Snape strolls past, making another snide comment about the moon. It's enough for Sirius to make a mental note not to push anything too far. Bickering can turn into real fighting and hurt feelings much too quickly around the full.

James, however, hasn't caught onto the timeline the way Sirius has.

They can all see Remus fighting his own tiredness in the common room, quill in hand as he absentmindedly tries to do his homework. Remus' handwriting is shit at the best of times, but before the full? It's barely legible.

Sirius' solution is to walk over and sit beside Remus, not saying a word and just making sure Remus knows he has support.

"Moony, you might need to take a break," James says softly, and Sirius almost sighs.

Poor bugger.

"I'm fine," Remus starts, and Sirius feels him tense up beside him. He tries to shoot James a glance that essentially means 'stop fucking talking', but he doesn't get the hint.

"Minnie's offered you an extention. It's probably best to wait until you feel better."

"Christ, I said I was fine! Get off my fucking back!" He snaps, James lapsing into silence.

Okay, it's hit him too.

Sirius tries to wrap an arm around Remus' shoulder, but he's shaken off like it's nothing, Remus standing. He winces as he does it, and Sirius forces himself to take a breath, not get too het up about that.

"You all just need to fuck off! You're all so bloody clingy!"

With that, he's gone. He turns and walks upstairs, and Sirius just shrugs at James.

"Give him a day, it'll be fine."

1 day

Remus doesn't get out of bed the day before.

Sometimes he does, but recently his good days before the moon are getting fewer and further between. The only reason Sirius actually bothers to go to his morning classes is to take notes for Remus, and he makes Pete promise to get Remus' notes for his last few.

That sorted, he heads up to the dorm, a hot chocolate he got from the kitchen in hand. Knocking once, he pushes the door open to find the curtains drawn in the room, the whole dorm flooded in darkness.

"Moony?"

For a moment, he thinks he's asleep, until-

"M'fine." His voice is rough, sounds almost like he's been crying.

Yeah, this is definitely one of the bad ones.

He steps into the room, letting the door shut behind him as he gets to Remus' bed. At first, he sits on the edge of it, Remus not moving.

"I've got hot chocolate?" He tries.

"...could you put it on the bedside table?" Sirius nods, setting it down.

"D'you need anything?" He asks gently. Not that he needs to ask, he knows what the answer is going to be.

"If you- maybe you could... stay?"

He doesn't waste a moment in climbing into the bed with his partner and wrapping his arms around Remus' waist from behind.

"Sorry I was such a twat before," Remus says quietly, and Sirius smiles to himself.

"Don't worry about it."

To be fair, his body is literally getting ready to break itself. In what world is he going to have boundless excitable energy?

Sirius just wants to take care of him.

"I love you," He says softly, shifting his weight to reach up and press a kiss to Remus' temple.

"I love you too."

#i've been writing a fuckton of hogwarts or war shit #canon compliant and all that #i'm not sure why #but i'm kind of living for it #i miss my muggle aus though #expect at least one of those soon #wolfstar #sirius black #wolfstar oneshot #marauders #remus lupin #remus x sirius #young marauders #moony x padfoot #atyd marauders #marauders oneshot

[intriq]

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Scabious

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Theme: Angst

Character: Dick Grayson

Word Count: 855

scabious; unfortunate love

‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎┍━━━━━»•» 🌺 «•«━┑

Dick had always been your close friend. Your close best friend. The best friend you fell in love with.

But he didn't feel the same. He loved someone else, not you. He loved Kory. Not you.

Even though he'd rejected you, made it known he only ever thought of you as a friend, you still loved him. Loved him so much that it made your lungs hurt and fill with flowers.

Which is how it lead to now.

Your both on patrol together, like always. Except the only difference being your waning strength as the flowers in your lungs greedily consume you, growing off that suffocating love you've got for Dick Grayson himself.

One particularly nasty cough makes Dick turn to you, worry evident all across that pretty face of his. "You sure you are in any condition to be on patrol tonight?"

"I'm fine, trust me." You reply in return, crumpling those bloody flower petals in the palm of your hand that you'd just coughed up moments before. "Just allergies kickin' my ass."

"C'mon, there's something you aren't telling me here." Dick's gaze locks on your own, even if your gaze is focused on the city below. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, Dick. It's just a stupid cough from allergies, I'll be fine in a few weeks." You lie instantly, refusing to meet his gaze.

Dick is almost upset that you insist on lying to him. Did you really think he wouldn't notice the signs? The bloody flower petals that you've been coughing up?

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" Dick's tone is enough to make you flinch. "You think I didn't notice those flowers you've been coughing up?"

"Nothing get's past you, huh?" You weakly laugh, a pained smile on your face before you begin to cough again, more flowers stained a deep red by your blood falling into your waiting palm.

"How long?"

"Few months now, I think."

"There's a way to fix this, right? There has to be. I can't lose you."

Your face scrunches up, contorted into pain. You barely had any time life, really. Very little of it. Sure, it was selfish to keep on loving Dick, even if he was begging for you to keep living. But in order to keep living, you had to get rid of your feelings for him. And you, in all honestly, didn't wish to do so.

Dick doesn't say anything. He can tell from that saddened look on your face that there isn't a whole lot that can be done, a whole lot left to do. That you don't have time to do anything else about it.

So perhaps it's the desperation over the fact he doesn't want to lose his best friend that makes him take your hand and pull you closer and kiss you.

He doesn't quite like you the same way you like him, but it'll do something, right? It has to. Dick doesn't want to accept any other answer for it. He needs it to account for something, to do something.

You pull away almost instantly, violently coughing up more flowers. Because Dick's desperate attempt to fix you, only worsens the problem. And when you can finally breath again after coughing more flowers into your own lap, speckled in crimson, you speak.

"Dick, please. Don't force yourself. Don't force yourself to pretend as if you feel the same way I do. Please."

"I may not love you, but god! You're my family, okay? I care about you. I don't want you to die, especially not because of me!" Dick pleads, holding your hand with both of his at this point. Voice shrill and desperate.

"I know it's selfish but.. God, I can't lose you. You've saved me more times than I can count. I can't lose you. I can't.. Please, please don't leave me alone."

Dick's voice is pitiful, pathetic. Selfish, but pathetic. Weak. And not only that, but he's crying. Sobbing, even. All because you're dying.

"Dick, please. Either way you'd wind up alone and without me. I love you. But not in the way you love me.”

Dick opens his mouth, as if to protest what is you’re saying, but he pauses when you continue to speak.

“You don't love me the way I wish you would. I love you. Not a friends kind of love. You don't love me the way I wish you would."

You're the one who should be crying. You're the one whose dying, after all. But yet here you are, hands reaching up to wipe away Dick's tears instead.

After a bit more back and forth, begging from Dick, your answer stays the same. You refuse to get the surgery, no matter how hard it makes Dick cry over this revelation.

But when weeks pass, and your final day is dawning upon you, Dick is there. Even if he can't stand to watch you die, you deserved someone by your side, at least.

So you die while Dick holds your hand with both of his. You grow cold and limp in his grasp as the final flower in your lungs bloom a beautifully macabre shade of deep, dark crimson.

A flower that blooms as a result of your pitiful and unfortunate affection.

‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎┕━»•» 🌺 «•«━━━━━┙

#gender neutral reader #oneshot #gn reader #angst #dc universe #non canon compliant dc universe oneshot #hanahaki disease au #hanahaki #no use of y/n #dc fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x gender neutral reader #dick grayson x gn!reader #no comfort

[wispscribbles]

In light of MW3, I’d like to do a little self-indulgent self-promo and recommend my old fic Love comes with a Price. I just reread it myself and it hits different now

#then again everything hits differnet after mw3 #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod one shot #cod fanfiction #fic rec #mw3 spoilers #mwiii spoilers #not really but better safe than sorry to tag it #it used to just be a sort of fluffy oneshot #but if you read it as a canon compliant piece between mw2 and 3 then it is suddenly a tragedy #wild how new canon can change how I read my own stories #I guess that’s the risk with writing fanfic #sorry for not writing anything new and instead just bringing up my old stuff #the writers block is so real these days #the most annoying part is that I have so MANY ideas for fics but then I start writing and urrrgh

[smashing-teacups]

Déjà Vu Canon Compliant Missing Scene 7x05

Summary:

A missing Jamie and Claire scene from 7x05, in which the couple commiserates over their frustrating days, the futility of challenging pigheaded superiors, and living the same cycle of inevitable war all over again. Just some domestic husband/wife conversation & moral support I thought we were missing from the episode.

