#this fic has been such a journey

[qvert]

Refuge at the Firelight Hideout

[sboochi]

I'm absolutely thrilled to announce that I've finished writing the last chapter of Heirs this morning! The wait is almost over!!

I think I'll post ch 25 asap and then proceed to translate the rest, so you can expect much faster updates in the near future!

[lunarharp]

pretty & cute witch men

[iridescentmirrorsgenshin]

Chapter Ten of An Emergency Decision is up!

Summary: Alhaitham offers to be Kaveh’s emergency contact in exchange for Kaveh acting as his. As to how things pertaining to Kaveh usually transpire, this does not go as planned, and a difficult truth comes to light.

Chapter Summary:

“Then how would you have it?” Kaveh asked, expression arranged into a careful impartiality. Unusual, for Kaveh. “If you’re against listing me as an emergency contact or next of kin, or both, now that you’re comfortable in your residency here, I’d update the housing contract to establish us both as this property’s owners. In regard to your desire to be informed, you’d remain listed as my emergency contact, however, I’d remove you as my next of kin. I’m well aware of your disposition, but ultimately, I’m against placing you in such a position where significant medical decisions are yours to make, when you deny yourself the same courtesy. Whether it’s your benevolence or personal sentiment matters little when the strain of this responsibility is taken on single-handedly, rather than shared between us.” “I see,." Kaveh sighed, eyes tracing upwards to meet his once more. “I understand where you’re coming from. If it were me in your place, I wouldn’t be comfortable with it either. Especially now…” Kaveh’s ankle was nudged. “Now, what?” A burgeoning smile threatened the sombre countenance. His foot was tapped back. “Now that we are where we are."

[watchyourbuck]

Dear Maddie,

Buddie | MCD | Mature | 12,5k words | Completed

"So, I will. I’m gonna tell you our story. I will be as delicate as I can because he never deserved anything but gentleness. I only hope I was able to love him the way the universe intended me to love him. I can’t fathom thinking that loving him from this far will ever amount to what I could’ve done had we had our whole lives. I was too late." Or: After Buck dies, Eddie writes ten heartfelt letters to Maddie, telling her the story of how they fell in love, so she can feel closer to her brother once again.

Read on ao3

tagging some of my loves! @malewifediaz @eddiescowboy @firemedicdiaz @daffi-990 @evanbegins @honestlydarkprincess @honestlyeddie @smilingbuckley @hoodie-buck @eddiebabygirldiaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @loserdiaz @hippolotamus @fortheloveofbuddie @eddie---diaz @mattsire @puppyboybuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @diazsdimples @bucksbackwardcap @bucksbirthmark @housewifebuck @try-set-me-on-fire @cal-daisies-and-briars @eowon @devirnis @butraura @jesuisici33 @monsterrae1 @buckleyobsessed @exhuastedpigeon @nmcggg @your-catfish-friend @wildlife4life @lover-of-mine @theotherbuckley @wikiangela @thewolvesof1998 & @giddyupbuck

pls don’t feel obligated to read this if it’s too much or not your cup of tea!!💗

[scionshtola]

where the hurt nests - part 3

pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul word count: 4.9k | rated: Mature | read on ao3 | part 1 | part 2 summary: After recovering from the events of Ultima Thule, Corisande retreats to their private island getaway. When Y'shtola arrives for a visit, she can't shake the feeling that Corisande's pleasant moods are an act-a feeling only perpetuated by their continuing reluctance to tell her what exactly takes place in the nightmares that have haunted them for moons. notes: part 3 of 3. set between 6.0 and 6.1, very big 6.0 spoilers. [divider credit] it's done! and now that it's done, I would very much like to thank Azia for beta reading, rubber ducking, and generally encouraging me even before I actually started writing this 💗 and thank you to Gigi, Dani, and Hannah for letting me talk about this fic for the last year and a half! I appreciate all of you so much <3 and ty to everyone who has read it since it's been posted, it means a lot to me!

By the time morning arrived, the skies had cleared. The sun shone warmly over the island and a pleasant breeze moved through the clearing, the air fresh after a day of rain. They walked down to the beach after lunch, keen to be out of the cabin despite the dripping foliage and the still damp sand. Corisande carried two beach chairs folded under their arms, which they set up beneath an umbrella outside the reach of the tide, waving off Y’shtola’s offers of assistance.

Not long after Y’shtola stretched out on her chair, book in hand and prepared to settle into a contented quiet, Corisande abandoned their own chair in favor of lying in Y’shtola’s lap. They kissed her softly, their lips parting gently over hers, one arm wrapped around her waist beneath the thin cover-up she had pulled on over her swimsuit. Y’shtola allowed this simple return to normalcy, pulling them closer to trade lazy kisses, hands and lips moving tenderly over sun-warmed skin.

They passed much of the afternoon in each other’s arms, the gentle wash of the tide their backdrop. Corisande curled her legs beneath Y’shtola’s thighs, resting her head on Y’shtola’s shoulder while she read. She seemed to dip in and out of consciousness as the afternoon wore on, her breathing growing slow and even every few minutes before she shook herself awake again.

