#Fires of Fate 🔥 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

hihii, can u write anything involving yeonbin x reader with smut in it? 😇

always ours

summary: you’ve been inseparable from yeonjun and soobin since high school—chaotic, intense, and addicting. but when a new guy asks you out, your best friends don’t take it lightly. what starts as teasing turns into something raw, dominant, and impossible to come back from.

pairing: bff!yeonjun x fem!reader x bff!soobin

genre: friends to lovers, smut, porn with plot, possessive dynamics, college au.

warnings: threesome, oral (m!receiving & f!receiving), double penetration, semi-public setting (shared dorm), spit, cumplay, overstimulation, mild choking, aftercare, phone call humiliation, jealousy, possessiveness, light degradation, praise kink, no condoms (wrap it up irl), minors dni.

wc: 3,9k

notes: anon i hope you like this omg i honestly loved writing it… i’m so deep in my toxic yeonbin era rn it’s insane 😵‍💫🔥

you met yeonjun and soobin on the first day of high school, the three of you stumbling into the hallway almost at the same time—breathless, out of sync with the bell, and equally unprepared for the scolding you were about to receive.

“this isn’t a good first impression,” the teacher had snapped, tapping their clipboard against their palm.

you bit back a smile, glancing to your right where yeonjun stood, lips twitching with barely hidden amusement. soobin, to your left, looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“sorry,” you mumbled, trying to look remorseful.

“yeah, won’t happen again,” yeonjun added, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t exactly convincing.

and that was how it started.

punishment turned to inside jokes. inside jokes turned to late-night calls. and somewhere between high school chaos and teenage recklessness, the three of you became inseparable. like a small, unruly universe made just for the three of you.

yeonjun was the storm. loud, magnetic, impossible to ignore. he had this fire in him that made every party burn just a little brighter. the kind of person who made you forget to check the time, who spun you in circles on dance floors and poured shots like they were candy.

soobin was the calm. quiet at first, a little stiff around the edges, but he unraveled slowly—beautifully. it was you and yeonjun who peeled his layers back, who taught him how to scream lyrics at karaoke and sneak out after curfew to sit on the swings behind the school.

“you think we corrupted him?” yeonjun had asked once, lazily draped across your lap in your room, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt.

you laughed. “nah. we just showed him the fun parts of life.”

“he’s gonna thank us when he’s older,” yeonjun grinned, eyes fluttering closed.

“i already do,” soobin had murmured from the floor, his voice so soft it barely reached your ears.

college didn’t change much. if anything, it solidified everything.

you found a university that fit all three of you—gastronomy for soobin, theater for yeonjun, graphic design for you. it felt like fate, like everything had been leading up to this. they shared a room in their frat house, and you stayed across campus with yeji, though you rarely spent the night there. you were always with them.

dinners cooked by soobin in their tiny kitchen. wine nights on the floor of their dorm, yeonjun making dramatic toasts with a plastic cup in hand. movie marathons that ended with all three of you passed out on the same bed, tangled up in limbs and warmth.

and then there were the quiet moments.

“you think we’ll still be this close after college?” soobin asked one night, head resting on your shoulder as the three of you laid in the grass, stargazing after a failed attempt to sneak into a rooftop party.

“why wouldn’t we be?” yeonjun replied, flicking a pebble into the air.

“people change,” soobin said.

“not us,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

“never us,” yeonjun echoed, voice firm in the dark.

the truth was, you loved them. both of them. differently, but deeply.

with soobin, it was soft glances and shared secrets at 3am, spoonfuls of ice cream and understanding that didn't need to be spoken.

with yeonjun, it was wild laughter and quick heartbeats, his arms slung around your waist like they belonged there, his breath against your neck when he leaned in too close.

you had crushed on both, once. maybe still did. but you'd never dared to cross the line. they were your best friends. your chaos. your home.

and you didn’t want to ruin that.

you knock once before letting yourself in, already knowing they’re inside. yeonjun’s sprawled out on his bed, legs dangling, his phone in hand. soobin’s sitting at his desk, flipping through a cookbook lazily, pen between his fingers.

“hey,” you mumble, stepping in and dropping your bag on the floor.

both of them look up.

“hey,” yeonjun answers first, but there’s something unreadable in his tone. soobin only hums in acknowledgment, eyes flicking back down to the page like he’s disinterested.

you bite your lip. the air feels... different. you walk over to sit on soobin’s bed, smoothing your hands over your thighs.

“i can’t stay too long,” you say after a moment. “i’ve got a date at four.”

silence.

dead silence.

then, yeonjun sits up slowly, putting his phone aside.

“with who?” his voice is calm, but laced with something sharp beneath the surface.

“minho,” you reply, trying to sound casual. “he’s that guy from the literature class. he’s been kind of persistent, and i figured… why not give it a shot?”

soobin finally closes his book.

“why not?” he repeats softly.

you glance between them. yeonjun’s standing now, arms crossed, eyes dark. soobin’s turned his chair fully toward you, his gaze unreadable.

“what?” you say with a nervous laugh. “you guys are being weird.”

“weird?” yeonjun steps closer. “we’ve been right here the whole time. and now some random guy bats his lashes and you’re ready to forget us?”

“i’m not forgetting—”

“you barely talk to us anymore,” soobin interrupts, voice low, steady. “we used to spend every night together. now you’re always texting him. smiling at your phone. disappearing without telling us.”

your heart pounds in your chest.

“we’re your best friends,” yeonjun says, now standing right in front of you. “aren’t we?”

“i—” you start, but the words die in your throat when soobin gets up too, moving in closer. you’re suddenly caged between their bodies, yeonjun in front of you, soobin behind, the air thick and heavy with tension.

“we don’t like sharing,” soobin murmurs near your ear, his voice deep and dangerous.

“especially not with someone who doesn’t know how to take care of you,” yeonjun adds, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “not like we do.”

you feel soobin’s hands on your shoulders first—soft, deliberate—then sliding down your arms slowly, trailing heat through your sleeves. yeonjun watches your face, eyes flickering down to your lips.

“we missed you,” soobin whispers, pressing closer from behind, his body warm against your back.

“and you’re gonna leave us for him?” yeonjun scoffs, leaning in. “what does he have that we don’t, huh?”

you can’t speak.

you can barely breathe.

“look at her,” soobin murmurs, his hands sliding down your waist, resting just above your hips. “she’s already melting.”

yeonjun smiles, slow and cruel, before taking your hand—guiding it down to his jeans. your breath hitches when you feel the hardness there, straining under the fabric.

“feel that?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave. “you’re making me hard and you haven’t even done anything yet.”

you whimper, and behind you, soobin’s fingers are already teasing at the hem of your shirt, slipping under to brush against your skin.

“good girl,” he breathes, mouth brushing against your neck. “stay still.”

you obey without thinking.

yeonjun guides your hand to squeeze around him, his jaw tightening. “that’s it, baby. don’t be shy now.”

soobin’s hands slip up your torso, inching your shirt higher. he pulls it over your head without warning, letting it fall to the floor.

“fuck,” he hisses, trailing his fingertips down your spine. “you’re so pretty. so fucking pretty.”

you feel yeonjun’s fingers curl around your chin again, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his.