“The whole thing,” my wife snarled as she stripped off her left stocking, “makes me want to scream. How many times do we have to relive this same bloody situation?”

I sank onto the bed beside her, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Too many,” I agreed wearily.

“You physically demonstrated that it’s possible. How can he—?”

“Because he’s a prideful man, Sassenach, and I humiliated him in front of his men.”

“But that’s just it!” With an exasperated huff, Claire flung away the wad of her stocking before setting upon the other. “Hundreds of soldiers witnessed that cannon blast come from Sugarloaf. Any one of them could support your claim if you were to escalate it to General St. Clair.”

“Nah, I canna.” For hours, my skull had been throbbing like a drumbeat, and I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and rest my head in my wife’s lap, have her stroke my hair and temples a bit 'til it eased. But she was riled yet, roused to a blaze of fury on my behalf that I no longer had the energy to maintain.

She was right, of course. It was déjà vu to the last time we’d seen war — to the brash and destructive hubris of the Bonnie Prince who would not see reason no matter how I tried to dissuade him. Perhaps that was why there was so little resistance left in me now; I was old enough, experienced enough to recognize when sound advice would fall on deaf ears.

Keep reading...

#Outlander fanfic #jamie x claire #smashingteacups #canon compliant #oneshot

[tennessoui]

It's been a while since I saw you mention it, but I remember you working on a wingfic? Just wondering if that's still a possibility, no pressure. You're so prolific, I'm always in awe of the wonderful work you put out!!

yes!!! this is going to sound incredibly fake because you prompted it out of me, but i actually re-opened the wingfic document literally a week ago because i'm working on it again.

its so funny cause the document is titled 13-15k but i know its gonna be like. 30k at least. it's 7k already and anakin is just a kid. like they JUST met

i love this au

#asks #wingfic au #when i publish a fic on ao3 named daedalus #just know ive peaked #i will never reach as much fandom happiness #this is the wip oneshot i want to see on ao3 the most #a complete canon compliant achy fic

[xhanisai]

I’m curious-

Am I the only one who draws and writes stuff that mainly starts or diverges from the first three seasons, rather than making them canon compliant with s4 and onwards? 

I don’t know how to explain it but I feel like after episode Ladybug in s3, the canon story becomes very complex and heavy so it’s a little harder to come up with stuff that happens during then. 

Like there’s too much going on at once. 

Drawing is easier cos no thinking is required but writing is quite a challenge. That’s why I don’t write fics for medias that have a complex storyline because my brain would get overwhelmed easily lol.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug and chat noir #this is NOT salt by the way!!!! #i'm just wondering if anyone else struggles with writing canon compliants or diversions with the current seasons like I am #and i do love the show 10000% #but i guess its simplicity in the beginning helped me be more creative with writing #i've written maybe a couple of drabbles and stories set in s4 and s5 but they're very short compared to my monstrously long oneshots set #either in the earlier seasons or semi aus #characterisation is no problem for me cos i've actually managed to nail it from the beginning at least hahahahaha

[clownqueenofprom]

Chosen

Sick of waiting for someone to write a Lady Bone Demon-centric story so I’m doing it myself

When she was born, the air was bitter, and the sky was sickly.

She’d awoken from a heinous dream, in which a skeleton with its lips painted red stood over a world in shambles- and apparently, the real world was no better.

There was no love or light in sight, and drops of rain randomly and irregularly hit her face, as if the rainwater didn’t want to be there, either.

Like any good newborn, she screamed at first, jumping up and swatting her arms at nothing.

She heaved, taking in as much of the putrid oxygen that she could stand, welcoming and hating it as it enters her lungs, like a two-faced bastard welcoming his worst enemy into his home for the sake of appearances.

“Oi!” She heard a man’s voice call along with something else, though she was unable to make out the words.

Her hearing was muffled, like she was underwater- though the unforgiving smell of smoke and pollution riding on the air refused to let her forget that she wasn’t drowning, but breathing.

Breathing- yes, breathing. She was breathing. She was alive.

Her mouth opened and closed, trying to find words to say, names to call out, but nothing came. Her eyes stung, and she frantically rubbed at them. They burned with dirt, soot, and from the smoke in the air.

Once her eyesight had stabilized to ‘just a little bad’ she had the cruel misfortune of being able to look around.

In the air, there was smoke. On the ground, there was fire. Her ears rang, as if trying to drown out the sounds of shouting and screaming for her convenience.

As far as she could see, troops were being pulled back, supposedly finding the wreck they’d created of this town to be sufficient.

She saw whatever belongings that were salvageable being picked out of the rubble and stored, and the dead being picked up by surviving men and piled onto the backs of carts to be dumped into mass graves.

Carts like the one she was on. Her nose stung with sudden realization, and she took a moment to look around herself.

She was sitting on one of the carts carrying away the dead, surrounded by putrid corpses.

Her vision instantly blurred and she screamed, taking her first steps as she pushed out of the cart and stumbled into the dust.

The man who called out earlier said something again, voice rough and angry. He grabbed her by the arm, words slurred together as he cursed and jabbed at her, calling her clumsy and useless and stupid.

He spoke with familiar hatred, as if he’d known her for several years and despised each one, but she’d never seen the man in her life.

She’d never seen anyone here, for that matter.

His dirty handprints had bruised her arm by the time he let go, shoving her into line with a bunch of elderly, sick, injured, women and children.

Their faces were wicked, mouths curled in contempt, expressions forming hideous snarls and sending anyone and everything dirty looks, as if looking for someone to hate- as if their situation wasn’t enough.

The had no idea how to speak or what to say, so she huddled into the crowded corner of the ashy tents, nearest the other lonely-looking women.

Whenever she looked away from the ball she’d curled herself into, she could see the women’s eyes- clutching onto their hatred like soldiers held their swords.

She looked away.

Eventually, men came and plucked the older boys from the tent, forcing them into work, too. She watched as the contagious were burned and the elderly were beheaded to whittle down mouths to feed, too afraid to move.

Maybe she wasn’t alive after all, she thought. Maybe she was an awful person in the life she couldn’t remember and this was Hell.

And then a little boy tugged at her sleeve.

He called her by a name she did not recognize, and she stared at him in response, looking down into his eyes, eyes that held so much sorrow and madness that if he told her he’d served in the imperial army for forty years, she’d believe him.

Despite it all, he smiled a big, toothy grin, closing his eyes and sniffling as a bit of snot escaped him.

“Big sis-ter don’t be sad,” he’d stuttered, tripping over his words. “Big sis alw-always protect me. Big sis my hero! She- she save the world one day!”

Her throat was dry and it hurt to breathe, but she laughed, tears that had been waiting for hours to flow washing away the dirt in her eyes.

She laughed and she pet the boy’s head, and she screamed and thrashed and cried when he was taken away to he burned with the rest of the sick, even though she couldn’t remember his name, or who he was.

An old woman, who, big surprise, she didn’t know either, took a wooden ladle and beat her with it as punishment for her outburst in response to the boy being taken, dragging her back inside the tent when she tried to run out after the boy.

“It’s hopeless,” said one of the oldest men, moments before he slipped into unrest, never to wake again.

Beside herself with rage for the little boy’s death, she stood while the others sulked.

“You are all fools!” She’d said. They looked at her as if she had grown a second head.

“You’re giving up and throwing your children to that mess? For what? Can’t you see that you, as the people are still here? Rebuild, I beg of you!” She pleaded. “Try!”

She spoke for this random village she had no attachment to as if it were her own, like it was her own child. Why, she had no idea.

One of the old crones from the corner scoffed in response. “The village beauty,” she sneered. “Always the first to lose it.”

“Yeah,” A teenage girl agreed. “We’re not the gods, you know. We can’t just magic our village back! And even if we could, those hooligans will just burn it down again!”

The teen jabbed an accusing finger at her, as if it were all her fault.

“Who can save us!?” She demanded, voice shrill and bitter. “Who can possibly fix this?”

For that, she had no answer and faltered. The boy’s face flashed before her eyes, clearing her vision and guiding anger back into her tone.

“If you cannot help yourself, then I will find somebody who can!” She snapped. “I’m not going to give up on all of you, no matter how faithless and unsightly you’ve all become!”

The crones howled in injustice and the old men jeered at her, calling her slurs and names. She blocked them out, leaving with her dignity and faith.

The next days of her life found her finding that she didn’t need to use the bathroom, or drink water, no matter how much she wanted some.

The gods decided to favor her one day, and she found a clear river with water to drink from. In it, she saw for the first time her reflection.

The face she saw, she did not recognize.