“You ought to let yourself rest,” Y’shtola said when Corisande’s head drooped yet again. As content as she was wrapped in their arms, it was difficult to concentrate with the constant movement in her periphery.

“’m fine,” Corisande mumbled into her neck. “If I sleep now, it will be even more difficult to sleep tonight.”

“You have not slept through the night in several days,” Y’shtola pointed out. “’Twould do you well to rest when you can.”

Corisande stiffened, their arms tensing around her before they disentangled themself from Y’shtola with a sigh. They pushed themself into a sitting position, their back to Y’shtola as they spoke. “I am fine, Shtola. I only need to occupy myself.”

“Your days have been filled with occupations.” Y’shtola closed her book and sat up. “Hiking around the island, swimming, cooking—and yet still you do not sleep.”

“Shtola,” Corisande pleaded, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair. “I do not wish to talk about this. Please, let us find another subject.”

But now that the subject had been broached, Y’shtola was not yet willing to let go. “I have kept my concerns to myself, with the hope they would prove unfounded, but the last few days have shown I am right to be worried about you.”

Corisande rose stiffly from the chair and put several steps of distance between them. Y’shtola continued, though they kept their back to her. “I have tried to be patient, to allow you the time needed to heal on your own, but I fear doing so has only exacerbated the situation beyond your control.”

“’Tis not beyond my control-”

“I have never seen you so upset as you were last night,” Y’shtola interrupted, rising from the chair as she spoke. “What would you have me do, when you refuse to tell me anything of your nightmares? When you do not allow me to alleviate any of your concerns? Stay silent while you wake in terror every night? ”

Corisande finally turned toward her, arms crossed as if to protect themself. “They are only dreams. I do not wish to speak of what is not real.”

“The dreams may not be real, but the effect they have on you most certainly is,” Y’shtola said. She kept her voice as level as she could—she did not wish to argue with them, but she could no longer abide the pedantry they engaged in to avoid her questions. “And on myself, as well.”

Corisande’s brow knitted, and their voice was threaded with guilt when they spoke. “I know the sleepless nights are hard on you.”

“’Tis not the lack of sleep that bothers me,” Y’shtola insisted. “Not on my behalf, in any case. ‘Tis the pain in your voice when you speak of death, and holding you in my arms while your desire to live causes you to sob.‘Tis the weeks and weeks of waking to you calling for me—in pain, in fear, in worry—and not being told the reason for it.”

“The reason does not matter,” Corisande said quietly. “You are there when I wake. That is enough.”

“It matters to me,” Y’shtola said. Perhaps it would be enough if the nightmares were less numerous, or less affecting, or if they did not so consistently check on her the moment they woke. But she was certain there was more to it than simply finding comfort in her arms. “I do not need to know the details of every dream, but I can no longer wonder if your nightmares—your searching cries of my name—are caused by thoughts of me abandoning you.”

Corisande frowned, their lips pressed into a line. They turned away from her, looking out over the ocean. “They are unfair to you. Unkind.”

The admission seemed to confirm her worries, rather than quell them, but she refrained from jumping to any further conclusions. She had already guessed that Corisande, as kind as they were, sought to spare her feelings by keeping their own to themself. “’Tis, perhaps, more unkind to keep it from me.”

They looked over their shoulder at her, and, sensing their grief in the silence that followed, Y’shtola let them take her hand. When they spoke again, it was with resignation in their tone. “Please, Shtola. Let it be enough that you are there when I wake.”

“’Tis not enough.” Y’shtola pulled her hand from their grasp. Corisande’s crestfallen expression cut at her, the guilt as sharp as a blade. “I am not always there when you wake, and your nightmares have only worsened in the time we have spent apart. How can I help you if you will not tell me the full extent of the problem?”

Corisande’s lips parted as if they planned to speak, but the hope that flared within Y’shtola dwindled when they only sighed.

“You need not do anything,” Corisande said quietly. “They are only dreams.”

The deflection stung. She felt suddenly and unexpectedly foolish, laying her concerns bare as she had, only to have them discounted once more.

“If my concerns are not tangible enough for consideration, perhaps the changes to your aether will warrant the truth,” Y’shtola said sharply.

“My aether has changed?” Genuine concern lined the question, and Y’shtola felt a guilty swell of satisfaction at having finally drawn an appropriate reaction.

“It has been strained in recent days, some days more than other. I noticed it the day I arrived. I have yet to deduce a cause, though there is some correlation with the days you do not sleep well. Still, it is of some concern to me, and for good reason.” The sight of Corisande’s battered soul, overflowing with so much light aether that they became little more than a body of light to Y’shtola’s eyes, still haunted her.

Corisande turned away again, and the defeated slump of their shoulders made realization dawn on Y’shtola.

“You know the cause?” Y’shtola started to reach for them, but thought better of it, letting her hand drop to her side.

They did not look at her when they replied. “’Tis not the nightmares.”

Y’shtola had neither the will nor the patience to wait for them to work up to revealing the answer. “Corisande, if you know the cause, please do not keep it to yourself.”

Corisande was silent. Y’shtola held herself back from repeating the question. What had happened, that they would risk such changes to their aether?