“tell us you don’t want him,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “tell us you want us instead.”

your mouth parts, trembling.

“i want you,” you breathe. “both of you.”

yeonjun crashes his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, hand sliding to your throat while soobin’s fingers work at the button of your jeans. you moan into yeonjun’s mouth when soobin slips a hand inside, fingers finding the soaked fabric of your panties.

“already so wet,” soobin groans, teasing your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. “you were gonna give this to him?”

“no—n-no, i—”

“but you would’ve,” yeonjun growls, pulling back to stare into your eyes. “you would’ve let him touch you like this?”

you whimper, shaking your head, but they don’t stop. soobin’s fingers slide lower, dipping inside you, and you cry out, gripping yeonjun’s arms for support.

“look at her,” yeonjun says, voice thick. “so obedient. so fucking desperate.”

“mine,” soobin mutters against your skin, kissing your neck, your shoulder, biting down gently. “ours.”

you don’t remember how you ended up on your knees.

maybe it was yeonjun’s hand curling tighter around your throat, forcing you down with a smirk tugging at his lips. maybe it was soobin’s fingers still deep inside you, curling in slow, deliberate strokes that made your legs give out.

either way, you’re kneeling between yeonjun’s thighs now, your shirt forgotten on the floor, your jeans half-off, and your body trembling with need.

“open,” yeonjun commands, unzipping his jeans, his voice rough and low. you obey instantly, lips parting as he pulls his cock free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

you moan at the sight of him, pupils blown wide.

“god, look at you,” he breathes, brushing the head of his cock over your lips. “you’d take anything we give you, wouldn’t you?”

behind you, soobin’s kneeling too, hands spreading your thighs wider as he pulls your jeans and panties all the way down, exposing your dripping pussy to the cool air. he groans at the sight, warm breath ghosting over your skin.

“you’re soaked,” he mutters, fingers dragging through your folds, spreading your slick. “fuck, you wanted this. you wanted this.”

you whimper around yeonjun’s cock as he slides it slowly into your mouth, just the tip at first, letting you taste him. his hand fists in your hair, guiding you with slow thrusts.

“good girl,” he murmurs, hips rocking forward. “take it. all the way.”

you hollow your cheeks, lips sliding down his shaft, letting him hit the back of your throat. you gag softly, but he doesn’t stop. he holds you there, eyes burning into yours.

“breathe through your nose,” he whispers, thumb brushing your cheek. “that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good.”

and then you feel soobin.

you feel the thick, slow push of his cock against your pussy as he aligns himself behind you. one hand on your hip, the other spreading you open.

he slides in with a single, slow thrust, filling you completely.

you moan around yeonjun’s cock, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer stretch of both sensations—the weight in your throat, the fullness in your cunt. soobin bottoms out with a soft groan, his chest pressed to your back, one hand snaking around to toy with your clit.

“fuck,” he breathes against your ear. “you’re so tight. squeezing me so good.”

you’re shaking, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth as yeonjun starts to fuck your throat in slow, steady thrusts, his hand tangled in your hair. soobin’s hips begin to move behind you, rocking into you with deep, languid strokes that make your knees weak.

“we should’ve done this sooner,” yeonjun grits out, watching your lips stretch around him. “should’ve claimed you before that asshole even looked your way.”

soobin grunts in agreement, fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts harder now, his cock slamming into that sweet spot that makes your walls clamp around him.

“mine,” he growls. “you’re ours now. say it.”

you pull off yeonjun with a gasp, spit glistening on your chin.

“i’m yours,” you pant, voice broken. “yours, please—don’t stop, i need it, i need you both.”

“fuck,” yeonjun hisses, pulling you up by your arms.

he trades places with soobin in a blink, and before you can catch your breath, he’s behind you now, lifting your hips and positioning himself.

soobin sits in front of you, back against the bed frame, legs spread, his cock flushed and wet with your saliva. he smirks and taps it against his stomach.

“get back to work, baby.”

you crawl into his lap, lips parting to take him in again. and just as your tongue swirls around his tip, yeonjun slams into you from behind—one brutal, deep thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

you cry out, muffled around soobin’s cock, as yeonjun starts fucking you with no mercy, his pace fast, relentless.

the room is filled with the wet sound of skin on skin, of your moans, the sharp grunts from both of them as they use you—one filling your mouth, the other pounding into your dripping pussy.

“look at her,” yeonjun groans, hands bruising on your hips. “taking both of us like a perfect little slut.”

“fuck, her mouth feels so good,” soobin pants, hand cradling the back of your head, guiding your movements as you bob up and down his cock. “she loves this. look at her eyes, she’s fucking gone.”

you are.

your brain is mush, your body a trembling mess of need and pleasure and overstimulation. every thrust from yeonjun hits your cervix, while soobin’s cock stretches your throat, and you're on the edge of something dangerous, something all-consuming.

but they’re not done.

yeonjun pulls out suddenly, chest heaving, and you whine at the loss.

“lay down,” he orders.

you obey without question, collapsing onto your back, legs spread.

soobin moves between your thighs again, sliding his cock into your pussy easily, your slick coating him.

yeonjun kneels beside your head, stroking himself slowly as he watches.

“lift her leg,” he tells soobin. “i want to see her face when i stretch her open.”

you’re confused—until you feel it.

yeonjun’s fingers pressing against your other hole, slick with spit, circling gently.

“you can take it,” he whispers, leaning close, his voice pure sin. “you want to be filled up, don’t you? both holes, stuffed full.”

your moan is instant, desperate.

“yes, yes, please—”

he pushes in slowly, carefully, stretching your ass inch by inch as soobin keeps thrusting into your pussy, slower now, more controlled, letting your body adjust.

and then—

they’re both inside.

stuffed in both holes, moving in perfect rhythm, your body shaking between them.

you’re not sure how you’re still conscious.

every thrust sends white heat shooting through your veins, both cocks sliding in and out of you, filling you so deeply you feel like you might break. tears run down your cheeks. your mouth hangs open in a silent scream.

“she’s fucking dripping,” soobin gasps, gripping your thigh tighter.

“she’s close,” yeonjun growls. “don’t stop.”

you can’t take it.

you fall apart beneath them, your orgasm crashing into you like a wave—violent, overwhelming, so intense you sob their names.

your walls clamp down hard, milking soobin, and the moment he feels it, he thrusts deep once, twice—then cums inside you with a loud groan, his warmth spilling into your cunt.

yeonjun isn’t far behind. with a rough snarl, he drives into your ass a final time, burying himself to the hilt before spilling inside you too, his cum hot and thick.

you’re shaking, spent, your body a mess of slick, sweat, and cum.

they collapse around you, one on each side, panting, hands stroking your thighs, your stomach, your face.

“you’re not going on that date,” yeonjun says finally, voice hoarse.

soobin chuckles softly, kissing your jaw.

“you’re staying right here.”

your body’s still trembling when they finally pull out.

soobin’s the first to move—quiet, gentle—pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. yeonjun’s slower, but his hands don’t leave you. they stay firm on your waist, grounding you, thumbs tracing slow circles into your skin like he’s trying to memorize you.

your thighs are sticky with cum—their cum—and you whimper softly as soobin reaches for a warm towel he’d left on the desk earlier, wiping between your legs with careful, reverent strokes.