Before the month ended, she had found another village- this one not in ruins. It was bustling and busy yet poor and beggarly, all of its money and taxes fiendishly boarded by the village’s gluttonous lord.

I ought to give that fat cat a stern talking too, she thought, but the lord refused to see a woman outside of the bedroom, let alone for a political discussion.

She had no power to do anything! She was angry, so regretful that she’d been born a woman with no status, or even a name to her unfamiliar face that her own flesh cowered before her anger, molding and reshaping itself.

The next day, she entered the rich man’s mansion as an innocent old man, demanding that he share his wealth with his citizens.

Apparently, while being a man might grant you an audience with the land’s lord, it certainly did not mean he would listen to anything you have to say.

But she didn’t let it get her down- she could shapeshift! Who cared if this meant she was likely a demon now, infesting a skeleton and wearing her human corpse like it was a designer hat?

Imagine all the people she could help with such a power! The lives she could save! Her very own flesh quivered in fear of her rage. Soon, all evil would feel the same way.

As if she’d been newly awakened, she was greeted by her first- or second dream that very night, sleeping outside among other homeless people.

A kind-hearted boy on the heavier side with a warm, handsome face waved to his people, eyes slightly watery as their city flourished under his care.

Beneath the ground, six feet under, was the fat lord the citizens currently lived under and his lustful son, side by side, souls being pried from their corpses and pulled into the Diyu for their sins.

If only that boy were real, she thought that day, as she packed her things to move on to the next area.

And then she saw him.

Shopping for bread, smile as warm as the sun as he treated each person he came across with kindness and compassion. The lord’s son, she’d soon found out. His second son, the son of not his wife but his mistress, who could never inherit the land unless his father and brother were gone.

If a moment, vile thoughts filled her head.

If the other two were gone, she thought, then this kind man would rule peacefully, unlike his oafish father and brother.

But no- she couldn’t possibly. Just because she had a dream about it didn’t make it real.

A colder side of her whispered; “But how did your dream know the son’s face? A face that which you’ve never seen? Look at these people,” it hovered over her, its lying tongue flicking against her ears. “They need you. Do you think you had that dream for no reason? Don’t be a fool, girl.”

She packed her things as quickly as possible. She wanted to run away from this. She decided against the unholy thoughts that invaded her mind, asking her to do things she, as a human, could not possibly do.

The cold side of her snapped and snarled, curling against her flesh. Wickedness and seething rage twisting its voice, it spoke to her again.

“You’re not human.”

These words played on repeat in her mind, hands trembling as she poisoned the lord’s wine in the garb of a servant, wearing the face of an old woman.

They went from a whisper to a raw-throated scream when she stopped by the lord’s mistress’ room, and stained by her side for a few hours and she sobbed into her plush pillow, patting her back, and assuring her that everything would be okay, as if she couldn’t see the bruises, burns and bites that marred her arms and neck.

“Why do men like that walk the Earth?” The poor woman cried, dirtying her expensive blankets with snot and tears.

“Dear Lord, strike him down!” She begged, hands clasped in frantic prayer to anyone who would listen. “Demons, claim him for your Hell! Take him away, please! Somebody! Somebody!”

She’d fallen asleep that night, only to be greeted with another dream. The demon hidden beneath her flesh shivered with excitement, twitching underneath her skin.

It tugged and pushed her all around the dream, pointing and showing her what it wanted her to see like an excited child pointing and laughing at a jester.

The lord was to be buried with his late first wife, and his eldest son near. No one attended the funeral, callously rejoicing in the streets and in their homes that their wicked lord and his wicked son were dead.

The mistress’ eyes watered with relief as she hugged her son, who was greeted by the people who shook his hand and bowed to him.

“Call to me,” the skeleton wrapped her bony fingers around the mistress’ shoulders.

The words were spoken to the mistress, but were meant for her. “Call to me, and it is yours.”

A day later, she smiled for the first time in a long time. She smiled, because this time, it wasn’t just a dream.

It was real. At her hands, in response to a prayer, two men had died. Two men who were surely being welcomed by Hell’s embrace.

Poisoned wine turned sweet as chugs were sold by the dozen in the square, the bustling city ablaze with happiness and hope she hadn’t seen since her birth.

This wasn’t a punishment, she decided. She wasn’t an awful human, cursed to remain on Earth as a skeleton demon. She helped people! She could make a difference if she just held on!

It hurt at first, sure. Sure, she’d seen a lot of things she didn’t want to see, and would have liked to forget. Maybe she didn’t like… killing people.

But that is why she was reborn a demon. A demon with magic power unfamiliar to the world of man. It may hurt, but nobody else would bother doing it. There was a reason for everything, wasn’t there?

She was chosen for this.

Perhaps that is how she was able to hold on for so long.

She had continued her work in several other areas. She had held many positions of power over her years, ceremoniously being called names such as, The White Bone Spirit, Baigujing, or The Lady Bone Demon. She wore whatever face necessary to her goal- nay, her purpose.

She advised countless leaders, eased political tensions, and worked in trade over the Silk Road. Every now and again, she would succeed. But mortals were finicky, evanescent, parasitic creatures that either took or were taken from and stomped their morals out like lights at the slightest gust of wind.

Nothing ever lasted.

She wasn’t doing enough. She hadn’t gone far enough.

Her blessed precognition had even been failing her lately, replaying the same horrid vision of her demon prying itself from her flesh and smiling hauntingly as it engulfed the world in blue flame, eating light and darkness alike.

She’d soon begin avoiding sleep. There was much to do, and none of that was obsessing over a nightmare.

Much to do, yes… she thought. She wasn’t doing enough. Helping cities individually was inefficient and there was nothing guaranteeing that it would stay that way. She needed to talk to the person in charge. Somebody with real power!

Today, her skeleton wails in injustice as she stands at the feet of the imperial palace, dressed in white and pink traditional robes, face carefully made up and jewelry adorning her hair.

She carefully folds her hands behind her back and heads up the stairs. She doesn’t care how long it takes.

Destiny cannot be hurried.

#lmk lady bone demon #lego monkie kid #lady bone demon #lmk #canon compliant #my own writing #i hate tagging #baigujing #lmk lbd #oneshot #might make a part 2 #I did not edit this.

[slytherhys]

Lonely Heart

Prompt: Elain takes care of Injured Azriel - it's the first time they're alone since they almost kissed. Angst might be involved. ONESHOT.

A/N: I've been working on the prompts I've received (thank you so much for sending them btw) but I had this idea and I just had to write it.

No one but Feyre, Rhys and Mor could winnow to the Town House.

That’s what Elain kept telling herself over and over again as she stood silently next to her kitchen’s door, a bread knife in hand, waiting to hear any kind of noise again. A storm had hit Velaris earlier that day, the rain and wind chasing everyone away to their own homes, and it was possible she was mistaking every crack of thunder and every branch of a tree hitting the windows for something else… And yet, Elain couldn’t ignore the way the hairs on the nape of her neck stood up, as if they were all too aware that this wasn’t of the storms’ doing. She had lived in the Night Court long enough to have learned to always trust her instincts.

She was silently cursing herself for ever thinking getting her own place would be a good idea. Sure, living with her sisters and their mates had been exhausting to a whole new level, but maybe some things were worth it if they meant she got to stay alive. Rhys had sworn the Town House was as safe as their own house, warded to the point only three people would be able to winnow directly inside – and she knew none of them would enter her personal space without her permission.

But she had been baking when she heard the unmistakable creak of her front door, the tell-tale of someone entering her home – even if no footsteps had followed. She kept forgetting to buy some oil to fix that terrible noise, but today she had to be grateful for her own loss of memory, even if her heart pounded heavily inside her chest, and her arms and legs had long gone numb.

Adrenaline seemed to be the only thing pumping through her body as she tried to control her breathing, her entire body jerking at the sound of a drawer opening and closing, followed by a soft curse and a thud. It sounded as if they were in the sitting room.

Elain frowned, knowing that even if she left through the back door, she wouldn’t be able to return to his place without doubting every single sound she ever heard. She willed her sisters’ courage and prayed to the Mother for luck as she crossed the hallway, as silently as she could manage, her bread knife ready to strike.

She heard herself gasp at the shadow sitting on the floor, head thrown back against the wall next to the window. The moonlight hit his face in a way that made him impossibly beautiful, a painting of angst and sorrow. She had no idea what Azriel was doing here, and by the look on his face, he wasn't exactly sure either.

“Azriel?” She called, her voice thundering through the silent room. She reached for the light before she could even think, and the sight in front of her was enough to drain the colour off her face. “Are you hurt?” She whispered, the sound of her bread knife hitting the floor a distant reality as she took him in.

