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topaziraphale · 7 months

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"Stop saying Crowley won't help Aziraphale in S3 he'd go back to him in a HEARTBEAT and nothing would stop him" I get it no one likes the idea of Crowley being bitter after what happened for a long period of time but like can we at least acknowledge that he's currently going through probably the most emotional pain in his life since falling? Can we agree that he's opened his heart entirely - something you couldn't pay him to do unless the world is literally ending and he's desperate - to Aziraphale, and got shot down? Can we understand that he did it AGAIN only to lose Aziraphale again? Not that what Aziraphale did isn't without Crowley's own shortcomings (hiding the truth of Heaven's cruelty from him) but like,,,,

The appeal here isn't Scorned Crowley Doesn't Love Aziraphale Anymore, or Never Wants To Help Him Again, the appeal here is Crowley learning enough self respect to not just walk back right to Aziraphale like nothing happened after Aziraphale has had a pattern of consistently refusing him. Going years ping-ponging between "We're not friends I don't even know him" to "That's what friends are for right?" and "We're friends, why would you even say anything?" and "Friends? We're not friends. We are an angel and a demon!"

Like I get it, Crowley is a heartbreakingly forgiving person. Of course he's gonna forgive Aziraphale, I'll be surprised if he didn't forgive him by the time he walked out the bookshop door, but gdi he could at least grant himself the luxury of being at least a little irritated for longer than however long it takes to make a globe and some books float and angrily cry out to God in his flat. But due to the change of pace and dynamic that is establishing part of the conflict for Season 3, I just really like the idea of him for ONCE prioritizing himself and being like "Okay, fine. We'll get back at it when you're ready, then," instead of just taking Aziraphale back like his words and actions meant nothing to him, when clearly they have an effect on him.

What is Aziraphale going to learn if Crowley just accepts what he did so quickly, like he always has the entire time they've been friends? Idk maybe I'm just projecting too much darkness on their dynamic but I mean, if the pattern of Aziraphale pushing Crowley away/disrespecting him one day and then being fine with his friendship the next + Crowley never stopping to be like "Hey, that's not cool, at least give me a little credit" or smth was fine all along and will continue to be fine in the future, then why, after 6,000 years of being friends and loving this demon, can Aziraphale still not accept that Crowley is just fine the way he is, and instead got excited to promote him to an angel in a heartbeat once the opportunity presented itself? You can't blame all of it on Heaven when Aziraphale has demonstrated his free will/defiance to Heaven so many times. Or, I don't know, I guess maybe we can? Maybe I'm just craving too much angst to the point where I'm letting it cloud my analysis of canon. Idk.

#derpy speaks #good omens #good omens 2 #no i dont think crowley is gonna ever hate aziraphale for what happened but he's allowed to be angry #he's allowed to be done with it all. he's allowed to be exhausted. just look at his face when he drives away.#meh. idk. but i dont know how i'll feel if crowley just INSTANTLY accepts aziraphale back in a situation involving #idk - ''hey help me stop the new apocalypse''#at least. without like. SOME pushback? it can even be something small like ''are you SURE you want ME to help you? do you really need me?''#doesnt have to be a straight refusal but i'd like SOME kind of action to show that crowley is putting his foot down for once #he deserves that self respect #do NOT reply saying that im insinuating that aziraphale is actively malicious or doing it on purpose.#everything he has done up until now is his own complicated response to all the trauma and guilt he's been through #but despite that crowley is STILL allowed to be upset... it's messy. i can write a whole paper about how this whole thing #is just unfortunate on both ends. again. we didnt get queerbaited we got communication baited 😭#but help me out here. am i just too fandom-brained to have these expectations from the story?#is there something obvious im missing that is making me sound like a complete asshole here? do i need to get my head out of the gutter?#someone please explain it to me if so because whatever it is‚ i can't find it #not queued