“easy,” he whispers, kissing your inner thigh. “i’ve got you.”

yeonjun leans in and plants a kiss to your temple, then your collarbone, then the curve of your breast.

“still with us, baby?” he murmurs.

you nod, dazed. “mmhmm…”

they smile.

you feel it more than see it—warmth radiating off of them, like they’re proud of you. like they’ve claimed something sacred. and maybe they have.

you’re sprawled across soobin’s bed, between their bodies, completely bare and boneless. soobin curls around you from behind, arms wrapped tight around your waist. yeonjun’s lying on his side, facing you, fingers brushing softly over your jaw.

“you’re not leaving this room today,” yeonjun says eventually, low and firm.

“wasn’t planning on it,” you whisper, cheek pressing into soobin’s chest.

“good.”

you close your eyes, letting their warmth cocoon you, letting their presence fill every corner of your being.

but the moment is cut short.

ring ring.

you tense.

your phone buzzes on the floor, lighting up. again. and again. three missed calls. then four.

yeonjun leans over the edge of the bed, grabs it without a word.

“minho,” he reads out loud, smirking. “persistent little fucker, isn’t he?”

you blink slowly, too hazy to respond, body still aching from the stretch of them both. soobin’s hand strokes over your side protectively.

ring ring.

yeonjun answers.

“hello?”

there’s a pause, then the faint sound of minho’s voice on the other end.

“yeah, no,” yeonjun says, voice suddenly cold, sharp. “she’s not coming.”

more silence.

“because she’s busy. very busy. on her knees, actually. stuffed full of two cocks. think you can compete with that, poetry boy?”

your eyes widen, face burning.

soobin snorts softly behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder.

yeonjun chuckles darkly.

“yeah. thought so. don’t call again.”

he hangs up, tosses the phone aside, and turns back to you with a wicked smile.

“problem solved.”

you stare at him, breath catching in your throat.

“jun,” you whisper. “that was mean.”

he shrugs. “he doesn’t get to have you. not after what we just did. not ever.”

soobin hums in agreement, voice low against your ear.

“you’re ours now. fully.”

you shiver again—but not from the cold.

yeonjun leans down, kissing your lips softly this time. lingering.

“he couldn’t fuck you like we can.”

soobin pulls you closer, wrapping you tighter in his arms.

“he doesn’t know you like we do.”

and you know they’re right.

your body’s theirs.

your heart’s been theirs for years.

and now, so is your soul.

you should’ve been too sore to move.

but it only takes yeonjun leaning over you again—his breath hot against your neck, his fingers trailing down the mess between your legs—for your body to spark back to life, nerve endings alight, needy, desperate.

“fuck, you’re still dripping,” he groans, running his fingers through your folds. “look at this. you want more, don’t you?”

your hips twitch involuntarily, back arching.

“please,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open. “again. please, jun.”

soobin’s already shifting behind you, his chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“you’re insatiable,” he whispers, kissing down your shoulder, leaving wet marks along your spine. “so fucking greedy for us.”

you whine, turning your face toward him, catching his lips in a kiss—sloppy, slow, tongues tangling in heat.

yeonjun watches for a second, then grabs your jaw, yanking you toward him.

“mine,” he growls, crashing his mouth onto yours.

his kiss is brutal. full of tongue, spit, teeth. he kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. when he pulls back, your lips are swollen, slick, your breath ragged.

soobin moves down, spreading your thighs again. you gasp when you feel his tongue—slow at first, then eager, messy, as he licks up their combined release from your cunt like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

“fuck, soobin,” you gasp, trembling. “that’s—ah—”

“so sweet,” he moans against your pussy. “can’t waste a drop.”

yeonjun grins above you. “you taste us, baby? both of us?”

you nod frantically, thighs shaking.

then he’s sliding down your body, biting, sucking, leaving red marks in his wake until he reaches your breasts. his tongue swirls around your nipple, teeth tugging just enough to make you cry out. one hand fists in your hair while the other grips your throat, possessive.

“you’re not leaving this bed until you’re fucked dumb,” he hisses. “until you forget that guy’s name. until all you can say is our fucking names.”

“yes,” you whimper. “yes, please, fuck me—”

soobin’s mouth leaves your cunt just long enough to say, “on your knees.”

you obey without hesitation, still shaking, hands and knees sinking into the mattress.

yeonjun moves behind you, spreading your ass open with a low growl.

“gonna ruin this pretty pussy again,” he mutters. “make you scream.”

soobin sits in front of you, already hard again, stroking himself slowly. “come on, baby. open up.”

you take him into your mouth with no hesitation, tongue swirling around the head, hollowing your cheeks as you sink down his shaft. he groans, head falling back, one hand on your cheek.

“just like that. fuck, your mouth…”

yeonjun doesn’t wait.

you feel the hot press of his cock against your pussy again, and then he’s inside—one hard, deep thrust that knocks your breath out. no build-up. just possession.

“fuck, yes,” he snarls, snapping his hips forward. “so tight—still fucking tight.”

his rhythm is brutal. fast. relentless. your body jolts forward with every thrust, your mouth choking around soobin’s cock as he cradles your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“that’s it, baby,” soobin pants. “let him fuck you stupid while you suck me off. we’ll fill every part of you again.”

yeonjun leans over your back, pressing his chest to you as he pounds into your soaked pussy. his hand finds your clit, rubbing rough circles that make you cry out around soobin’s cock.

“you love this,” he growls into your ear. “being used like this. full. dripping. ours.”

tears blur your vision. it’s too much and not enough. your orgasm builds fast, coiling tight in your belly, heat crawling up your spine.

and then he pulls out.

you sob, shaking.

“no—please—”

“on your back,” he commands. “want to see your face when you cum again.”

you scramble to obey, eyes glassy, lips red and slick.

yeonjun grabs your legs and throws them over his shoulders, cock sliding into you again with one hard thrust. the angle makes you scream.

soobin straddles your chest, feeding you his cock again as yeonjun fucks you deeper than before, harder, rougher.

“fuck, fuck—” you cry out between sucks, hips grinding into yeonjun’s thrusts.

soobin leans down, kissing your mouth while you still have his cock half in. wet, filthy, hungry.

“you’re ours,” he moans. “say it.”

“y-yours,” you cry. “only yours.”

and you are. wrecked, stretched, pinned between them like you were made for it.

yeonjun slams in one last time, his hand curling around your throat again, choking you lightly as your orgasm explodes.

your vision goes white.

you clamp down hard, sobbing, shaking, the orgasm ripping through you so violently it feels like you’ll break apart.

soobin cums next, groaning as he spills on your chest, his cock twitching against your lips.

yeonjun follows, thrusting deep and staying there as he fills you again, moaning your name like a prayer.

when they collapse on either side of you, you’re not even sure you can speak.

you’re a trembling, soaked, fucked-out mess. your thighs are bruised. your lips swollen. and your heart—your heart is full.

soobin kisses your jaw softly, pulling you close, hand stroking your side.

yeonjun wipes your tears, kisses your eyelids.

“no one else gets to have you,” he whispers. “not ever.”

you smile through the haze, body aching and used.

“wouldn’t want anyone else.”

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mahalachives · 2 months ago

Text

Part 10: Golden, At Last

Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. 🖤🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.

Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.

Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.

You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.

The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.

Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?

The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.

"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.

Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.

"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."

Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."

"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."

You didn't need to ask.

The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.

"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.

"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."

The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.

"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."

"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"

"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."

Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."

Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.

"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.

"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."

You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."

"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."

"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.

Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."

Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.

"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."

Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.

Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?

You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.

Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.

"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."

"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."

His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."

You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."

"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."

"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."

"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."

Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.

"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"

Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."

"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.

He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."

The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.

"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.

"Of course."

"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."

You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."

"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."

Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."

"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."

The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."

"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."

He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."

The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.

"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."

Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."

The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.

"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."

"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."

Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."

Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"

"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."

The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.

"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.

"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."

Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.

"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."

After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."

"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."

His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."

The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.

"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.

You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

Night after night, the pattern repeated.

Images haunted your sleep.

Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.

"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."

You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.

"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."

"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."

You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"

"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."

"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.

Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."

The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.

"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.

"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."

Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.

"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."

Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.

"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"

"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."

Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."

"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."

A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.

"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."

"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."

"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"

Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."

Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.

You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.

"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."

The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.

"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."

"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.

"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."

"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."

A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?

"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."

Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.

"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."

"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."

"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.

"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."

Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.

"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."

"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."

The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.

"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.

"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."

You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."

"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."

The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.

That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.

You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.

The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.

And there he was.

Azriel.

Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.

Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.

The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.

Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.

A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.

With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.

Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.

The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.

You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.

Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.

Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.

"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."

"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."

You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.

"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."

The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.

Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.

As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."

The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."

Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."

You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.

But something had changed in the atmosphere.

Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.

"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."

The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.

"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.

"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."

The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.

Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."

"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.

"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.

"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"

Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"

"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."

Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.

"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."

"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."

"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."

The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.

More than enough.

"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."

Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.

"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"

"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."

With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.

"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"

"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"

"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"

"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."

Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.

"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."

Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.

"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.

"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."

Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.

As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."

"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."

Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."

As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.

For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.

That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.

The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.

The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.

And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.

But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.

For now, that was enough.

The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.

You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.

Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.

"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.

"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.

"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.

You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."

He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."

"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.

You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."

His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"

"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."

Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."

"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."

He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."

"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"

The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.

"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."

"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."

"Azriel—"

"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"

The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.

Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.

He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.

"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."

You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.

"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."

A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.

"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."

His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."

You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."

"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."

You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.

"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.

You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.

Beeping.

That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.

With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.

White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.

"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"

Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.

"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."

More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.

"...unexpected return to consciousness..."

"...extraordinary after this duration..."

"...need to run tests immediately..."

The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"

You manage a slow, deliberate blink.

Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.

Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.

"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."

Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.

When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.

You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.

"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."

Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.

They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.

"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.

As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.

You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.

But there's nothing.

In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.

"Azriel."

No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.

The bond is severed. The connection lost.

You are home.

But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.

"Until we meet again, my heart."

Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.

Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.

Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.

What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.

"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."

You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."

You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.

Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.

You freeze. The world blurs.

You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.

You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.

During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.

In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.

Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.

Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.

Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."

Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."

You nod and make vague promises you never keep.

How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?

In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.

The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.

While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.

The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.

Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.

And then you see him.

Not his face, not truly.

But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.

Azriel.

A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.

The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.

"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."

You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.

The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.

You remain rooted, trembling.

You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.

The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.

"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.

Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."

You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.

And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.

He's still waiting.

Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.

You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.

Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.

The nightmares still come, though less frequently.

Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.

These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.

"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.

You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."

At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.

Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.

"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.

If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.

Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.

"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.

You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.

"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."

Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.

Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.

"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."

You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."

At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.

The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.

Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.

Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.

"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."

"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.

You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."

The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.

The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.

You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. The scent of cinnamon and burnt maple rushes into your nostrils, familiar and foreign all at once.

Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented, the transition too abrupt, too complete. Your fingers trace the silk sheets, luxurious against your skin after decades of hospital linens.

"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. The skin feels impossibly smooth, eternally young. "I'm actually back!"

Small pink embers spark from your fingertips, startling you. Your magic. Your true power, returning like an old friend.

Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost carved with autumn leaves that weren't there before, already running toward the door.

"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. The familiar weight of it surprises you; heavier than human doors. "ERIS!"

Briar, who was carrying fresh linens, shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts. Her face is the same, yet different. Faint lines around her eyes that weren't there before.

"My lady!" she calls after you, voice cracking with disbelief. "You need proper attire! The court will see you! My lady!"

You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. The walls have been repainted, you notice absently. Darker reds, deeper golds. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner, his uniform subtly different from what you remember.

"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice breaking in shock. "After all this time! The Lady is awake!"

The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, many faces you don't recognize, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you, the Lady of Autumn Court, sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.

"My lady, please!" calls an elderly housekeeper you've never seen before, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table that definitely wasn't there eighty years ago. "Your slippers! Your robe!"

The scent of autumn magic fills your nostrils, stronger than before. The court has grown in power during your absence.

"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the sensation grounding you in this reality.

"The war room, but—"

You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake. The corridor stretches longer than you remember, new tapestries depicting battles you don't recognize hanging between windows.

You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves. His clothing style is subtly different, more angular, with decorative metal leaves at the shoulders that would have been considered ostentatious in your time.

"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. The bond in your chest pulses stronger with each step, drawing you west. Pulling you back to life. "Royal emergency!"

Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.

"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies, his voice reverential and hushed. "After eighty years... she has returned."

"In her nightclothes?"

"Apparently so, my lord."

The war room doors loom ahead, massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history. New scenes have been added since your time, conflicts you never witnessed, victories and defeats that occurred while you slept.

Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach. The insignia on their armor has changed. Eris's mark now, not Beron's.

"My lady," one begins, swallowing hard at the sight of you. His eyes darting to your bare feet, your disheveled state. "Perhaps you would like to—"

You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond. The wood feels different against your palms, worn smooth by hands that touched it while you slept.

Silence falls instantly.

A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. A territory dispute you don't recognize depicts borders that have shifted since your time. And at its head—

Eris.

He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head, smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord. He looks older, not in body but in bearing. The weight of leadership has changed him, sharpened his edges, softened others. A thin scar traces his right cheekbone, one you've never seen before.

"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly, the quill shaking in his grip.

You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. Inside, you feel both people you've been, the healer and the lady, merging into something new. "Surprise!"

No one moves. No one breathes. The scent of shock and disbelief fills the room, thick enough to taste.

Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying. A move so unlike the controlled brother you remember that you almost don't recognize him.

"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. His voice breaks on the question. "Both parts of you?"

You nod, tears and laughter mingling. The bond in your chest pulses, reaching westward even as you stand here. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."

A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His body trembles against yours, a vulnerability he would never have shown before. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment. Some you recognize, aged but familiar. Others are complete strangers, risen to power during your absence.

"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. The flame crown flares briefly with his emotion. "Meeting adjourned."

"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins, gesturing to markers that indicate a conflict near the mountains where once there had been peace.

"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. The authority in his voice is new, a confidence he lacked when you last saw him. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."

The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty chamber.

Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. His hands grip your shoulders, as if assuring himself you're solid. "Eighty years," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."

"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, both familiar and unfamiliar. More like the Lady of Autumn than the nurse you became.