Finally, they let out a resigned sigh. “I have been trying to cast again.”

Y’shtola’s stomach dropped in disbelief. “You know the risks of pushing your ability to channel aether beyond its current capabilities. Why would you not tell me? And when have you even had the time to do so?”

“I am sorry.” Corisande’s voice quavered with her words. “I go to a clearing north of the cabin some mornings, before you wake. I thought I could regain my abilities on my own. I did not wish to speak of it until I had done so.”

“Another matter you do not wish to speak of, no matter the detriment to yourself,” Y’shtola said bitterly. The realization that Corisande had not only not asked for her help but deliberately kept this from her stung more than their earlier deflections. “You are as versed as I am in the study of aether, more than well enough to know the risks of pushing yourself too far, yet you pursed this on your own anyway?”

“And what would you do, were you me?” Corisande turned sharply in her direction. “Bide your time resting, in the vain hope that the problem will fix itself? I do not believe that.”

“I would ask the person most familiar with my aether for her assistance,” Y’shtola insisted. “Particularly if she can see aether while I cannot.”

“I did not wish—”

“I am not asking you to tell just anyone, Corisande.” Y’shtola cut in. “I am asking you to tell me.”

Silence fell. They stood in it for a moment, no noise other than the tide washing in, the air between them growing heavy with their discomfort.

“I was afraid.” Corisande broke the silence, her voice still shaking. “That if I waited any longer, I would be rendered permanently incapable of summoning again.”

“There is no reason to believe that,” Y’shtola pushed back, hoping to make Corisande see reason. “We do not have enough information, and you have spent the past several months recovering from incredibly dangerous injuries. You need rest, and to allow your aether to replenish itself. You are perfectly capable of utilizing other skills in the meantime.”

Corisande shook her head. “You would not be so content to wait in my position, if you know what this absence felt like.”

“I cannot know how you feel if you do not tell me,” Y’shtola said, exasperated at returning to this point of contention yet again. “But I do know something of absence, or have you forgotten that I do not see as you do?”

“And how long did you wait before you began channeling your aether to see? It drains you, exhausts you, but you do it. Yet you lecture me on the safety of my own practices?”

The touch of petulance in their tone surprised her. In all the years she had known them, she could not recall them speaking to anyone this way, and certainly not to her. “Because you are taking risks alone. By yourself, on an island, where no one can help you if something were to go wrong.”

Corisande opened her mouth, but Y’shtola spoke first. She kept her voice level, despite the anguish behind her words. “I witnessed your soul strain with the changes to your aether once before. Please do not ask me to sit idly by while I see what is wrought on it now.”

Corisande stood rigidly before Y’shtola, her lips pressed into a thin line, and then all at once she seemed to fold in on herself. Y’shtola’s eyes widened as Corisande sank to the sand, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Y’shtola knelt in the sand next to her, resting her hand on Corisande’s shoulder.

“’Tis not only the absence.” They spoke quietly, their head down, their shoulders tensed beneath Y’shtola’s touch. “When I reach for my aether and cannot grasp it, I do not feel like myself.”

“Of course not,” Y’shtola said. Corisande had been practicing summoning long before they had ever met, ‘twas only natural that an inability to channel aether would leave her unmoored.

“It feels as if I am—as if—” Corisande cut herself off with a shuddered breath. Her shoulders shook with it, and Y’shtola’s resolve to hear her out trembled along with it. She squeezed her shoulder gently, to keep herself from pulling her into her arms. Corisande took a deep breath, steadying herself, but her words still came out half a sob. “It feels as if this body is not my own.”

An ache throbbed in Y’shtola’s chest, even as her mind raced forward. Corisande had not been able to channel aether since the day her soul had been forced from her body and into that of an Imperial soldier—’twas no wonder that any failed attempts to do so now made her feel as she had on that day, nor that she was so keen to move past it.

Corisande’s harsh, shallow breathing interrupted Y’shtola’s thoughts. They pressed their forehead to their knees, hiding their face as they struggled to breathe. Y’shtola had rarely ever seen them in such a state, and only ever after waking from a nightmare. The sudden oncoming in the middle of the day was so unexpected that for a moment she could only blink, unsure of what to do.

When another sob escaped them, Y’shtola shoved the uncertainty aside. She came around to the space in front of them and took them by the shoulders, pushing them gently but firmly until Corisande lifted their head. She cupped their cheeks with both hands, wiping the tears that fell away with her thumbs. She spoke to them quietly, reassurances and gentle commands to breathe.

It seemed to work. Corisande lifted her own hand to wrap her fingers around Y’shtola’s wrist, and her pained expression softened as she turned into the touch. Her breathing slowed to match the deep breaths Y’shtola modeled for her, but she did not loosen her grip.

“I’m sorry,” Corisande said quietly. Fresh tears fell onto Y’shtola’s wrist. “Shtola, I thought I—”

“’Tis all right, my love,” Y’shtola said, when Corisande could not finish their sentence. Her own hurt and anger felt distant, swept from the forefront of her mind by the distinct pang in her chest for Corisande. She took their hand. “Whatever else there is to discuss, we can save it for another time.”