He was drenched, his dark leathers glistening under the warm light, his hair splattered against his beautiful face as he stared at her. He tried to move, wincing once before dropping against the wall once again. Only then did she realize why exactly the Illyrian warrior was on her floor, dripping and panting. He had an arm clutched to his side, his hand pink in what looked remarkably like faded blood.

Elain rushed to his side, bending to her knees as she reached out to touch him. Azriel flinched, so she dropped her hands. She pretended not to be hurt by it. “Can you get up?” She asked, her eyes taking in his appearance, looking for more injuries. Azriel nodded once before he tried to get up to no avail. Elain held his hand, noting his flinch as his hands touched hers, put his arm around her shoulders and helped him stand up, taking him to the closest wingchair where he slowly sat. It would be ruined by the end of the night, but she doubted either Feyre or Rhysand would care. Azriel slumped against the chair, groaning as his wings hit the cushioned back. “Your wings…” Elain muttered, frowning as she inspected them further. Elain knew how sensitive Illyrian wings were and noting the bleeding gash on Azriel’s left wing she knew he had to be in excruciating pain.

“I got ambushed.” He gritted out, his midnight voice a comfort Elain hadn’t been expecting. She hadn’t even realised he hadn’t spoken until now, her own racing thoughts loud enough to keep her company. Her eyes darted from his bleeding side to his wings. She knew how to treat his wounds enough so he could rest, at least until she could call for Madja in the morning. He had come here for a reason, one Elain doubted didn’t include her. He knew better than anyone that, at the very least, she knew how to be discreet.

“Take off your shirt.” She demanded, swiftly turning around to hide the blush that tinted her cheeks. She ignored how very wrong it had sounded, her entire body heating up as she rushed to the kitchen. Nuala had come by earlier that week to teach her how to brew medicinal potions and ointments and she couldn’t be more grateful for her resourceful friend as she reached for the glass jars by the sink. She remembered her lessons with ease – white vinegar and thyme to disinfect, eucalyptus and lavender to stop the wounds from infecting and dress the wound as comfortably as possible. Grabbing a few towels Elain returned to the sitting room, where Azriel now sat without his upper leathers. She gulped far more loudly than what she intended, his eyes darkening as they followed her.

“What are you doing?” He rasped as Elain dropped to her knees once again, grabbing a clean towel before dousing it with the vinegar brew.

“Taking care of you, of course.” She said as neutrally as possible, applying as little pressure to his hound as possible. It didn’t look deep enough that it wouldn’t heal in the next few hours, but the Shadowsinger seemed more than comfortable with the pain. Not for the first time since she met him, she hurt for him. How many terrors had he lived his lengthy life? She couldn’t help but wonder if there had been any reprieves at all. She ached to help him on that matter, but rejection was a vengeful parasite.

“I can do that.” He said but Elain simply ignored him.

“Where were you?” She asked as she switched to the eucalyptus tonic. She felt his eyes on her, but she pointedly avoided his gaze. There was something to be said about her strength in ignoring someone she ached for so fiercely.

“A mission.”

Elain chuckled drily. “And here I thought it was at training.” She said, immediately regretting her own tone. Gazing up at him she couldn’t help but blush when she saw the smirk adorning his lips. She refocused her attention back on his wound.

Why had he come here? She wouldn’t believe he thought the house to be empty the same say she wouldn’t believe his visit had been innocent at all. The last time Elain had been this close to him his lips had been inches away from consuming her completely, his touch as unrestricted as her desire for him. After having so much taken away from her, after having so much thrown at her…Elain had foolishly believed him to be someone she was choosing for herself. She now cursed herself for such foolish thoughts, the tang of rejection as present as it had been that night.

Elain frowned, rejecting those unwelcome emotions. It wasn’t the time to think of such things, not when he appeared to be badly injured. “Please lean forward.” She said a bit more shyly now as she gathered the gauze, searching for her trusty bread knife. It remained by the door, and Elain rose to get it, ignoring the shame that threatened to overpower her. Would she ever stop looking foolish in front of him?

“What were you going to do with that?” He asked, his breathing calmer now, his hair curling as it dried. Elain’s brows pitched together as she looked at the knife.

“Cut the gauze to dress your wounds.”

“No,” His face as stoic as always. “Before. When you saw me.”

Elain felt her cheeks heat but ignored it as she made her ways towards him again, cutting the gauze with a single swiped. “I was protecting myself.” She replied, her tone daring him to question her reasoning. She was well aware a bread knife would only let her protect so much, but it wasn’t like she had any weapons just lying around. Rhys had told her there’d be no need and she had believed him.

Azriel frowned. “From me?” He asked softly. Elain’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting his. Since when had he so little faith in her?

“Would I need to?” She asked back. Azriel simply stared at her, his expression as apathetic as only he managed.

“Never, my lady.” He said, his voice low. Elain glanced at him, ignoring all the wrong ways her body reacted to him. She finished tying up the gaze, finally pushing to her feet. It seemed tight enough. She grabbed another towel, heading towards his wings as his hand reached out to grab hers. “Elain…” He muttered, his eyes so filled with regret she felt sick to her stomach. She wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to speak, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t again apologise for what had happened that night.

“I need to take care of your wings.” She nodded towards the gash, finally able to step away once he released her wrist. Elain grabbed the softest towel, dousing it in a smaller douse of vinegar before she walked towards the back of his chair. The wound had luckily stopped bleeding, but it was deep enough he would need to call for Madja come morning. She pressed the cloth to the surrounding area of his wound, surprised when his entire body shuddered under her touch. “Does that hurt?”

Azriel chuckled darkly, his head falling forward in a way that flexed his back muscles deliciously. Elain quickly looked away, not for the first time that night wishing for the lights to be dimmer. What was she thinking? “No, that didn’t hurt.” He mumbled so Elain tried again, her finger accidently meeting the leathery membrane. Azriel hissed this time, his entire body tensing further.

“What?” She demanded, brows furrowed as she inspected his wings. She wasn’t even applying any pressure, nor was she touching the stabbing wound.

“Illyrian wings…” He started, his breathing ragged. Elain saw him shake his head as if trying to clear away any unwanted thoughts. “They’re very…sensitive.”

She knew that. She had taken that into consideration, which was why she was barely applying any pressure.

“I might not be a healer, but Cerridwen and Nuala have taught me the basics, you needn’t worry.” She promptly assured him. “I know what I’m doing.” She added when the silence turned deafening.

“I know you do.” He added softly. “But they’re not only sensitive in that way.”

“What-” Oh. Oh.

Elain blushed furiously, almost dropping the towel to the floor. Feyre and Nesta had never mentioned such a thing nor had Nuala and Cerridwen. And why would they? It’s not there was any reason why she needed to know that.

“Right,” She cleared her throat, hoping to the Mother her embarrassment wasn’t as obvious as it felt. Or at least that he would spare her and not mention it. “M-maybe it’s best if you do it yourself? I’ll-I can wait in the kitchen while you-” She was fumbling with the glass jars when his rough hand grabbed hers again, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

Azriel offered her a smile. “I want you to do it.”

 Elain felt her breath catch inside her chest, her eyes never leaving his. “Are you sure?”

Azriel nodded once, his thumb stroking her hand once more before releasing her. She walked back, her hands shaking slightly as she tried again to clean his wound. Knowing exactly how it affected him… She felt embarrassed, entirely too hot for an autumn night, and yet that information wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

With as much care as she managed, she cleaned the surrounding area of the gash, completely aware of every shudder and intake of breath out of Azriel’s mouth. He was gripping the arms of the chair, the wood groaning under his touch. Elain felt like taking a cold bath in the confines of her bedroom, far away from everyone. Her body reacted to him as naturally as breathing and she cursed herself for the heat pooling in her core.

“Elain.” He groaned, snapping her out of her dirty mind. Had he scented her arousal? Embarrassment flooded her as she quickly stepped away from him.

“I-I’m sorry.” She stuttered, shaky hands grabbing the eucalyptus potion. Had she poured it already? She couldn’t remember. “I cannot bandage your wings tonight.” She explained, her voice wobbly as she gathered her things. “You can sleep in one of the rooms, if you want to.” She added quickly, her eyes never straining away from the things in her hands. “I’ll call for Madja in the morning and-”

“I don’t regret it.” He interrupted her, his voice low and yet loud enough to awaken something inside of her she feared feeling ever again. Hope was an old enemy.

Elain’s lip quirked up, so at odds with what was going through her mind. “You don’t need to say that.”