"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet, where a small flame bunny has materialized without your conscious thought. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a Lady."

The flame bunny sneezes, leaving a scorch mark on the ancient floor.

"Ember?" you whisper in disbelief. "After all this time?"

The bunny chirps, hopping up your leg to nestle against your hip. A small piece of home you'd thought lost forever.

"What happened?" you demand, instinctively stroking the flame creature. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died in that hospital bed!"

"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused despite the wetness in his eyes. "You never actually died."

"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, your Autumn Court accent reasserting itself over the human one you'd adopted.

"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep." Eris gestures to a new tapestry on the wall, one depicting your sleeping form surrounded by flame. "Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."

You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?" The human reference feels strange on your tongue, a remnant of your other life.

Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"

"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?" The bond in your chest pulses at the mention of true love, a warmth spreading through your veins.

"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically. His expression has changed, you realize. He's learned restraint in your absence, a political savvy he once lacked.

"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort, the banter familiar despite the years between.

He concedes with a tilt of his head, a new scar visible along his jawline when he turns. "Fair point."

"Does anyone else know I'm back?" Your hand instinctively rises to your chest where the bond pulses stronger. "What about Azriel? The Night Court?"

At the shadowsinger's name, the bond flares so strongly that small flames dance along your fingertips. Eris notices but doesn't comment.

"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize." His protective instinct reminds you of the brother you knew, beneath the High Lord he's become.

"Vulnerable to what?" The question feels naive even as you ask it.

"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, the usual delightful court politics," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. The words carry weight that speaks of experience. "We've had three attempts on the Autumn throne in the last decade alone."

"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots." Despite your sarcasm, your body remembers court life. You find yourself automatically scanning exits, assessing threats. The Lady of Autumn reemerging.

Eris smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome home, sister."

"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder, running a hand through your tangled hair. "Why today specifically?"

Eris shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"

"Or maybe... the charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir and pull westward. The sensation stronger than it ever was before. "Maybe he called me back somehow. Maybe he never stopped trying."

"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, something softening in his expression. A melancholy that speaks of changes you don't yet understand. "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"

"Is he—" The question sticks in your throat, fear suddenly gripping your heart.

"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically, but there's a fondness in his voice that surprises you. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."

Your heart stutters. "He's still waiting? After all this time?"

"Of course he is," Eris says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Hasn't left that valley for more than a few days at a time since you... left."

"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!" Your nightgown, while fine for running through the castle, would hardly be appropriate for reunion with your mate after eighty years.

Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."

"ERIS!" Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from embarrassment and from your magic responding to emotion.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."

"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers or those weird shoulder leaves that lord was wearing—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."

Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall, his arm around your shoulders in a gesture of protective affection you'd never experienced from him before.

Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:

The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years, watching the sunrise, never giving up on the bond that finally, finally called you home.

You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange; wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.

You pause at the treeline.

The cabin waits below.

Except, it isn't a cabin anymore.

It's a home.

Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.

Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.

No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.

You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.

The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.

Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.

The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation; each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.

You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.

A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:

Gone to settle matters with Rhys. Return in three days. —A

Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.

A laugh breaks from your throat, wet and trembling, as you sink into the kitchen chair.

Not from humor. From disbelief.

The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.

Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when he was curious. He remembered.

Of course he did.

As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.

He's carved out a territory... a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.

"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.

On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.

Is this too private? Too personal?

But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.

The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.

The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.

She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.

Just three sentences.

But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.

You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.

Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.

You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.

Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.

Year 12: Rhy has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.

Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.

Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.

Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.

Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swear the bond hums.

Soft and golden. Waiting.

As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.

More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?

Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.

The final entry, dated just days ago.

Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.

Three days. I will be back in three days.

You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.

The day fades into evening as you explore further.

The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs... a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.

You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.

The bedroom is beautiful: warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.

But it's the third room that destroys you.

A nursery.

Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.

Your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat, raw and wordless.

He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.

A life.

Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty... he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.

Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.

You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.

But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.

"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.

You stay.

And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.

The bond hums.

The fire rekindles.

The forest holds its breath.

Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?

Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.

The door opens with barely a whisper.

Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows, always in motion, go completely still.

Your eyes flutter open.

Time stops.

The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.

Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.

The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Perhaps he is.

His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.

"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.

You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.

"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does: tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.

"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.

"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."

He takes one step forward, then another.

His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.

"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."

"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."

When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses.

Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.

"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."

His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.

"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."

Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.

"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."

The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.

A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."

Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"

"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."

As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.

"They remember," you whisper in wonder.

"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."

Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.

"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere... in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."

"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."

His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."

"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."

His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."

You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"

"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.

"Like I'm everything."

"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.

His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."

And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.

His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this: his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.

When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before... the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.

Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.

A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.

"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.

The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately: coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.

"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.

"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."

A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"

His smile is small but reaches his eyes, perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."

Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.

"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.

You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."

Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.

Your home.

Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.

Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥

Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.

This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”

To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.

BUT WAIT.

While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?

Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:

1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there

Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.

Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.

—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

#acotar #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #rhysand #cassian #azriel x you #feyre acotar #nesta acotar #lucien vanserra #eris vanserra

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f1r3-1n-th3-h0le · 7 months ago

Note

Basically me with uh... The Blue one with the Single Demon Eye and the other eye is normal (Adjective). - Abnormal

Ok, First of all: It's Half-Demon/Impossibly Easy. Second: that's kind of rude, Abnormal - Impossibly Easy/Half Demon difficulty

Get an image of the scraggiest oddest looking Quaxly you can. Caption the image something like “the splungus” and have an “accident” where the image is sent to every student and teacher in the schools system. Guarantee at least a few people will pick out a Quaxly to name it after Splungus

Clive: I'm not sure--

Penny: Done.

Clive: ... Did you need to send it to our entire alumni list as well?

Penny: Please, if anything I'll get messages of gratitude for sending an alumni message that isn't "come to a reunion where you're going to talk to That One Guy who remembers you really well as you struggle for his name" or "give us money please".

#pkmn irl #pokeblogging #pkmn blog #pkmn rp #🔥🕳️🔥#(supposed to be fire surrounding a hole #looks like a guy's eyes are on fire and is doing 0o0)#impossibly easy #half demon #fnf abnormal #fnf fith #fire in the hole #fate confirmed

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yokumirumerafan · 3 months ago

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Hi! Can I request the characters finding out that reader is a secret admirer of theirs but reader doesn't know they found out, like what would they do after. Sorry if this doesn't make sense

Demon Slayer Characters Reacting to Finding Out Y/N is Their Secret Admirer (Without Y/N Knowing)

📌 Post Info Characters Included: Hashira (Rengoku, Giyuu, Shinobu, Sanemi, Obanai, Tengen, Muichiro, Gyomei, Mitsuri) Main Trio + Genya (Tanjiro, Zenitsu, Inosuke, Genya) Upper Moons + Muzan (Kokushibo, Doma, Akaza, Gyutaro, Kaigaku, Hantengu & Clones) AUs Used: Canon-Compliant Short Summary: The Demon Slayer characters secretly discover that Y/N is their secret admirer, but Y/N has no idea they know! How do they react, and what do they do next? From smug teasing to flustered panic, everyone handles it in their own way!