Y’shtola had expected that to come as some relief to Corisande, but she had no time to assess their expression before they leaned into her, their long ears wilting as they laid their cheek on her shoulder. She held them there on the beach, her arms wrapped around them, the ache in her chest growing, until the wet drop of their tears dried to salt on Y’shtola’s shoulder.

—

They held hands as they walked back to the cabin, but neither of them spoke. The conversation, the admissions—and lack thereof—still lingered somberly in the air between them.

When they arrived, they both went upstairs to change. Y’shtola swapped her beachwear for a loose top and trousers, and Corisande discarded hers for a sturdier set of clothes she often wore for gathering.

“Is there naught I can do to convince you to rest?” Y’shtola asked as they laced up their boots.

“I need to do some work in the garden.” Corisande stood, and came around to Y’shtola’s side of the bed. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Y’shtola’s cheek, easing some of the tension Y’shtola felt. “I’ll come in soon.”

Y’shtola nodded. She followed them downstairs and tried to make herself comfortable on the sofa, where she could not easily see the garden. She passed three-quarters of a bell there, flipping through the pages of a book she had already read, until the need to do something became too strong. She rose to make tea, steeping a floral blend that Corisande favored. They arrived back at the cabin not long after, a few peppers for dinner in hand, and Y’shtola poured them a cup while they took off their muddy boots, gratified when they accepted it with a tired but sincere smile.

Corisande remained quiet through the rest of the afternoon, speaking little through dinner and the early evening, but her demeanor lacked the impatience and restlessness it had taken on the day before. They seemed to be tired, more than anything, and they stayed close to Y’shtola, retiring with her to the sofa after dinner and tangling their feet together as they relaxed.

Y’shtola went to bed first, and she nearly drifted off before she felt the bed dip, the quilt rustling quietly as Corisande climbed beneath it. They laid down facing her, close but not touching, and the distance, however small, pricked sharply at her.

She reached for their hand, pressing their palms together, and relief washed through her when they laced their fingers through hers. She fell asleep quickly after that, comfortable, their hands entwined warmly between them.

—

Corisande’s side of the bed was empty when Y’shtola woke. At first, she assumed she had slept until morning and they had simply risen earlier than her, but the chill and the too quiet stillness of the cabin suggested she had woken in the middle of the night.

She found Corisande downstairs. They sat facing the ocean, their back against the arm of the sofa, hugging their knees to their chest. They turned to her when she descended the stairs, watching her approach.

“I did not hear you wake.” Y’shtola stopped beside the sofa. “Did you have another nightmare?”

Corisande shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. I came down here so I would not wake you, but it seems my precautions were for naught.”

“Do you need anything?” Y’shtola asked, not certain what she should do. They did not seem to be upset, but insomnia certainly did not indicate an untroubled mind. “Perhaps some tea will help you fall asleep.”

Corisande shook her head again. A heavy beat of silence passed before she spoke. “I know these past several months have been difficult—that I have been difficult—but I am grateful you are here.”

“I am not one to be put off by hardship.” Y’shtola sat beside them on the sofa and touched their arm lightly, smoothing her thumb over their forearm, brushing against the edge of their scarred skin. “I will always choose to be at your side. I only ask that you allow me to bear your burdens as well, so that I may do what I can to ease your hardship.”

“You have done much already. More than I had a right to expect.” Corisande put her hand over Y’shtola’s, squeezing gently.

“You expect far too little, then. You ought to ask for more.”

Corisande laughed softly, and the sound of it warmed her. They lifted Y’shtola’s hand to their lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles that made her heart ache. “Go back to bed, my love.”

Corisande released her hand, but Y’shtola made no move to rise. It did not seem right, leaving them alone in the too still night with only the thoughts that kept them awake. “I would like to stay.”

They hesitated, but Y’shtola felt the sincere acceptance in their nod. She moved over on the sofa and Corisande followed her lead without argument, shifting onto their side and laying their head in Y’shtola’s lap. Y’shtola stroked their ears gently, listening to their quiet breaths and the soft roar of the ocean as she turned the day’s conversations over in her mind.

Corisande insisted that Y’shtola had done much for her already, but what exactly had she done for them since arriving on the island? What had she done for them since they left the infirmary in Old Sharlayan? She was there when Corisande woke, she was there when they wanted to kiss and cuddle rather than speak, but she had yet to do anything to materially benefit their recovery. And wasn’t that why she had come? Hadn’t those five words that had brought her here—Come soon, if you can—seemed an urgent plea from someone so understated, so reluctant to ever ask for help? Hadn’t she hoped to observe the scope of their well-being, and do what she could to help?

As reticent as they were with their troubles, it had been difficult to do much for them. But as reluctant as they were to discuss their nightmares, they had finally given her something to work with. She understood now just how much losing their ability to cast had hurt them. They were clearly not willing to give up their quest to regain their abilities, and Y’shtola could hardly blame them for that. But neither was she willing to leave them to solve the problem on their own.

She glanced down at Corisande, peaceful in their sleep for the first time in days, and a powerful resolve overcame her. Now that she had a modicum of information, she could act in a way unavailable to her prior. Tomorrow, she would set about doing her best to ensure Corisande regained her ability to cast.