“I don’t regret it.” He gritted out, pushing to his feet.

“You should sit down-” She protested.

“Elain.” She felt his calloused hand press against her neck - just as it had been that night - before he wrapped it around her throat, squeezing it in a way that ought to be depraved. Elain shivered, making his eyes darken in answer before he repeated his words, “I never regretted it.”

Elain closed her eyes, longing for the quiet hours of earlier when Azriel had only been a distant ache she was learning to ignore. “Why did you come here?”

His jaw clenched as his eyes searched for hers. “It was the first place I remembered.” He frowned, as if not quite sure the lie had worked.

“Tell me the truth.” She pleaded. Azriel’s eyes flickered between her own, as if trying to understand what she was asking of him. As if deciding whether the truth was worth the consequences it would bring.

He frowned, as if angry at whatever he had realised. “I can’t stay away from you.” He muttered, every single word as pained as the previous one. Elain eyed him then, her heartbeat pounding against his fingers where they pressed against her neck. She was panting, unsure of what to think or feel. How could he say a thing like that? How dared he give her hope after the swift rejection he had delivered only weeks ago? Did he take her for a fool?

Or maybe he saw her only as a quick way to get relief. She had been touching his wings for the past few minutes and knowing what she knew now, she wouldn’t be surprised that was what made him change his mind. But she had had enough of males changing their minds about her. Didn’t she deserve a love worthy of a song? A love as her sisters had found. 

Elain looked into his eyes, her own dropping only once to his lips before she raised them up again. She didn’t miss the way he leaned in further, didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around her neck. She was playing with her own heart at this point, but she had little left to lose.

So she parted her lips, her whisper a secret between the two of them. “Prove it to me, then.”

#elriel oneshot #pro elriel #elriel fanfiction #elain x azriel #pro elain #elriel #canon compliant

[squirrelwriter]

Comic Aurora fanfic: We're Here, We're Fine

If you haven't read the Aurora webcomic by @comicaurora, I cannot recommend it strongly enough. Holy crap. It has given me the worst brainrot in the best possible way.

This oneshot will probably be rendered canon non-compliant in like a week, but I just couldn't help myself~

Falst & Dainix focused, with some background Erin and Alinua. Hurt/comfort and fluff. Check it out if you like!

#aurora comic #comic aurora #squirrel writes #fanfic #oneshot #hurt/comfort #fluff #falst gets 3 naps and 2 of them are involuntary #canon compliant (to the best of my abilities) as of 1.22.39 #no betas we charge in like kendal

[tealeavesandtrash]

Some 1981 wolfstar angst for @torturedpoetsflashfest

The silence hangs heavy, dead air suffocating. The sky outside is covered in grey clouds, casting the kitchen gloomy shadows. The pathetic fallacy is well-suited at least. Sirius’ eyes burn into him, staring him down over a cup of tea. It makes Remus’ skin crawl worse than the half-healed scars that litter his arms and back. He focuses on buttering the dry toast. Three months ago Sirius would have had breakfast ready for him when he came home. Six months ago he was still begging to spend the full moon together.

#remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #complete #oneshot #marauders #maddy writes #marauders fanfiction #wolfstar microfic #canon compliant #sirius x remus #ao3 fanfiction #hp fests #ttpd

[pleathewrites]

i am no mother, i am no bride

Rei makes the fascinating discovery that she is fireproof. 

fandom: my hero academia / boku no hero academia rating: T pairings: todoroki rei x todoroki enji, todoroki rei & todoroki touya | dabi themes: todoroki rei-centric, toxic/abusive relationship study, motherhood, quirk evolution, revenge, family reunion, angst with a happy ending song: king by florence & the machine status: oneshot | 9.3k wc

click to read on ao3

#bnha #mha #bnha fanfic #fanfic #todoroki touya #bnha au #bnha fic rec #bnha fic #bnha imagines #bnha oneshot #bnha angst #bnha women #todoroki rei #dabihawks #todofam #mha fic #mha fanfic #mha au #mha fanfiction #mha angst #endeavor #todoroki family #canon compliant #canon divergence #mha oneshot #league of villains #lov #ujiko #bnha quirks #bnha fanfic recs

[rainbow-flavoured-skittles]

I have 3 separate Cole fic ideas clanking around in my brain. I can't decide on which to write so you guys get to decide

#poll #fic poll #ninjago #cole brookstone #lego ninjago #the journal one would be canon compliant and multi chapter #the other 2 would be oneshots #ninjago poll

[intriq]

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Spindle Tree

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Character: Conner Kent/Kon-El

Theme: Angst with a happy ending [for fucking once]

Word Count: 555

spindle tree; your charms are engraved on my heart

‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎┍━━━━━»•» 🌺 «•«━┑

It's insane how long Conner has liked you. It practically drives himself and others up the wall with how he's insistent on the fact you deserve better than him, some clone of Superman.

He's liked you since he first saw you, and you've liked him since.. Well, since you also first saw him. But somehow you just can't seem to notice that he likes you back.

Truth be told there was no chance he couldn't like you. All it took was for you to say a few words and he was swooning for you. Every word you spoke he committed to memory. Just a few brief encounters with you at first and his heart was yours.

But he still felt as if he didn't deserve you.

Yes, maybe he hits on you and just about everyone else [totally not you more than others]. But it's just him being friendly, right? That's what you so desperately tell yourself.

It's what your convinced of when you finally work up the courage to confess to him, pouring your feelings out with a stumbled speech. He's just being friendly, because he rejects you.

Truth be told, Conner likes you. He really, really does, don't get him wrong. But he thinks you deserve better. After all, he's nothing more than some clone of Superman. You deserved a real person. Not whatever he was.

Conner's convinced he did you right, turning you away. He's convinced he's done the right thing by swallowing his feelings down to send you off to love someone else. Distracts himself with going on random dates with others, even though you are all that is on his mind the entire time.

He's convinced of that until one day he's talking with Tim one day. The conversation eventually turns to you, and gods the look Conner has on his face when Tim talks about having heard you have Hanahaki Disease, he's rising to his feet.

He's already practically folded by the time he's seen you. Regretting those stupid fucking words when he'd rejected you. For your own good, really? That was so stupid, he thinks. He rejected you for you to find someone better, and instead you're dying because you still like him.

Instead of going to your apartment door like any normal person, he instead lands himself on your balcony, knocking on your sliding glass door. And the moment you open the doors he's got his arms wrapped around you, babbling numerous apologies.

Because god, he can't stand the thought of you dying over some stupid feelings you've got for him. And he likes you too, he's just convinced you deserve someone else. But hey, if your going to be stubborn, then maybe he should take the chance to be a little selfish.

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't mean it, I swear. I do like you, I really do. So please, don't die over me rejecting you because I think and know you deserve better than someone like me. Maybe let me take you out? Maybe a dinner date or something?"

And how could you say no, when he's asking so nicely?

How could you say no when he's practically on his knees, begging by the time he's done talking?

Of course, you two get a happy ending. One that you both deserve, no doubt.

‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎┕━»•» 🌺 «•«━━━━━┙

#gender neutral reader #oneshot #gn reader #angst #dc universe #non canon compliant dc universe oneshot #hanahaki disease au #hanahaki #no use of y/n #dc fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #angst with a happy ending #conner kent #kon el #superboy #conner kent x reader #conner kent x gn reader #kon el x reader

[ennas-aesthetic]

The Forbidden Wing in the Palace of Dreams

OK. OK. Stick with me for a bit.

You know how in the second chapter of Brief Lives Dream had an entire Wing and suite of rooms in the castle made for Thessaly, and when she left he asked Lucien (who asked Mervyn) to take them down? That one? (Don't worry this post isn't about that witch I'm just trying to set up a precedent).

Do you think Dream had a Wing/Room made for Orpheus as well?

He must've, mustn't he? There are implications that Orpheus grew up in the Dreaming. There must've been a Wing for him in his Father's palace, as grand as his castle of white shimmering marble. Chambers fit for the son of the Principal Muse and the Divinity of Dreams.

It shifts, of course, like most Dream things do. As Orpheus grew the Wing changed and expanded, accommodating the needs of its master's son. The Wing was never truly empty, even when Orpheus left for Colchis with Jason and the Argonauts. Most of his possessions were still stashed there, cloistered and guarded. (And though Oneiros was not certain his son would be coming back from the journey, warned of the perils of seafaring by Teleute, he made sure the palace staff kept the quarters in pristine condition. In preparation for the day his son returned.)

Orpheus never did return.

