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scionshtola · 6 months ago

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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.

#oc: corisande ymir #kels writes #corishtola #corishtola fic #i cant believe that it's done ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh #im so. i have many things to say askldfsd but i wont in case someone reads these tags first #but i am v excited about where to go from here #and i really appreciate everyone who read this!! and everyone who helped me write it!!!#sorry for the long note on what is only a 3 part fic but this has been a whole Journey for me since i finished enw june 2023 LOL #its been a long time!!! so im being sappy!! <3 #xiv fic

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bd-wlf · 16 days ago

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pt. 4 of Get Home, hope yall enjoy this one.

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"Hey can we go back?" Cas says from the back seat, dean stopped abruptly and put it in reverse. Cas had spotted a grocery store.

They parked the car and got out, Cas tested the door and was surprised when it opened under his light touch.

They all walked in and gazed at the untouched aisles of perfectly preserved food. Save for a thin layer of dust on the shelves most of the food was in pristine condition-the current date not even touching the due date on most shelved items Dean passed.

Michael was drawn to the wine section, Adam and Cas were in the cake and candy aisle, Dean wandered over to the book section.

Cas grabbed him by the shoulders with Adam by his side and wheeled him through the different aisles all of them laughing.

"Food." He said as they stopped "grab some, grab a cart even." He encouraged, the aisles in this part of the store were short enough he could see over them and he could see different things that looked amazing, Poptarts, Redvines, savory things like potato chips and jars of pickles.

Once he spotted it his face stretched into a smile, he looked at Cas and almost like Adam wasn't there with them anymore-he grabbed the taller man's hand and dragged him over to a section of shelf where molding bread was laid to rest but despite that the greatest pastry invention in Dean's opinion was just sitting there, pumped full of artificial preservatives and almost as good at surviving apocalypses as the Twinkie. He presented to Cas The Franz Apple Pie.

Cas smiled at his friend, Dean gathered their whole stock of apple flavor and two cherry pies and they went to catch up to the rest of them.

"So you've never had one of these?" Dean asked smiling as they said their final goodbyes to that grocery store and packed the million bags of food and supplies into trunk and back seat. he had kept one out of the back of the car as a snack while they drive and was waving it around.

"Nope, never even thought to grab one when I've been at the store. I was really a green freak."

"Oh no, please tell me you didn't subject your daughter to any of that crap." he laughed with a mouth full of candy he snagged on the way out of the store and Castiel laughed with him.

"No, no I didn't. I let her have candy whenever she wanted. Claire had quite the sweet tooth." he smiled as they put the last few bags into the car.

"Well good, but you must have had a slice of pie every once in a while?"

"Yeah I guess, maybe for a birthday once?" he couldn't remember the last time he had pie-he assumed it was when he was a kid, the smell of freshly baked apples filled his nose as he tried to remember but the trauma clouded his gaze into the past like a thick fog it was no use so he just shrugged.

"Ah man, you don't even remember! okay hold on, if you don't know that's okay but what do you think you're favorite flavor of pie would be?"

Castiel had to think,

"Maybe cherry?"

Dean reached into the trunk, they were still gathered around the outside of the car, he pulled out a red package and handed it to Cas.

"there ya go, you have got to experience this for the first time. this pie is life saving, I'm glad I got two cherries." he laughed and walked passed Castiel. He stood there for a minute flustered before following Dean and getting into the backseat.

They continued on their journey to the state line, before long it was sunset and so at the first field they saw they decided to stop. it was next to a deserted farm and they saw horses roaming free as they set up their picnic. Adam had stocked up on the fresh looking fruit, so they had grapes and pears and even some strawberries, Michael had gotten fresh vegetables and a nice whiskey, Cas had picked up cake for desert, and the whole crew had more then enough for a few days as well as first aid and other supplies in the trunk of (technically) Michael's car.

They were indulging in everything they had foraged and gotten from that grocery store when night fell. It wasn't a surprise like that sunrise Cas and Dean had saw a few morning's ago, Dean saw nightfall on the horizon. He had learned the signs of night while he was with Cas and he could now see it in the trees-the way the wind blew through their leaves-and the way the birds all stopped singing like they knew to be quiet like his group had to be quiet. They had started a fire to counteract the chill that ran straight through them at night, it had been like that for the past couple nights. Adam said winter is near and Michael told them that he liked to be dramatic.

Cas stoked the fire and embers rose out of the hearth like fireflies, the wind carried them, his eyes followed the embers until they were camouflaged into the background behind Dean.

"I think it's time to turn in." Dean made Cas aware of his concern, for everything they were still out in the open. Dean was still confused on how this virus and the mosnters it made worked but he sure as hell knew they got more active at night and he also knew that they loved to roam.

"There's house ruins over there, the way they caved in there's a little half cave that can hide everyone from the front of this pasture." He informed Dean and the younger man nodded.

"You ready to turn in?" Dean raised an eyebrow and Castiel nodded.

Under all the grocery bags in the trunk were the coats that Cas had brought with him, and Michael had a blanket in the back just 'in case of emergencies' he had laughed about, Cas didn't understand.