—

Morning had truly arrived by the time Corisande woke. They sat up quickly, offering profuse apologies to Y’shtola that she only waved off. Y’shtola made them promise not to do any casting on their own, to which they readily agreed, and went upstairs for a nap. Satisfied with the sincerity of their promise—they may have kept a secret from her, but they were not one for lies—she was able to quickly and comfortably fall asleep.

‘Twas late afternoon when she woke again. Corisande had not yet returned to the cabin, but that was no matter. Y’shtola had plenty of time while they slept to think over the matter of Corisande’s casting, and now that she was rested, she was keen to put the plan into action.

She was making a list of questions she would need answered before moving forward when Corisande ascended the stairs. Y’shtola rose, coming around to greet them when they sat on the edge of the bed.

“You have returned just in time. I have some questions, if you are willing to answer them,” Y’shtola said.

“Shtola—”

“About your casting,” she clarified, noticing how stiffly they sat. “And I will need you to try to cast, if you are up for it. Not today, of course, whenever you feel ready—”

“Shtola.” The gravity with which they said her name brought Y’shtola up short. She waited for them to speak, a sudden slight trepidation sparking in her stomach. “I have been thinking about what you said to me on the beach.”

Y’shtola had gone over that conversation in her mind for hours while Corisande slept, trying to glean what information she could, and come away with the feeling that perhaps she could have been less reproachful. She kept her voice level when spoke. “Many things were  said yesterday. Perhaps not all of them need be treated with the same consideration.”

“I think you were right,” Corisande said, as if Y’shtola had not spoken. “I have been unfair to you, Shtola. Worse, I have been unkind.”

A pit bloomed suddenly in Y’shtola’s chest, a small but deep worry clawing its way out as they took her hand. They pressed their lips to her hand before continuing.

“Everything was going so well when you arrived.” Corisande ran her thumb gently across Y’shtola’s knuckles. “I hoped it would last. I hoped neither of us would have to contend with the nightmares any longer, and I thought talking about any of it would jeopardize any chance of peace.”

Y’shtola brushed a curl out of Corisande’s eyes. “’Tis an understandable, if misguided, instinct.” She smiled, and cupped Corisande’s cheek as she spoke. “’Tis not anything that we cannot resolve together going forward.”

Corisande did not smile back. They closed their eyes, and Y’shtola’s heart fell. She recognized the way they steeled themself, had seen it over and over again throughout the years.

“I cannot see a way forward that does not cause you pain.” Corisande’s voice was almost hoarse, thick with emotion as she spoke. “I cannot see a future for us that is kind to you.”

A cold nausea worked its way from Y’shtola’s stomach to her throat. “What do you mean by that?”

They took a deep breath, and opened their eyes to look at her. “I have been hurting you for months, and I do not wish to do so any longer. The only way I can see to do that is—”

They cut themself off, pressing their lips together as they fought a hitch in their breath. The silent pause that followed weighed Y’shtola with a heavy dread that only grew the longer the moment drew out.

“—is to bring our relationship to an end.”

The very ground Y’shtola stood on seemed to crumble beneath her. She felt caught in a landslide, her heart and her hope slipping rapidly out of her reach.

“Surely you cannot mean that,” she said, latching on with both hands to the last bit of hope she could. “It hardly seems necessary.”

Corisande’s silence pained her. She felt almost winded, as if she had been struck a heavy blow. “You have slept little, and arrived rather rapidly at this conclusion. Perhaps you should reconsider after some rest, and include me in the decision process this time.”

Corisande shook her head. “I have given it much thought already, Shtola. ‘Tis better for us to part ways now, before I can visit even more unkindness on you than I have already.”

“And what about this unkindness?” Y’shtola asked, embarrassed by the way the hurt had worked its way into her voice. “If your aim was to prevent any further pain to me, you have sorely fallen short.”

“I know.” The grief in Corisande’s voice echoed within Y’shtola, mirrored in the way she still clung tightly, hopefully, to their hand. Her mind worked quickly, racing with solutions, something she could say that would bring an end to this deep and cutting ache—a kind of agony she had never known before. Something that would convince Corisande to take back her words. She could say she was fine not knowing anything of what haunted Corisande’s dreams, that they only had to speak of what Corisande wished to speak of, that she could let it all go, if they could, too.

None of it would be the truth.

In the end, she said nothing, only let Corisande pull her in with their hands on her waist. With Corisande sitting, they were almost the same height, and Y’shtola only had to bend her neck slightly to press her forehead to theirs. She lost track of how long they stayed that way, her hand on the back of their neck, their hands curled around her waist, warm through the fabric of her dress.

“I love you,” Corisande said softly, a quiet breath shared between them. “I want you to be happy.”

The ache in Y’shtola’s heart throbbed painfully. She tilted her head, closing the distance between them with a kiss. Corisande’s hands tightened on her waist, and a second later they were pulling her closer, their lips parting beneath Y’shtola’s.