He did, from his journey on the Argo, but he was… changed. A boy transformed into a man, whose horizons has expanded. He took with him only his lyre – Oneiros’ parting gift, fashioned from the rarest tortoise shells – and announced he was going to see the world. A wandering bard, singing the songs of fools, and lovers, and kings, and prophets alike. Oneiros did not stop him. He cannot live his son’s life for him, he reasoned. Orpheus’ lifetime was as brief as a candle’s flame in the wind. It was time the boy set out on his own.

(Oneiros still maintained the Wing’s upkeep. This he entrusted to Lucien (and perhaps Mervyn) alone. He was more than aware of his son’s mortality, and if his own Father saw his sniveling attachment he would have laughed at him, but. If Orpheus wished it, if his son wanted to go back to the place he once called home… then it will be there. Waiting for him.)

When Orpheus stormed out of the palace, furiously declaring he was no longer Oneiros’ son, the Dreaming fell into a dark storm. A hurricane of apocalyptic proportions, as if the earth-shaker himself has brought his Trident down upon them. It raged for days and days. A particular part of the castle was damaged extensively in the aftermath. Part-custodian and groundskeeper of the Dreaming, Lucien, hesitantly, asked what to do with it. Oneiros’ answer was clipped, low and dangerous. “Leave it be.”

Lucien dare not ask again.

No one in the Dreaming dare to acquire their master’s wrath (which always seemed to simmer just below the surface) either, and so the Wing was left as it is. Damaged. Dilapidated. Broken.

Time marches, then turns, then churns. Seasons change. And then change some more.

And there is a forgotten Wing in the palace of Dreams. Every mortal, dream creature, and nightmare is forbidden to enter. That Wing that is broken down and decaying and rotten. The only one allowed entrance is the Shaper himself, but he avoids its corridors like the plague, has made it so it is barely perceived by the Dreaming’s inhabitants. A ghost, almost. But it’s there. It’s there.

The last time Dream comes back to the Wing, his son’s blood soak his forearms.

The room barely held any resemblance of its former glory, but Dream remembers. He remembers all too well. This, overcome with the blood-red ichor of rust, was his son’s cradle; a gift from Olethros during his birth. This, his son’s first lyre, one that Dream crafted himself, from the soft shells of a snapping turtle. Orpheus’ tunics and chitons – offerings of various nymphs and dream weavers. His quiver, his bow, his arrows: when his mother had him shadow the centaur Chiron in Mount Pelion. This, and this, and this. What are memories, if not half-remembered dreams, stories long forgotten? His son was long gone. There are red flowers blooming on the Quarter’s broken mosaic tiles. Very soon Dream will follow him – of this he is certain.

But now. Now Oneiros mourns. Oneiros grieves.

Dream remembers.

The next day the Wing has vanished. A new place lists itself on the Groundkeeper’s Book of Records: a garden filled with red blossoms. The flowers are a new variety, never before seen, in a dream or otherwise. Later, much, much later, when dreamers find themselves in the garden, they are certain that – as the lightly-clinging petals float in the wind – they could almost hear them sing.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #sandman meta #that borders on fic or oneshot #this is as canon-compliant as a fic could get tbh #morpheus #netflix the sandman #the sandman spoilers #brief lives #orpheus sandman #sandman fic #lord morpheus #oneiros #greek mythology references

[practically-an-x-man]

No Longer Alone (Nikoletta x Abner)

Summary: Nikoletta wakes up after the battle with Starro... things have changed, but perhaps for the better

Tags: emotional hurt/comfort, Nikoletta being incredibly touch-starved as usual

Word Count: 4.7k

____

She hadn’t always hated her hands. 

Once, her hands had represented her livelihood - her fingers shuffling cards and skating delicately across palms, rings shiny and bright against her dark skin. She’d cast illusions with those hands, in every way except physical. Her hands kept her alive and safe in any way they could, any way she could, and there was something graceful about that. 

And then came the lab. Then came the discovery that her touch was no longer gentle, no longer safe, the realization that she had changed. Then came the fear. Then came the hatred. 

She’d found power in it, of course. She’d always felt that the only way to improve a bad situation was to make something of it. Not everything could be fixed, particularly in the world she lived in, but there was always a way to adapt. If not to solve the puzzle entirely, at least to scrape herself into a better-fitting piece. So she’d shifted her perspective and found a new means of power, even when that meant building walls around herself. Even when it meant hating every touch she left.

For years, it had been this way. 

And then, somewhere along the line, things had begun to shift. 

She remembered him holding out a hand, perhaps not in total confidence but in courage nonetheless, for her to shake in greeting. He was the first in years to even offer that much. 

She remembered his hand clutching hers on the plane, in a grip so tight it made her bones creak. Takeoff had startled him. It was a reflex. But he hadn’t let go… and she hadn’t pulled away.

She remembered reaching for him herself, tugging him through the jungle when his steps began to drag. The others didn’t dare to get close, at the sight of his skin distorted and glowing with the unnatural virus that laid underneath. She knew the feeling all too well. She refused to do to him what everybody else had done to her. 

She held onto him like there was nothing else solid in the world. She clung to him like there was no other warmth. She couldn’t let go. 

Always gloved, always shielded, never once skin-to-skin. But she couldn’t let go. 

Her hand wrapped in his, under the table in the bar. 

His hand wrapped in hers, gripped tight as they rode to Jotunheim.

Her hands on his back, shoving him into the shadows with everything she had.

She hoped it had been enough.

She prayed to God it had been enough. 

____

Nikoletta awoke to the sound of an alarm clock, ceaseless and blaring and rhythmic. She awoke to trembling limbs, a deep chill despite the weight of a bedsheet against her legs. She awoke to a single spark of warmth, a hand wrapped around her own.

Her fingers tensed around the touch, in nothing more than reflex - perhaps curiosity, perhaps the faintest note of trepidation - and the chiming in her ears spiked into a faster tempo. Not an alarm clock, she realized. A heart monitor. She’d landed herself in a medical bed.

She forced her eyes open, though even that simple task threatened to drag her under once again. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so fatigued - tired and hollow and cold, like all the threads that held her together had begun to fray. The cold wasn’t new, of course. She was always cold. But the rest was strange and unpleasant, and she wasn’t sure what had brought her here. 

The first thing her eyes fell on was the hand holding hers, long pale fingers stark against her much darker skin. Perhaps that should have panicked her, the sight of her skin bare and unshielded against another’s. Another time, it would have. Another time, she’d have pulled away before she’d even processed the sight. But her limbs were heavy, and this all seemed no more real than a dream, that hand in hers just the touch of a ghost, and she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. 

Her eyes traveled upwards, following the hand up to a slender arm, a pair of hunched shoulders, a tall but thin frame compacted into a cheap plastic chair at her bedside. Something loosened within her chest at the sight, some tight knot of emotion that she hadn’t even realized still lingered inside her. 

Abner. 

He didn’t look quite so ghostly. He looked more than a little haggard, hollows as dark as bruises under his eyes, but that only made the sight of him more real. If he’d looked well-rested, she thought, it would have seemed too much like a dream. Or worse. 

He was asleep in the chair, his posture stooped and his chin fallen down to his chest. Gone was his mission suit, and instead he wore a simple gray t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting black trousers. It made her realize she’d never seen his arms bare, only ever covered in sleeves. It made her wonder briefly if this was the way the others had seen her in the bar, the one time she’d dared to leave a bit more skin exposed.

That thought drew Nikoletta’s eyes back down to her left hand, still clasped in his. She shifted her grip, a knot rising in her throat as she imagined the shadows, the permanent stains- 

But his skin was unmarked.

In dark fascination, still not fully believing it, she ran the pad of her thumb over his skin. Not a mark. Her fingers tingled with the richness of even that simple touch, for once not separated by cloth or plastic. She was… safe. For the first time in years, she was safe.

Nikoletta’s grip tightened on his hand, soaking in every little intricacy of the touch. His hand was cool, though still warmer than her own, his knuckles dusted with fine dark hair. There were scars at his wrists, some raised and disc-shaped while the others were long and thin. She had a guess as to their origins, and why she’d only ever seen him in sleeves. His palm was rough, scraped and raw, against her own. She wondered if that had come from the battle, perhaps a skid against the rubble. 

It was vivid but it was impossible. He was here but he couldn’t be. She held him tight yet spread no shadows. 

Tears slipped down Nikoletta’s cheeks. She’d never imagined making it to heaven. Not with the life she’d lived. And… maybe this wasn’t quite heaven, but it was about the closest she could have imagined. It was at least a gentle purgatory.