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scionshtola · 4 months

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reaching in the dark

summary: After Corisande wakes from a nightmare, they must confront a lingering worry with Y'shtola before they can fall back sleep. pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul word count: 2248 | rated: G | read on ao3 notes: set directly after the end of 6.0 with very big plot spoilers. [divider credit]

A gentle snow falls over Foundation. It piles on the windowsills of Corisande’s apartment, shifting white hills against the gray stretch of sky. A fire crackles in the hearth, keeping the cold at bay as they lie intertwined with Y’shtola on their plush red sofa. Y’shtola’s head is tucked under their chin while they each read their own books in quiet contentment, broken only by her occasional contemplative hum that echoes in their chest—and the high-pitched whistle of the kettle on the stove.

Y’shtola shifts, closing her book and making to stand, but Corisande pulls her closer, smiling into her hair when she laughs. “It will only take a moment,” she says, and kisses their jaw before rising to her feet.

Coridande catches her hand and pulls her back. “Pray, hurry back,” she says, and presses a soft kiss to Y'shtola's knuckles, content with the smile she gets in return. "’Tis far too cold without you.”

Y’shtola glances at her over her shoulder, a smirk building at the corner of her lips. She opens her mouth to speak, but her words are drowned out by a gale of wind that sweeps through the apartment.

Darkness roils in the air around her. Corisande leaps to their feet and their hair comes loose from its braid in the swirling wind, strands whipping across their face. Y’shtola stretches her arm toward them, reaching, and they lunge forward, their heart seizing as they grasp her fingers.

Not again, they think desperately, clutching tightly at Y’shtola’s hand as the wind picks up, a veritable storm raging through their apartment. If only they can will her aether back into place, push and pull at the dynamis until they force the storm to calm. Something, anything, to keep her here—

“Shtola!” Corisande cries out as Y’shtola’s fingers dissipate in her grip. She tries to stay calm, to keep the dynamis from overwhelming her, but panic courses through her and her heartbeat races in a frenzied rhythm. The wind whips faster and faster, darkness swirling around Y’shtola, and Corisande can barely hear her own voice. “Shtola, please—”

“I am here,” Y’shtola says quietly, her calm voice at odds with the fear that consumes Corisande. “I am right here, love.”

The darkness rises, encompassing Y’shtola entirely. Corisande surges forward and thrusts their hand into the dark, swirling mass where Y’shtola stood, intent on pulling her back into the light, but their grasping fingers come up empty. The wind roars, tearing at their hair, their clothes, their face, until they have to close their eyes against it.

Silence falls. There is no comfort in it, so harsh is it in its suddenness. Their stomach twists, nausea threatening to overwhelm them as they struggle to quell their dread. When they open their eyes, there is only darkness.

It’s disorienting—they cannot tell up from down, left from right, cannot hear anything but their own harsh and erratic breaths. They try to call out, but the words catch thick in their throat.

A cool touch on the back of her hand startles her. She jerks back but the touch is persistent, if light—fingers sliding over her skin to grip her own, thumb stroking her knuckles in slow, soothing circles.

“Shtola?” they breathe, closing their fingers over her soft, familiar ones. Their breathing begins to slow as the adrenaline fades, and their eyes adjust to the dark as they calm. The shape of Y’shtola leans toward them, and they make out the concerned droop of her ears, the worried flick of her tail over her shoulder. “You’re alright?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Y’shtola answers, her even tone a balm to Corisande’s racing heart. “‘Tis your well-being that worries me at the moment.”

Their surroundings come back to them when she speaks—the slightly uncomfortable infirmary bed they have been lying in for days, the too thin sheets beneath them, the blanket tangled around their legs. The window beside their bed, dark curtains drawn to keep out the light from the lamps that line Old Sharlayan’s stone paths. Their ears, sensitive to sound even in their most relaxed state, pick up the wind that rolls through the city outside, and they stifle an instinctual shiver.