Corisande let Y’shtola push her gently back onto the bed, pulled her along until their bodies pressed flush together. Her hands slipped beneath Y’shtola’s dress, soft and warm in their caresses, and Y’shtola met the gentleness of her touches with her own.

When the first tears fell down Corisande’s cheeks, Y’shtola wiped them away and kissed the salted tracks they left behind. She held her close as they moved together, each touch tinged with finality, and a longing for what they already missed.

Y’shtola had fought for Corisande before. She had hoped and prayed so fervently for Corisande to return to her that she had bent the universe to her will and made it so.

But just as before, there was naught she could do to keep them from choosing to go alone.

***

Corisande watched the tide roll in.

Y’shtola had left in the gray of the morning, teleporting to the aetheryte at the Moraby Drydocks, and taken Corisande’s shattered heart with her.

It was for the best. That was what she had to tell herself, over and over, to keep from taking it all back. She could not give Y’shtola the kindness and the openness she deserved. She had hardly been able to speak of the way her hindered casting affected her. How many more painful nights until Corisande worked up the strength to tell Y’shtola of the things that haunted her? Until she could admit she often dreamed of Y’shtola’s death over and over again, her very being unraveling before Corisande’s eyes? Or that sometimes Zenos loomed over her, bearing down upon her with his sword, and other times she stood over him, her boots spattered with blood, and she did not know which was worse?

They had already hurt Y’shtola enough. They would not make her suffer for them any longer.

She hugged her knees to her chest, reaching for the will to face the empty cabin. They only had themself to blame for the way it seemed too quiet now, the island too vast and empty. For the hollowness in their chest, a void they had torn open in themself.

When the sun finally cleared the horizon, and the pink sky faded into a too perfect blue, they rose to their feet. Baldin would be arriving soon to retrieve the luggage that Y’shtola had left behind, and for this, at least, Corisande would not make her wait.

[hold-him-down]

Maybe I missed it, but what happened with Felix and River? Do they like each other? Were they forced to hurt each other?

All that's really been established so far is they met under not-great circumstances for the first time, there were at least some bad moments between them, and now River won't go near him in spite of seemingly giving a shit™ about him.

I wouldn't say they like or don't like each other right now. Felix is in a spot where he doesn't have it in him to think anything about the people he knew, and River is, with respect to Felix, hellbent on staying away from him for right now.

[greenapricot]

Title: The Names of All the Wind - Chapter 9 Author: greenapricot Fandom: Lewis Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway, Laura Hobson Pairing: James Hathaway/Robbie Lewis Rating: Teen Word count: 2209 Chapter 9 of 9 (fic now complete!) Warnings: None

“I sort of—” Robbie takes a sip of his pint, glances at Laura, then at the ducks swimming against the current. He’s unsure how to explain James to himself, let alone to Laura; how they fit without even trying, how they had been literally drawn to each other, how there is more between them than their unintentionally formed mystic connection. He’s smiling again just thinking about it, smiling still. Simple is probably best. “I met someone while I was there.” His face goes hot as the words leave his mouth.

“Did you now?” Laura raises an eyebrow salaciously, grinning at him over the rim of her glass as she sips her gin and tonic. She is having far too much fun with this, but Robbie can’t even muster the scowl her tone deserves. His smile keeps breaking through.

“Not like that.”

“No shame in a little holiday romance.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean— It’s more than a holiday romance.”

“Is it now?” Her grin widens.

The Names of All the Wind - Chapter 9 on Ao3

[ian-galagher]

darkness comes before the dawn.

written by Willow @ian-galagher and Sky @transmurderbug for @gallavich-fic-club's summer camp event, with art by Nosho @creepkinginc and betaed by Julia @blue-disco-lights

"Hey, Mickey? I was thinking of baking a pie. Would you like some?"   It startles him when the raven lets out a burst of shouts. "Cah, cah, cah!"   "I take that as a yes," Ian says, grinning. "Blueberry?"   "Cah! Cah! Cah!"   Mickey shuts his eyes, his chest squeezing tight. To his ears, it sounds an awful lot like the raven is talking to him, rather than Ian, telling him to "Speak! Speak! Speak!"

this fic is now COMPLETE! 🥳

total worth count: 20k

🌾read here on ao3 or start from the beginning here!

[cringengl]

My gallavich 5+1 outsider pov fic is finally posted on my ao3 everybody cheer wooooo!! You can now check it out here!!

the many assumptions made about mickey milkovich's wife

4.6k, one-shot, 5+1 things, post s11, mechanic!mickey, outsider pov

[too-young-to-fall-in-love]

Turned Night Into Day

summary:

There's no reason why Illya should want to talk to him. Really, there isn't. So why's he showing up at his hotel room with a bottle of Scotch and something like an apology on his lips? Or, most of Amor Magnus Doctor Est chapter 8 in Napoleon's POV!! <3

notes:

inspired by Amor Magnus Doctor Est by @cha-melodius

tags:

POV Napoleon Solo, Napoleon solo has no self confidence, insecure Napoleon solo, Reunions, the happy ending to just like me, Mild Sexual Content, inspired by another fic, Napoleon Solo Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors

excerpt:

“I’m sorry,” Illya whispers, the words ringing like a gunshot in the otherwise dead quiet of the room. Of all the things Napoleon was expecting, it was definitely not that. “I heard what you and Gaby were talking about,” and “Did you really get Victoria fired to try and win me back?” seemed the most obvious. He’s only able to stare at Illya as the words rattle around in his head. In the silence of the room it seems that Illya might want to take it back. He finds himself hoping he will, because while there’s nothing he wants more than Illya, he’s only good for being left behind. He hopes equally as much that he won’t, because even in the face of reality he still wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything else. “What for?” he asks, head tilted to the side, brow furrowed. Illya huffs out a sound that could be a laugh, but it’s too harsh, too bitter to be classified as such. It’s so sudden that Napoleon actually flinches from it. “Everything,” he answers, like it’s obvious. Like he’d done anything wrong. Leaving him may have been the best decision Illya’s ever made. He can’t imagine how that could be wrong. “For blaming you when it wasn’t really your fault. For shutting you out. For not—” Illya’s voice catches in his throat, and he takes another swallow of liquor. Napoleon shuts his eyes against Illya’s next words, “for not being there for you when I should have been.” A feeble sense of hope takes root in his heart, growing until it threatens to choke him.

read more on ao3

[saetoru]

i think taking a break from writing smut for like almost a year has been rly refreshing bc i think it made me stop questioning if my writing is interesting without sex and just write it how i want. and then tbh a part of me has realized i like writing without the sex half the time. it’s nice. it’s fun to explore intimacy in as many non sexual ways as you can

[randomingoftherandomness]

Fic: I Love You With Purpose

Pairing: Gong Shangjue x Gong Yuanzhi

A/N: This one is for @dangermousie :)

--

Shangjue gently cards his fingers through Yuanzhi's undone hair. The tips of his fingernails scratch against his scalp, moving from root to tip in comfortable rhythmic motions. It's just them here in the quiet of their room, sitting on their bed. Just them in their nightclothes, unwinding from the day.

Shangjue sinks himself into the feeling of running his fingers through Yuanzhi's hair, quietly absorbed in the calming task of massaging this year's finest batch of camelia hair oil into every strand. It's getting longer now. There are many styles of braids that he picked up when he was out in the martial world. He can't wait to try them all out on his didi's hair.

"Didi, tomorrow we should go for a ride. There's a beautiful meadow I'd like to bring you to."

"Mm... That sounds nice. Should we ask the kitchen to prepare some food for the journey?" Yuanzhi asks, eyes closed serenely, lips curled In a smile. After a beat, he chuckles. "This really sounds like you're courting me."

Shangjue stills. Taking his didi by the waist, he turns him around until they are face to face. Gesturing at the space between them, he points at the clutter on the table next to his own neatly arranged study. Then he waves his hand at the bottles of hair oil he had spent not a small amount of money to buy.

Yuanzhi laughs. "Point taken."

Shangjue barely resists the undignified urge to roll his eyes as Yuanzhi snuggles back into his embrace. Reaching up to pat his head, he hides his smile in a kiss on the shell of Yuanzhi's ear.

Yuanzhi splays his hands up, sliding their palms together. Shangjue holds on to him, allowing himself the indulgence of having his didi so close and unbridled.

But in just a breath, with a slow whisper that is barely any louder than the beat of a mosquito's wing, shatters that peace.

"Do you ever wish we never met?"

Shangjue blinks and calms himself. "What's brought this on?"

"Mm... Just a question."

That's a clear deflection if he has ever heard one. Tucking his hair behind his ear, he gently comments. "Yuanzhi didi never asks a question idly. Tell your gege. Where's this coming from? Has someone made you upset?"

Yuanzhi sighs, merely shaking his head. "It's nothing." A pause. "It's everything."

Shangjue patiently waits him out, holding him tightly. "I've been wondering lately if we shouldn't have met after all. How my life would have been if I had never met you, how different of a person I would be. I wonder if it would have been better if you..."

"You?"

"If you never fell in love with me. Then perhaps you could have had a normal life. A wife. A child to carry on your name. Maybe I would be just a cousin you saw occasionally. Someone who did not make a deep impression on you."

Yuanzhi's gaze flash with the flickering of the candlelight, gazing into the distance. Softly, as if he isn't expecting the words to even exist in his voice, he murmurs. "Maybe if I didn't exist, you still could..."

Shangjue tightens his embrace. Heart racing at the thought of his world not having his didi in it, mind buzzing with uncharacteristic panic at the thought that he would not have Yuanzhi by his side.

"Gong Yuanzhi, I want you to listen to me, and listen well." He crosses his arms around his didi's chest, pressing every ounce of sincerity and fragility into his words. "I didn't fall in love with you. Falling implies that how I feel for you is an accident."

"I love you and have loved you on purpose. Consciously, willingly, and with deliberate thought. Every shade of my love, every moment I have loved you has been a choice. And I choose you."

The warm droplets on the back of his hands are carefully ignored. Shangjue tilts Yuanzhi and folds him closer until he is safely tucked against his shoulder, dampening the fabric there. Leaning in, he softly hides his smile to the side of his hair, breathing in deep the warm scent of camelia and musk.