Again she shifted her hold on him, running her fingertips along the ridges of his knuckles. If this was to be her afterlife, her not-quite heaven, she’d claim whatever she had waiting for her. 

This time, Abner stirred at the touch. His fingers tensed around her hand.

“Nikoletta- hey, you’re awake.” His voice was soft as always, rough with sleep but flooded with pure relief. His eyes flicked back and forth across her face, caught in an expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief. Nikoletta swallowed hard, still unable to stop her tears from falling. 

“Are we dead?”

“What? No, we’re- no. We’re not dead. We’re in the hospital.” he stammered, that all-too-familiar sadness in his eyes blooming a little brighter for a moment, “Did you think you would wake up in the hospital if you were dead?”

Logic told her she would. It was where a lot of people died, and where a lot of unfortunate news was delivered, and she supposed it would make for the least jarring transition from one world to another. On the other hand, familiarity told her she would wake up in Belle Reve, that her mind would return to what had been constant for so many years.

She settled for a shrug. She didn’t know. She wasn’t about to speculate on an afterlife. More educated people than her had tried and failed.

“But you- and Starro… and I-” Her voice cut out on her, but she lifted their clasped hands - that  beautiful paradox of unencumbered touch - for emphasis. “No shadows. How…?”

“You don’t remember?” he asked, giving her the faintest tilt of his head. Nikoletta pursed her lips. The memories came in flashes - the huge pink arm of the beast, her feet thundering on concrete, a wash of shadows draping her as she planted her hands against his back. Everything that came after… darkness. Nothing but darkness. 

“I pushed you.” she finally answered, urging her mind to coax out a few more details. She came up blank, shrouded only in shadows. “That’s… that’s all.” 

“Oh. Okay. Well…” Abner agreed, shifting a little in his seat, “You pushed me. You pushed me… into the shadows, I don’t- I don’t know how. I don’t remember that part either. DuBois said they found us in one of the buildings. I guess it was the darkest place around. And I, um, I woke up on the plane. We’re back in Louisiana now. Out of Belle Reve, though. That’s done. You were asleep for four days.”

Nikoletta nodded, slowly. Her mind was swirling with questions, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice a single one. Abner’s dark eyes flicked from her to the machines surrounding her. She was reminded again of how tired he looked. Four days… she’d be willing to bet he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two since Corto Maltese.

“The doctors were scared for you.” he continued after a moment, his voice falling almost to a whisper, “Your heartbeat was really low. And you were cold. Like… hypothermic. I was just- I was, um, afraid you weren’t going to wake up. I’m really glad you did.”

The words didn’t even begin to match the emotion she saw written across his face. Neither did it match what she felt herself. She’d been afraid to lose him. There was a part of her that still was, even with him here beside her now. She was starting to think she’d been afraid for a long time, and was only now aware of it. 

“And the shadows?”

“I don’t know. They’re gone.” Abner answered, glancing back down at their joined hands. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “I noticed when the doctors started working on you. I tried to tell them- I did tell them. About the shadows. But you weren’t leaving any. And I thought… I thought maybe if you could feel me holding your hand, you’d wake up sooner? But I can let go if it’s-”

He began to release his grip on Nikoletta’s hand, but she jolted forward before he could get out of reach. Abner froze in place, meeting her eyes. 

“Don’t let go,” Nikoletta said, tightening her grip on his fingers, “Please don’t let go.”

“Okay,” he agreed, recovering his grip. She thought she could see a touch of relief, deep in his eyes. Abner slid his chair a little closer to her bed and clasped her hand between both of his own. He was quiet for a while, just staring at his hands with an interesting expression on his face. Nikoletta couldn’t quite make it out. Perhaps if she weren’t so tired, and weren’t still reeling at the feeling of his hands enveloping her own, she might have been able to parse it out. 

“Are you okay?” she found herself asking, drawing his eyes back up to her face. Abner searched for words for a few long moments, running his thumbs back and forth across her knuckles. The touch was intoxicating. She nearly asked him to stop - not because she really wanted to, but because she couldn’t pull her thoughts together. The entire world seemed to have shrunken down to a pinprick, nothing but his careful fingers and his sad dark eyes. 

“Do you want to stay with me?” he finally asked, though he couldn’t seem to meet her gaze, “DuBois said he found a place where we could stay, but I guess… I guess I just assumed you’d want to stay with me when everything was done. Maybe that was a stupid assumption to make. I’m sorry. I don’t think sometimes. We haven’t even really known each other that long, I just figured-”

“Abner.” Nikoletta cut him off before his words could run away from him, “I do. I want to stay with you.”

The words earned her a smile - a real one, she thought, a rare glimpse at pure joy like she’d seen only a sparse few times back in Corto Maltese. It made her heart kick out a few extra beats, the briefest wash of warmth spilling through her body. She wanted more than just to share a space with him. She wanted to be next to him, to be held by him, to explore him with the touch she’d only just regained. She hardly wanted to leave his side.

Perhaps that made her broken. Perhaps that meant they were both broken. Perhaps she only clung to this connection because it was the only one she’d ever been offered. If she’d run into him out on the street, met him at a café or a bookshop somewhere, if it hadn’t been a matter of danger and adrenaline and a few stumbling flirtations, would she still seek him out?

Maybe not. 

But the fact of the matter was that she hadn’t met him that way. She hadn’t been given that quiet life. She’d been given an orange jumpsuit and powers she didn’t understand. And so had he. She didn’t even know how he’d handle a life outside prison- or, for that matter, how she would handle it herself. Being thrown straight from STAR Labs into Belle Reve, she wasn’t sure he’d ever had a normal life. It could turn out to be a disaster.

And she wanted him anyway. If that meant they were broken, at least they’d be broken together.

“I’m glad. Really glad,” Abner said, still baring her that same gentle smile, “I want to stay with you too.”

He hesitated for just a moment, then lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. Nikoletta bit her cheek to hold back her smile. It was so… gentle, so old-fashioned, a gesture she’d never seen an actual living person do in her lifetime. She wondered if he’d picked it up from a movie somewhere, or perhaps read it in a book. Either way, she thought it was sweet. 

He drew back and gave her hand a soft squeeze, but a faint crease had drawn in between his dark eyebrows. 

“And there’s… there’s one more thing.”

Abner stood up, hesitating just a moment before he let go of her hand. Nikoletta’s fingers twitched almost the instant he did, already itching for the touch once it was gone. It had been close to fifteen years since she’d had any unobstructed physical contact, and she wanted to cling to it like a drowning woman clung to a buoy on storm-riddled seas. Abner frowned a little, something like guilt pooling in his eyes as he noticed the way she reached for him.

But despite the conflicted look on his face, he didn’t recover his grip on her hand. Instead he just turned around, hiding those pained dark eyes from her. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head. 

His back was covered in shadows. Nikoletta could see the imprints of her palms on his skin, a stark handprint over each of his shoulderblades. Underneath the prints were dark rays, spanning outwards in something like the impression of wings - long black feathers stretching from his shoulders almost down to his hips, curving faintly around his ribs. They weren’t quite symmetrical, one print higher and more leftward than the other, which gave him almost a hunchbacked look when she focused on it for too long. If it weren’t for that, and what her shadows represented - what they’d represented for over a decade now - it would almost be beautiful. 

Nikoletta found herself reaching out, fingers hovering just over the inky tattoos scrawled across his skin. She did not touch, much as she wanted to. Irremovable. Irreparable. She’d been so careful with him, so hesitant of every touch, never daring to risk a single shadow… and it didn’t even matter in the end.

“Oh, Abner, I’m so sorry…”

He twisted over his shoulder, shooting her a vaguely confused look. 

“Sorry? Why-” he cut himself off, seeing the answer written across her face. Abner wriggled back into his t-shirt and turned to face her fully, sadness and affection mingling in those pitch-black eyes. “Nik… you saved my life. I don’t care about the marks. I just figured you’d rather see it now instead of getting surprised by it later.”

“But you were wearing your suit.” Nikoletta realized, hardly hearing him, “It shouldn’t have- how?”

“Oh, yeah-” Abner agreed, and turned around to snag his mission suit - which she now realized had been draped over the seat beside him. He held it up to her with a wan half-smile. “Lot of shadows, I guess. Went straight through.”

She might as well have thrown a bucket of ink on his mission suit. The back of it was doused in shadows, indiscriminately covering both the white fabric and vibrant decals from the neckline down to the waist. The darkness was so complete, so widespread, that it almost looked like a hole in the world. 

This confused her. And scared her. She’d never left shadows through another surface before. Up until this point, her gloves and sleeves had always been enough to shield her. Was a single layer no longer enough? Was she destined to be even more careful than before, even more guarded, to abandon even dampened touches for fear of spreading her shadows further?