“Fine, now.” Guilt and embarrassment curl together in their stomach. They must have thrashed in their sleep, worrying her over nothing but a bad dream. They hear Y’shtola’s book snap closed and the fabric of her dress shift as she moves, and then the darkness recedes, replaced by the yellow glow of the lamp beside their bed. Though it had been calming to hear her voice, the sight of Y’shtola carries away their lingering worry in a wash of relief.

“Are you sure?” Y’shtola asks. In the dark, her even tone had masked the extent of her concern. Now, though the light is low, Corisande can see the worry in her expression. Her lips press together in a tight line as she looks them over for any sign of disturbance to their aether—the only type of harm to them she is capable of seeing, something they know frustrates her and eases her mind in equal parts. “You seemed upset, before I woke you.”

“‘Twas nothing, love,” Corisande answers. They push themself up, sore arms aching with the effort. It is hardly the first time Y’shtola has borne witness to one of their nightmares, but shame heats their cheeks anyway to know just how much she had seen.

Y’shtola starts to speak but stops, jaw clenched. They can tell by the way she looks at them that she is thinking over her words. Finally, she says, pointedly, “You were calling my name.”

“‘Twas only a dream,” Corisande murmurs, her embarrassment growing yet again. Her nightmares have clearly upset Y’shtola already, and there is no use in continuing to worry her now that Corisande is awake. It would be better for them both if she kept the contents to herself.

Y’shtola leans forward in her chair, as if to reach for them, but pauses, her fists clenched tightly in her lap. She lets out a small, soft sigh, and says, “Please, Corisande. Tell me what it is you need.”

It borders on reproach, the way she says their name, yet it strikes their heart as if it were a desperate plea. They know how difficult it is for her to have turned their care over to the healers in Old Sharlayan, how much must it grate on her to have so little to do for them while they recover. She has sat by their side for days, even while they slept, only ever wanting to help. They reach for her hand, ignoring the sharp twinge in their protesting ribs. “Will you sit with me?”

Y’shtola squeezes their hand, relief flashing across her features. She releases them to unlace her boots, pulling them off and switching the lamp off before settling herself against the headboard. Corisande lays her head in Y’shtola’s lap, her eyes fluttering closed when Y’shtola begins gently stroking her ears.

The last of their lingering tension fades under Y’shtola’s soft, calming touch, their limbs growing pleasantly loose and heavy as she lulls them to sleep. The dream returns unbidden to their mind—Y’shtola’s head on her chest, a line of warmth along her side, the picture of perfect bliss. A mirror image of this moment, until the darkness had set in.

Corisande pushes the dream aside. This—Y’shtola soft and warm and whole underneath them—was real, and the dream was not. They were no longer under threat of the Final Days. They had defeated The Endsinger—

What were you thinking, fighting alone? Never do that again. My poor heart couldn’t bear it.

The memory comes barrelling to the forefront of her mind, pulling her sharply back from the edge of sleep. Y’shtola leaning over her on The Ragnarok, some combination of worry and frustration openly scrawled across her face, speaking to her in that same reproachful tone she had used moments ago, underlined with something like anger.

They take a deep breath and tuck themself closer to Y’shtola, willing themself to fall back asleep. But it is no use—this memory will not be brushed off as easily as the dream, and it brings with it a new worry that pricks at them as sharply as any of their injuries. But there is no healing to be had until they discover just how deep this particular wound goes.

“Shtola,” they say, barely above a whisper. Y’shtola responds with the quiet, inquiring sound she uses when Corisande interrupts her reading with a question, and the familiarity of it eases the pressure in their chest. “Are you angry with me?"

She does not answer right away, but now that the question is asked, Corisande has faith she will answer honestly. They wait in silence, patient under the soothing motion of Y’shtola’s hand over their ears.

“I am. And I have every reason to be,” Y’shtola says, that chiding anger seeping into her even tone. “You should not have fought The Endsinger alone. What were you thinking?”