🔥 Hashira 🔥

Rengoku Kyojuro

Gets all fired up with joy but pretends he doesn’t know.

Drops way more compliments than usual.

Subtly tries to catch Y/N in the act of leaving gifts or notes.

Plans a dramatic confession when the time is right.

Giyuu Tomioka

Internally panics but remains unreadable on the outside.

Becomes hyperaware of Y/N’s presence and actions.

Avoids confronting them immediately, afraid to scare them away.

Lowkey hopes they confess first so he doesn’t have to.

Shinobu Kocho

Smug but amused, teasing Y/N indirectly.

Might set traps to catch them in the act.

Leaves fake clues to see how Y/N reacts.

Secretly flattered but waits for the perfect moment to reveal she knows.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

“Tch. Idiot.” (Internally: I’m the idiot for feeling this happy...)

Acts more protective over Y/N, whether they notice or not.

Tries not to get his hopes up but ends up being obvious.

Watches for more signs and may purposely walk into their setups.

Obanai Iguro

Is very suspicious at first but then melts inside.

Kaburamaru delivers tiny notes back to Y/N without them knowing.

Subtly tests if they truly admire him or if it’s a joke.

Once sure, he watches over Y/N like a silent guardian.

Tengen Uzui

Instantly feels ✨flamboyant✨ about it.

Leaves dramatic hints that he knows and finds it hilarious.

Starts treating Y/N like a secret lover before they even confess.

Plans the most extravagant reveal—fireworks included.

Muichiro Tokito

Seems indifferent but keeps Y/N’s gifts like treasures.

Might space out thinking about them more often.

Lets Y/N think he’s still oblivious while subtly reciprocating.

The moment Y/N confesses, he deadpans: “I knew.”

Gyomei Himejima

Deeply moved, might even tear up in gratitude.

Prays for Y/N’s happiness whether or not they confess.

Becomes more protective and kind, ensuring they are safe and happy.

Would wait patiently, trusting fate to bring them together.

Mitsuri Kanroji

Freaks out in excitement but tries to act normal.

Gushes about how cute Y/N is without revealing she knows.

Gives Y/N even more affection than before.

Blushes twice as much around them and waits for them to confess first.

🌊 Main Trio + Genya 🌊

Tanjiro Kamado

Smiles warmly, feeling incredibly flattered.

Wants to make sure Y/N is comfortable before responding.

Would be the type to confess before Y/N has the courage to.

Leaves sweet, indirect notes as a way of gently pushing them.

Zenitsu Agatsuma

Screaming. Crying. Fainting.

Thinks he should pretend he doesn’t know but fails miserably.

Becomes even more dramatic around Y/N.

Will accidentally blurt out “I KNOW YOU LOVE ME” in panic.

Inosuke Hashibira

“Hah?! Someone’s got a crush on ME?!”

Initially doesn’t understand why.

Tries to catch them in the act with horrible stealth.

Ends up just bluntly asking, “Oi, you like me, right?”

Genya Shinazugawa

Completely flustered but pretends he didn’t see anything.

Avoids Y/N at first because he’s nervous.

Ends up acting extra nice without realizing it.

Would confess first once he gets over his anxiety.

🩸 Upper Moons + Muzan 🩸

Muzan Kibutsuji

At first, he’s indifferent. Then, intrigued. Then… possessive.

“How foolish to admire me, yet how fortunate for you.”

Secretly watches over Y/N, waiting for them to reveal themselves.

Once they do, he ensures they never leave his side.

Kokushibo

Internally shocked but keeps his cool.

Feels undeserving of admiration but secretly treasures it.

Observes Y/N more closely, his curiosity growing.

Won’t reveal he knows unless Y/N confesses first.

Doma

Smug and playful, acting completely unaware (but he’s not).

Purposely says things like “I wonder if I have a secret admirer~?”

If Y/N is shy, he’ll make it very hard for them to stay hidden.

The moment Y/N confesses, he smirks: “I knew, my dear~.”

Akaza

Conflicted at first but ultimately flattered.

Watches Y/N from afar to confirm if it’s true.

If Y/N gets nervous, he’d gently encourage them.

Will probably confess first once he’s sure of his own feelings.

Gyutaro

In complete disbelief.

Assumes it’s a prank at first.

If Y/N is genuine, he starts acting softer around them.

Wants them to confess first but ends up revealing he knows.

Kaigaku

Acts like he doesn’t care but is DYING inside.

Becomes extra flirty or mean just to test Y/N’s reaction.

Secretly wants them to be braver about it.

If they take too long, he’ll be the one to confess.

Hantengu (and Clones)

Hantengu: Terrified.

Sekido: Annoyed but secretly blushes.

Karaku: Instantly teases Y/N.

Aizetsu: Flustered but happy.

Urogi: Wants to surprise Y/N with a confession first.

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topsmirae · 16 days ago

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🔮 Pick a Pile: What Is Your Future Husband Like?

Take a deep breath. Center yourself. Which pile/emoji pulls you in? 💙🔥🎨 🎲🪵 🌙

💙 Pile 1

Your future husband is the kind of man who makes you feel safe just by being near. He may not be loud or flashy, but his presence is incredibly calming. He has a quiet strength that shows up in the way he listens, the way he notices when something’s off, and the way he always knows how to comfort you without needing to be asked. He’s likely someone who’s had to grow up fast or take care of others, and now that instinct shows in how deeply he loves. He might work in a healing or service-oriented field—like healthcare, counseling, or even something hands-on like being a vet or teacher.

He’s very in tune with emotions, but he’s not overbearing about it. He believes in partnership, not control. He doesn’t want someone to complete him; he wants someone to walk beside him. He might enjoy slow mornings, staying in with a cozy blanket, and making you tea when you’re stressed. This is the kind of man who remembers your favorite snacks, how you take your coffee, and the way you like to be held after a long day.

Love language: Acts of service, quality time. Vibe: Warm sweater weather, comfort food, quiet loyalty

🔥 Pile 2

Your future husband is bold, driven, and magnetic. When he walks into a room, people notice—not because he demands attention, but because his energy is undeniable. He’s confident, charming, and knows exactly what he wants in life—and in love. This is the man who will pursue you with intensity. He loves the thrill of the chase, not to conquer you, but because he sees you as his equal, his partner, his fire. He’s ambitious, likely career-focused, and he wants to build a life where you both thrive. He may be an entrepreneur, manager, creative director, or someone in a leadership role where he shines.

This is the kind of man who will stand up for you without hesitation. He might be a little protective, sometimes even possessive, but never in a way that dims your light. He wants you to shine—because your power turns him on. Arguments with him may be heated, but so are the make-ups. He doesn’t do anything halfway. He loves loudly, lives passionately, and will challenge you to grow just as much as he’s growing.

Love language: Physical touch, words of affirmation. Vibe: Candlelit dinner, late-night debates, passionate kisses.

🎨 Pile 3

Your future husband is a deep, intuitive soul. He sees the world through colors, through rhythm, through metaphor. He might be an artist, musician, writer, or simply someone with a beautifully creative mind. Conversations with him never stay surface-level—he wants to talk about your dreams, your fears, the things that shaped you. He listens intently and always makes you feel seen. He’s romantic in subtle, meaningful ways. Think handwritten notes, playlists made just for you, sketching your silhouette while you sleep.