But she wasn’t spreading shadows now. And she’d never pushed another person into their realm before. She didn’t even know she could. What she’d done in Corto Maltese had been a desperate plea to save Abner’s life, a Hail Mary pass in its truest form, and she’d never expected to succeed. Perhaps she’d finally drained away that poison they’d filled her with. Perhaps that was why she now felt so weak, stripped of the darkness that held her together.

Abner set the suit down, draped over the same chair he’d picked it up from, and met her eyes. It seemed like he was looking straight into her soul. 

After a few long heartbeats, he sighed and sat back down in his chair. He offered her his hand, palm up in another charmingly old-fashioned gesture, but she couldn’t bring herself to reach for it. Not after that reminder of her curse. 

Abner frowned.

“They’re just marks, Nikki. Like tattoos, almost. I’ve had worse. It didn’t even hurt.”

“You expected it to hurt?”

“I mean… yeah. The way you talked about them, I thought-” he started, but cut himself off with a shrug, “I don’t know. I think it was worse in my head. It just feels a little cold. Like I’ve got a fan blowing on me.”

“Cold?” She hadn’t realized the chill of the shadows would transfer with them. To be fair, nobody ever lasted long enough to share that little detail with her. Abner shrugged. 

“It’s not bad,” he said, glancing over his shoulder though he couldn’t have seen the marks through his shirt, “I get hot anyway. When the dots flare up. So it’s kind of nice.”

Nikoletta tilted her head at him, vaguely unsure of how to feel. He was so… indifferent about it all. She couldn’t figure it out. By her count, it had been close to five years since he’d been sent to Belle Reve - five years of seeing everything those shadows represented, five years of watching the piranhas swarm until there was nothing left but gleaming bone, and somehow he didn’t seem to care. Was this the flippant shrug of a man who had worse problems to balance and ended up shoving this to the bottom of the stack? Or was it simply that they were out of Belle Reve, and he knew she couldn’t hurt him if she tried?

Because… that was true. Somewhere along the way, between the sweaty and bug-infested nights in the jungle and the anxiety-riddled bus ride to Jotunheim, he’d found a place in that empty space behind her ribs. Abner was tightly-wound, insecure, easy to hurt… and it would break her heart if she did. He made her want to be gentle.

How odd. 

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and Nikoletta pulled herself from her thoughts just in time to see Abner stretching past the arm of his chair, closing those last few inches that separated her hand from his. He didn’t reach for anything more than that, didn’t try for any grand moves or gestures, but it was a surprising act of bravery from him all the same. And it looked like the arm of the chair was pressing into his ribs. Nikoletta readjusted her grip to give him a little more leeway, somehow charmed by the awkward stretch he’d put himself through just to be near her.

“You know it’s been fifteen years since anyone’s held my hand?” she muttered, fixated on the way his fingers interlaced with her own. 

“Without gloves?”

“At all.” she corrected, “Back on the plane, when you grabbed my hand… that was the first time anyone’s reached out to me since 2006. Gloves or no gloves.”

Abner ducked his head with a grimace, giving her a vague nod.

“I know how that feels.” he said, then glanced up and shot her the briefest hint of a smile, “But I’ll hold your hand. I’m not afraid.”

“You’d be the first.”

He frowned at that, just another low flicker across his face. It was growing easier to read him, she thought. Back when she’d first seen him, she’d assumed he always wore the same guarded, tired-eyed expression, but now she could see the intricacies beyond it. The twitches at the corners of his lips. The subtle shifting of his eyes, the way he’d alternate between holding her gaze and refusing to look at her entirely. The lilts and dips and drops in his voice, the shifts in his posture, all the other details that went beneath what she saw on his face. 

Learning to read him was like learning a foreign language without a dictionary. But she was learning. Little by little. 

But even though she was getting better at reading him, she couldn’t have predicted his next move. 

Abner Krill slid out of his seat and folded her into an embrace.

At first she tensed, surprised by the touch. For as long as it had been since somebody had reached for her hand, it had been even longer since she’d been held like this. She almost didn’t know what to do with herself.

Nikoletta crumbled into his arms. 

Tears coursed down her cheeks - she hadn’t meant to cry, but the sensation of being held for the first time in decades simply overwhelmed her. Abner mumbled something, perhaps some form of comfort or appeasement, but she hardly heard it. The touch obscured every other sense. He was warm, he was gentle, his body pressed against her own. She could feel every one of his breaths, every slow rise and fall of his chest. It was a remarkable feeling. For once, she wasn’t chilled by her shadows.

A fractured sound tore from her throat, and she buried her face against Abner’s chest. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, the one barrier between Nikoletta and the shadows she’d left on his skin. Abner shifted but didn’t let go. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, “Do- do you want me to-”

“No. Please.” Nikoletta managed, the words broken by tears, “It just… this feels really nice, and I- I’m really glad you’re okay. I thought that it- that it wasn’t going to be enough, that I’d-”

“I’m here, Nikki.”

He didn’t say anything more than that. He didn’t need to.

If anyone had looked into the room at that moment, they would have seen the Queen of Belle Reve broken and sobbing in the arms of the most reclusive former prisoner within those walls. Anyone who’d known her before, even just a week earlier, would have been shocked at the sight. The Queen of Belle Reve never looked so shattered. The Queen of Belle Reve kept herself at a distance. The Queen of Belle Reve simply didn’t care, wouldn’t shed a single tear for spent life. 

Nikoletta was beginning to wonder if the Queen of Belle Reve had died with her shadows. She didn’t feel like that woman anymore. She didn’t think that was such a bad thing.

She probably held on too tight. She probably held on for too long. Nikoletta couldn’t bring herself to care. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held like this. Even before STAR Labs, even before Belle Reve… she’d been a loner by trade. She’d never been particularly skilled at getting close to people, and in recent years she’d gotten even worse. The fact that Abner was here at all, the fact that he’d waited at her bedside for four whole days, was nothing short of a miracle in her eyes. 

“I read somewhere…” Abner murmured after a while, though he didn’t loosen his grip on her, “Most people need eight hugs a day for maintenance. And mental stability.”

“Hm. I’m way behind.” Nikoletta replied, a little distractedly. The words were the last thing on her mind. She never wanted him to let go of her. 

“Me too.”

“How many are we counting this as?”

“Just one.” he decided, “But there’s a lot of day left.”

That was enough to draw her eyes up, a faint smile pulling at her lips.

“Y’know, you’re pretty smooth when you want to be.”

“Oh, that wasn’t-” Abner started, and she watched his eyes flick back and forth as he retraced what he’d said, “I didn’t mean that to be smooth.”

“Just take it.” Nikoletta mumbled, a little amused, “It’s a good thing.”

“Okay, then… I totally meant that to be smooth. Yeah.”

She stifled a giggle by turning her face against the side of his neck, and felt Abner’s shoulders hitch as he held back a faint laugh of his own. It was nice to hear him laugh like this, joke like this. It was nice to hear him happy. 

He held her until her tears finally ran dry, until the plaguing chill of her shadows seemed like nothing more than a memory. He held her until her already-weakened limbs began to tremble, until her limited strength began to wane, until she wondered if she might just fall asleep there on his shoulder. That didn’t sound so bad. 

She didn’t get the chance. A horde of doctors swept in just as she’d begun to let herself drift, and the tension snapped back into her body like a tightly-wound spring. Judging from the way Abner flinched, he felt the same. They’d both gotten more than their fair share of white coat hypertension in their lives. 

But for just a few minutes there… that was nice. She hoped she’d get the chance to do it again. Fifteen years was an awfully long time to have left herself walled-off from the rest of the world.

Nikoletta Bordeaux would spend two more nights in the hospital, and six more still weak and shaky before she was back on her feet. Abner hardly ever left her side - only twice a day to expel the dots, and once when she’d practically had to shove him out the door because the sight of a heavyset and bespectacled nurse had nearly sent him into a panic attack. As much as that one hurt her heart… she was a little flattered at how determined he was to stay with her. 

It took weeks, even after she left the hospital, before she’d recovered enough of herself to jump into the shadows. When she did, she nearly collapsed upon reentry, and it resulted in three more days of fatigue and dizziness. The weakness was persistent, and beyond unpleasant. She hoped it faded soon enough. 

But she didn’t once regret what she’d done.

#my writing #my ocs #nikoletta bordeaux #oneshot #emotional hurt/comfort #not canon compliant #the suicide squad #abner krill #polka dot man #oc x canon