He chose the warmest jacket, a tan trench coat that was slightly stained with ash that he'd found outside a church one evening when he was alone-before he had met anyone not infected. Now it looked like-even without knowing if Dean and him would ever take that next step, that step towards something more then just friends, something that was undeniably between them after all the shit they endured together, something like what Michael and Adam have-now it looked like he would never be alone again, not as long as he had Dean and friends with a little bit of common sense.

Cas walked into the enclave, carrying his trench coat in one hand and the slightly dusty blanket in the other. He tossed the blanket at Dean and he caught it with a snort.

"You want to sleep on the right or the left?" he had asked it like there was an actual bed under them instead of solid ground-like he wanted there to be a bed under them so he could accurately ask that question. Castiel blushed and paused actually thinking it over before sitting down.

"Right." he smiled and dean smiled back scooting over so Cas would have more room.

The enclave was much smaller then Cas had thought so there wasn't much room but it was enough for four people and within the hour, after Cas had laid down next to him, Dean was asleep. For the first time since his coma, Dean went down without a fight, without kicking and screaming and all the fun that came with intense night terrors.

At some point between falling asleep facing Dean's back and his REM cycle, Castiel had wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulders and was cuddling him in their sleep.

This was witnessed by Michael and Adam as they finally stopped dancing by the fire and crawled into the enclave to go to sleep.

"Not together my ass." Michael said to Adam as they curled up together giggling from the booze they drank.

It was sometime in the morning when Dean jolted awake, far too early for the sun, and he saw a flicker of light of the wall opposite to him. there was someone behind him, the light of a cigarette was casting a shadow on the wall in front of him. Michael was smoking, Castiel was still sleeping and Dean was barely awake anyway so it was easy for michael to say-

"Shh, this is just a dream, go back to bed" and Dean believe him.

In the morning, once everyone had woken up, they packed the car and got back on the road. They stopped at the first gas station that they saw and Michael siphoned gas from the gas tanker conveniently parked out front.

Adam informed Cas and Dean that he had never bothered with getting a drivers license so Michael occasionally let him practice in the impala,

"Yeah, it's actually really funny because i was almost an hour late for our first date." He said from the driver's seat of the impala.

"How so?" Dean had asked

"He couldn't drive, he was also new to the city so he didn't have the taxi phone number." Michael said from behind them.

"And I kept getting lost on the way there." He smiled at the memories and Dean and Cas smiled at each other.

After they had fueled up and Adam got to showcase his truly horrific driving skilz they got back on the road.

It was just within eyeshot, the 42nd barricade, a big 42 on the side of some repurposed metal behind a fence.

Then they saw the city behind it. a big burning ball of fire and destruction with no one to stop it. Dean thought about it, about turning the car around but he knew that this meant a lot and he didn't know where'd they go after that, so he didn't. he kept driving.

He parked the car, they got out and walked through a gap in the fence. There was no one to greet them, no supplies out in the open, it was like it was abandoned. Dean could sense the team's morale drop instantly.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Michael was erratic, "This is it?!"

"Calm down,"

"I don't know about you guys but I don't like this, it feels like a trap."

"Hon. I feel like we should go"

One after one they all voiced their concerns apart from michael who walked away from them, around the corner-he growled a I'll be right back at everyone and disappeared. It was too quiet, it felt like a trap to dean and everyone else in the group.

That's when they heard the yelp and Dean knew it was over.

---

@ihaveanaxe

#welp #my musical journey with this one has been Bastiel>Kansas>maroon 5 and that's what im listening to right as i'm writing this lol #i hope this turns out okay lol #if you're reading these before then oh boy fair warning this is gonna be a long one >:3 #this is probably gonna out me as a north-westener but the store i imagine them in is Albertsons lol #but it's really any store that fits that description really #i just imgine albertsons because me and my friend's have had a similar experience at an albertsons and idk man #wasnt sponsored by Franz to write that blurb i just love those pies and i think anyone that knows them agrees with me tbh #UGHH alright one more part and then i'll post it to AO3 i swear #i'm writing this as i go and i was NOT going to overload yall with this last part so by the grace of the writing gods yall were spared #in a way #i feel like if you've watched #28 days later #then you know what comes next but whoo boy spn fans only dont know whats coming #michael spn #michael x adam #destiel #spn #castiel novak #dean winchester #dean and cas #deancas #zombie movies #zombie au #tumblr #tumblr fic #spn fic #fics #my fic

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sodaneko · 1 month ago

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rereading soft launch and it's funny how i gave up halfway through on the whole kansai-ben for osamu

#i don't think it's a hot take (or any take at all even) but imo you don't need to give the twins a southern accent to try imitate theirs #and it's not a bad thing either if you do. i really just enjoy any variation of this while reading. write whatever and however you want #just in terms of writing it myself it's such a struggle since english isn't my 1st language and accents don't come natural to me #like i can barely grasp them in my own language lmao i won't even try to make it sound natural in english #when it's not even natural in english either because there's so many nuances in translation and some things just will get lost #if anything i always imagined them as cowboys. just one ya yer yeehaw away from it all #anyway. looking back i guess this is the one thing i'd fix but also i kinda like it this way. charming somehow #it shows what a journey and learning curve writing this has been for me (still is!) so it's fine #-`♡´- tulip mail

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theyre-in-love · 9 months ago

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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.