He’s a bit of a dreamer, and sometimes that means he forgets the “real world” details—but he makes up for it with the way he loves. He believes in soulmates. He might be the kind of man who talks about fate or the universe bringing you together. He’s emotionally open, even if he has a bit of an introverted shell. With him, love feels like art—beautiful, vulnerable, expressive. Your relationship might go through poetic highs and intense moments of reflection, but it’s always genuine.

Love language: Gifts with meaning, deep conversation, emotional intimacy. Vibe: Slow dancing in the living room, vintage records, rainy days spent inside painting or reading.

🎲 Pile 4

This man is unpredictable—in the best way. Your future husband is adventurous, funny, and has a magnetic chaos about him that draws people in. He probably has a bit of a rebellious streak and doesn’t like to follow traditional rules. He might be in an unconventional career or live a lifestyle that most wouldn’t expect. He’s curious about everything, from culture to philosophy to whatever weird documentary he found at 3AM. He’s spontaneous—he could take you on a last-minute weekend road trip or decide to learn how to cook Thai food just because he saw a recipe on TikTok.

He might seem like a flirt or a player at first, but when he falls in love, he falls hard. He’s fiercely loyal once committed, and he brings excitement into your life like no one else. There will be laughter—so much laughter. And yes, there will be chaos, but it’s the kind that breaks up monotony. He challenges you to be bold, take risks, and stop waiting for the “right time.” With him, love is a constant adventure.

Love language: Quality time, playful teasing, thrill-seeking together. Vibe: Road trips, late-night ice cream runs, passionate arguments followed by even more passionate kisses.

🪵 Pile 5

Your future husband is solid, grounded, and deeply dependable. He may not always say the right thing, but he always shows up. He’s not about flash or performance—he believes in loyalty, hard work, and providing stability. There’s a quiet nobility to him. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, and that self-assurance is sexy as hell. He might be a little more traditional or old-fashioned in the way he loves—opening doors, fixing things around the house, paying close attention to your needs.

He’s probably not one to post emotional captions or show public displays of affection—but in private, he’s gentle, warm, and affectionate in his own way. He will always make sure you're taken care of, even if he doesn’t always talk about how he feels. He might be a little slow to open up emotionally, but once he does, it’s deep and lasting. He’s a rock. He gives you peace. And he’ll stand by you when the world feels unsteady.

Love language: Acts of service, loyalty, physical presence. Vibe: Clean sheets, Sunday mornings, deep hugs that say everything.

🌙 Pile 6

Your future husband is someone whose presence feels healing. He’s deeply spiritual or introspective, even if he doesn’t always show it outwardly. He might be into meditation, astrology, psychology, or simply someone who questions everything and constantly seeks inner growth. He’s likely been through a personal transformation that shaped him into who he is today. He’s calm, wise beyond his years, and has this energy about him that makes others feel safe and understood.

This is the type of man who wants a relationship that’s more than just romance—it’s a spiritual partnership. He’s interested in your mind, your soul, your childhood wounds. He’ll ask questions like, “What makes you feel most alive?” or “What are you still healing from?” and mean them. He’s compassionate, intuitive, and tuned into energies most people ignore. He probably loves nature, deep talks under the stars, or cozy nights with incense burning and a good book nearby. With him, love feels like growth, like peace, like coming home to yourself.

Love language: Emotional connection, spiritual intimacy, understanding. Vibe: Soulful eye contact, moonlit walks, healing hands.

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violaceous-veneration · 1 year ago

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Fumus: Something's off.

Ivlis: Maybe you've finally developed human emotions and feel bad for hurting people.

Fumus: No, but that's funny.

#The Art of Apology 🍵#Fires of Fate 🔥

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phoenixrisingastro · 6 months ago

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Synastry Hot Takes: The Spicy Edition 🔥

When it comes to synastry, the stars don’t lie. Some connections sizzle with chemistry, while others leave you wondering if the universe is playing a joke. Here are some bold takes on synastry and aspects that might just explain why you can’t stop thinking about someone—or why they drive you absolutely insane.

---

1. Venus-Pluto Aspects

If you have Venus-Pluto in synastry, good luck. This aspect will have you obsessing over someone at 2 a.m., scrolling through their Instagram, wondering why they’re suddenly your entire universe. It’s magnetic, transformative, and absolutely maddening.

Hot Take: Is it love or a karmic lesson in boundaries? Probably both.

---

2. Mars-Uranus Aspects

Mars-Uranus synastry screams "instant attraction" with a side of unpredictability. This connection is electric—think whirlwind romance, sudden confessions, and "how did this happen so fast?" vibes.

Hot Take: It’s thrilling until one of you ghosts because the intensity was too much to handle.

---

3. Moon-Mars Aspects

Emotional meets physical with Moon-Mars in synastry. The passion is off the charts, but so are the arguments. You’ll either be making up... or breaking up... every other week.

Hot Take: This is the ultimate "can’t live with them, can’t live without them" aspect.

---

4. 12th House Synastry

When someone’s planets fall into your 12th house, it’s like they’ve stepped into your subconscious and started rearranging the furniture. The connection feels karmic, but it can also be confusing and heavy.

Hot Take: Is this soulmate energy or a psychological experiment? You’ll find out eventually (maybe).

---

5. Mars-Pluto Aspects

This is raw, primal attraction that’s almost impossible to ignore. The chemistry is undeniable, but the power struggles? Intense. It’s the kind of connection that can feel addictive and destructive at the same time.

Hot Take: Mars-Pluto synastry is like playing with fire—and loving every second of it.

---

6. Sun-Moon Aspects

In harmonious synastry, this is the “you complete me” aspect. In challenging synastry, it’s the “you don’t understand me at all” aspect. Either way, it’s impossible to ignore.

Hot Take: Sun-Moon connections are either soulmate energy or a masterclass in compromise.

---

7. 8th House Synastry

Planets in the 8th house in synastry create a connection so intense it feels fated. The physical and emotional chemistry is unmatched, but the vulnerability can be overwhelming.

Hot Take: This is "I’ll never forget them" energy—but it might cost you your sanity.

---

8. Mercury-Mercury Aspects

When Mercury synastry flows, the conversations never stop, and you feel like you’ve met your mental match. But if it’s in hard aspect, it’s just endless debates and miscommunications.

Hot Take: Intellectual foreplay or exhausting mind games—there’s no in-between.

---

9. Venus-Mars Aspects

Venus-Mars synastry is all about sexual tension. The attraction is magnetic, but if the aspects are challenging, it can turn into a frustrating game of “who’s in control here?”

Hot Take: This is that “love-hate” energy everyone secretly craves.

---

10. Saturn Synastry

Saturn synastry can feel heavy, but it’s what makes a connection last. It’s all about lessons, commitment, and (sometimes) karma. You either grow together or feel trapped in a cosmic lecture series.

Hot Take: Saturn synastry is the “parent” of the zodiac—strict, but it keeps you grounded.