Yuanzhi's demons aren't unfamiliar to him and he knows this won't be the last time he has to keep them at bay. Born of his fault, it's his solemn duty to remind Yuanzhi, to anchor him, to soothe him that this is real -- the life that they've built together is as real and as true as the air in their lungs.

"Let me say one thing more." Shangjue lifts Yuanzhi's face by the cheek. Cooing a little at the red-rimmed eyes, he lovingly wipes away the tears, smoothing away the frown between his brows. "Your place by my side on purpose and with purpose. No one can take that away from you. No one can replace you. In this life, Yuanzhi didi is my Yuanzhi didi. Understand?"

"Mn."

Yuanzhi gives him a tremulous, wet smile, pulling away to wipe away the few stray tears that trickle down his face. "You know, whoever said that Gong Ziyu was the most romantic man of our generation has obviously never heard you speak. You'd give the best poets a run for their money, Ge."

Shangjue barks a laugh at that. Shuffling over, he lays his hand over Yuanzhi's hip, drawing him in for a kiss. And then two, and three.

"It's good that no one knows. I'm a romantic only for my didi, after all."

Yuanzhi holds in the cough long enough before his shoulder starts to shake and he laughs out loud around his wheezing gasps.

"Please, gege, never let anyone but me hear you say things like these. The world is not ready for your type of romance."

Shangjue chuckles, reeling him back in. Snuffing out the candlelight, he lies them both down -- Yuanzhi on the inside of the bed, him on the outside. They talk for a bit more, speaking about the food they'd like to have on their little sojourn tomorrow.

They'll need to wake up early so that Shangjue can try this intricate braid work that he learnt from some merchants from the far West. When Yuanzhi's breathing begins to even out, Shangjue takes a moment just as sleep is beginning to take him, and thinks adoringly.

Yes, from the moment I met you, I have loved you with purpose.

[malkaleh]

Thinking about the Tudors OT3 kids marriages

It’s actually very much a thing that while they do arrange marriages Anne, Henry and Thomas very much give their children a choice within that/want them to be able to at least be able to be happy with their spouse, if not in love. Partly this can happen because England is in the position of being courted for alliances in this verse, partly because they have nine children (including Mary in this) - including five boys.

Tommy and Mihrimah came about because essentially, I read an account that Francis I had proposed an Ottoman match at one point and I thought that in a world in which Mihrimah is (a) actually the youngest of her family (b) England is the one being courted for alliances and (c) Ottoman influence in Europe it would make sense for Henry to look somewhere different for a bride for his oldest son. Tommy might actually have been betrothed to Mary Queen of Scots if she’d been born earlier/something else fell out (I have to figure out MQOS)

I saw a post by @theladyelizabeth about ‘how Elizabeth could have been married to Robert if her father had lived longer’ that was great and she mentioned maybe if Henry and Anne had had multiple children and I think that’s what does it - Elizabeth does have betrothal offers (in this case she’s always been considered legitimate - I have to figure out the offers and how they fall through but I think possibly France/Spain/Denmark/Portugal?) and and her journey re marrying at all/marrying Robert is a whole other post.

George was betrothed to the fictional second daughter of Marguerite of Navarre (Madeleine) pretty early on - partly because of Anne’s love of France and also her friendship/admiration for Marguerite.

Liam’s entire betrothal adventure is a whole other post as well.

Margaret was betrothed to the Crown Prince of Denmark pretty early - it turned out they fell in love/liked each other but I think maybe also there was a consideration of an Italian match?

Owen too was betrothed pretty early to Infanta Sofia (who is a fictional granddaughter of Queen Juana I of Spain)

Edmund being betrothed to a Persian noblewoman was another ‘oooh what if’ because of the increased ties to the Ottoman world by the time he and his sister were born.

There were actually several/many offers for Pippa pre [redacted] (the story of how an ambassador nearly died for what he said about her is also a whole other post).

[astrhae]

nebula 231080 | Chapter 1: 11k words, angst with a happy ending, temporary amnesia

All his infinite words and dialects stuck beneath his ribcage, apologies useless and prayers unheard, and all Aziraphale could say, short and far from enough, was, “Perfect.” Crowley grinned back. Aziraphale looked away. It wasn’t fair of him. He held up the tire iron, the engine crank, and braced it against the center of the canvas. “Ready?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley tilted his head. “You still haven’t told me your name.” --------------- Or, in the aftermath of the Antichrist debacle, instead of Hellfire, Heaven decides to erase Aziraphale from the Book of Life. Things don’t go as planned. Featuring the moon landing, a masquerade ball, London’s questionable Angel Station, a carriage ride in Venice, and Aziraphale using the Bentley’s tire iron. (In which Season 2 is a time loop, and Aziraphale gives away his halo.)

Written for the @ineffableidiotsbigbang and with stunning art by the amazing @self-indulgentwriter

[lieutgore]

Late to the party to say I’m going to combust when you publish your brat taming fitzgore fic and also I will be refreshing ao3 every 15 minutes forever now

anon as soon as i finish making these pancakes im cracking my laptop open just for u