The amalgamation of despair that was The Endsinger looms in their memory, the way it had loomed over them at the edge of the universe. The Scions had given their lives so that Corisande could make her way to its nest, and The Endsinger had cast them into the vast abyss of space for their efforts. Their sacrifices had been far too great for Corisande to disregard when she found herself standing alone. It was a simple choice, after everything they had done for her, to save them and stay behind to see the job done.

“I had to stop it,” Corisande answers, with the same certainty she’d felt when she’d made the decision. “I knew you would be safe on The Ragnarok—”

“‘Twas not my safety that concerned me,” Y’shtola interrupts sharply. “Staying behind to face The Endsinger alone was reckless. ‘Twas dangerous. ‘Twas…”

Y’shtola trails off, an uncharacteristic tremble in her voice that tugs at Corisande’s heart. They shift in her lap until they can wrap their arms around her waist, pulling her even closer, and wait for her to continue.

“I have always chosen to stand by your side,” Y’shtola says after a moment. “To be so forcefully parted by The Endsinger, to watch you stay behind while I was whisked to safety—’twas all I could do not to add my own despair to her endless reserves.”

They had known Y’shtola would be unhappy with their decision the moment they made it, but they thought they could bear it, so long as she was safe. So long as all of their friends were safe. But the hurt in Y’shtola’s voice as she speaks wraps itself like vines around Corisande, thorns pressing into all their softest parts, tempered only by the relief that Y’shtola is still here to be angry with them.

“If you had died alone at the edge of the universe while I was stuck safely on The Ragnarok, able to do naught but hope and pray for your safety…” Y’shtola tightens her arms around their shoulders with a shuddering breath they feel beneath their cheek. “I do not know if I could have borne it.”

Y’shtola’s loosened grip on her composure at the mere thought of losing Corisande is enough to crack her heart wide open. Love and affection spring forth like a river freed from a dam, washing away everything in its path. Overwhelmed, she buries her face in Y’shtola’s shoulder, all but nuzzling closer.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Corisande says. Though there is nothing she would have done differently, she cannot deny the pain that she caused, nor that she is sorry for having caused it. She asks, as quietly as the question that had started this conversation, “Can you forgive me?”

“Tis not as if I can ask you to promise not to risk yourself again, can I?” Y’shtola says after a moment of silence. All her earlier anger has leaked from her tone, leaving behind only calm acceptance.

“No more than I could ask it of you,” they reply honestly. The image of Y’shtola disappearing in a whirlwind of aether while they stood helplessly by lingers in their mind, not the dream that had woken them more than once but the very real memory of her sacrifice on Ultima Thule.

Y’shtola leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of their head before resting her cheek there. “Of course I can forgive you, love. I know you always do what you believe to be right. I only ask that you allow me to help, when I can. You need not take on everything alone.”

“You are helping,” Corisande murmurs. Y’shtola’s presence was always a comfort, even more so now that they so often dreamed of losing her. “Being here when I wake—that helps.”

“Should you ever need anything more, you only have to ask,” Y’shtola says softly. Corisande nods in quiet acquiescence, and for a moment they hold each other in silence, Corisande taking comfort in their synced breaths, until Y’shtola adds, dryly, “But please, allow me my righteous indignation over your well-being until you are able to leave your hospital bed.”

Corisande’s laughter bubbles forth, as soft and warm as they feel. Y’shtola runs her fingers gently through the long waves of their hair, and, safe in Y’shtola’s arms, they finally let themself drift into sleep, one from which they hope not to wake until the morning.

#kels writes #oc: corisande ymir #a literal (dream) reaching and also. a metaphorical one. is how i was thinking of this lol #i went round and round with shtola in this one but i think im happy with how she is. if she seems wrong well i can explain everything in my #ten page essay on how they got here. aklsdfjlsdjfsa #also do think its a bit. cheesy perhaps. at times. and maybe it ends too abruptly. but tbh the problems here are not really solved for them #until cori spends a few months on their island. it's just like. touching on them???#IM NOT TALKING MYSELF OUT OF THIS BYE

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