---

Which synastry aspect do you secretly love (or hate)? Share your stories below! 😉

#astro community #astro observations #astro placements #astrology #astrology content #astrology observations #pluto astrology #solar return #vedic astrology #astro blog #astro tumblr #astro notes

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f1r3-1n-th3-h0le · 8 months ago

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A... Not so fire Introduction - Normal

Hi! I'm easy. Welcome to the Blog! - Easy

We're here to answer your questions, So ask away! - Hard (Difficulty)

Hello there. - Auto

Why did we make a Blog again? - N/A

Because We're bored. - Normal

Hello. - Harder (Difficulty)

Hi. - Insane (Difficulty)

*a loud'Fire in The hole' was heard in the distance, everyone ignored it*

Sup. - Half Demon

Yo! - Red difficulty

Know your character's colours:

Black/White/White with Orange: N/A

Orange with Blue in the middle: Auto

Blue: Easy

Green: Normal

Orange: Hard difficulty

Red (no chat): Harder Difficulty

Pink: Insane difficulty

Bold green: Abnormal

Half Purple and half pink: half Demon

Red (chat And bold): Red difficulty

#fire in the hole #water on the hill #area confirmed #FNF FITH #Meet the gang #Pinned post #rock on the ground #Fate confirmed #🪨 🏞️#🌬️ 🌆#🖤 🪦#🏞️✔️#🌬️👀#air detected #🔥🕳️#💦 🏔️

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hibiscusia · 8 months ago

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OMG love !!!

Those are amazing !! 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Happy Halloween! These are the top 5 horror movies I watched this month, which one was your favorite? (there are not real movies, just to be clear)

Movie plots created by @medusanova

#The talent is on the moon #this is fire 🔥#i love it so much #fate the winx saga #fitztragedy

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theonottsbxtch · 9 months ago

Note

hey! please could you write a 🔥 charles leclerc

7 MINUTES | CL16

an: this celeb really has me writing for people i've never written for but here you go! rushed and not proof read lol i wanna go to bed

summary: 7 minutes in heaven, max's sister, what could possibly go wrong?

warnings: heavy make out session

wc: 3k

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under you, watching as the last of the sunlight fades beyond the horizon. The air still smells like autumn — damp leaves, bonfires, that kind of thing — and you can hear the muffled voices of the boys from the kitchen. They’d been drinking for hours, celebrating the end of the season. Your brother, Max , the life of every gathering, was at the centre of it all, recounting the race from last weekend like a war story for those who had missed his and Lando’s close race.

Inside the living room, the atmosphere was cosy but charged, the kind of energy that only came when the season was over and there was nothing left to lose. Someone had opened a second bottle of whiskey, and you were pretty sure it was Charles. He was sprawled out on the recliner, arm dangling over the side, his laugh loud and carefree. Across from him, Lando and Daniel were huddled together on the floor, passing around a bowl of chips like they were planning something.

Then it happened. Daniel’s eyes lit up, his smirk growing wider as he sat up straighter. "You know what we haven’t done in ages?" he said, voice slick with mischief. "Seven minutes in heaven."

You laughed, and so did a few others, but there was that undeniable flicker of curiosity that ran through the group of you that were in the room. This was a game you used to play in secondary school, maybe year nine if you were brave, but you’d all grown up since then. Still, the alcohol had loosened everyone’s reservations, and you could see the suggestion hanging in the air, waiting to catch fire.

“Oh, come on, we’re not twelve,” Max groaned, walking in at the perfect time but even you could see a spark in his eyes that said he was not really protesting.

Daniel shrugged, still grinning. "Exactly, we’re not twelve. So why not make it interesting?"

You could feel a ripple of unease and excitement in your chest as you glanced around the room. People were starting to perk up now, their curiosity mirroring yours. And before you knew it, Carlos’ empty beer bottle was in the middle of the floor, everyone forming a loose circle around it like it was an unspoken agreement.

Your close friend Lu, had chosen to go first, the bottle spun lazily, catching the dim light from the string of bulbs hanging above the living room. The room felt smaller now, more intimate, as if everyone’s breath was synchronised, waiting for fate to land on someone. Your stomach twisted, a mix of nerves and excitement, and you wonder if anyone else felt the same fluttering tension.

It slowed, dragging the moment out. The neck wobbled a few times, then finally came to rest, pointing directly at Lando.

She grinned, all too pleased with the outcome. “Guess I’m first,” she said, pushing herself up from the floor with the grace of someone who was not nearly as drunk as the rest of them. She casted a sideways glance at Lando, who just smirked and shrugged, ready for whatever came next.

You felt Max’s eyes on you from across the circle, and you shot him a quick look — the kind that said, This is ridiculous, right? But he just smirked, raising his beer in mock salute, clearly enjoying the chaos that was about to unfold.

“Okay, Lando,” Lu teaseed, leaning toward him with a playful tilt of her head. “I think you’re my lucky partner.”

Lando let out a fake groan, but there was a spark in his eyes as he got up. “You sure? I mean, I could take a rain check…”

Everyone laughed, the tension breaking slightly as Lando and Lu disappeared into the hallway, heading for the coat closet like this is still some high school party. But the tension crept right back in as the door closed behind them.

It had only been thirty seconds, but it felt like the room was holding its breath. You sat there, heart racing even though it was not your turn, and wondered what happened next. You’d known these people for years — grown up alongside a few of them, watched your brother and his friends live out their reckless racing dreams — but now the whole vibe had shifted. It was almost like you were all teetering on the edge of something new, something dangerous.

The minutes dragged on. The muffled laughter from behind the door made everyone exchange knowing looks, but no one said anything. Then Lu’d voice called out, “Time’s up!” and the door swung open.

Lu stepped out first, her hair slightly tousled, a grin on her face like she’d gotten away with something. Lando followed, looking slightly flushed but otherwise composed. “Well,” he said, glancing around the room, “that was... enlightening.”

Everyone laughed again, a little louder this time, but you could feel the anticipation growing. Lu took her seat, and Daniel leaned forward, reaching for the bottle with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Your turn, mini Verstappen,” he said, and suddenly all eyes were on you. When Daniel had offered this game, you briefly had the idea that he was trying to pester Max, making him watch his little sister go into a small room with one of the guys of the paddock. In a room where he couldn’t do anything to stop anyone. So when Daniel passed you the bottle, you knew exactly that was his intention.

You froze for half a second, trying to brush off the nervous thrill that shot through you. “Oh no, not me,” you started to protest, but you knew it was too late. The game had a life of its own now.

The bottle clinked as you gave it a half arsed spin, and you swore it felt like the world slowed down again. The air was thick with curiosity, everyone waiting to see who fate would pick this time.

And then it stopped. Right on Charles.

You glanced up, locking eyes with him. Charles Leclerc, your brother’s biggest rival, the one who you definitely should never get with, the one who’s always wound up your brother, who knew more than he let on. His brow quirked up, just slightly, and his lips curled into a soft, unreadable smile.

For a moment, the world felt too small, the air too warm. Daniel chuckled, almost as if he had planned it. “Well, this should be interesting.”

Charles stood up, and before you even realised it, you were on your feet too, heart pounding in your throat. You forced a laugh, trying to play it cool, but you could feel the weight of every gaze on your back as you followed him toward the hallway.

Then Max shot up, “She can’t go in there with him, come on mate.” He said looking at Charles then at the rest of the group whose eyes were too locked on you and Charles. “That’s my little sister.”

As you opened your mouth to reply, Lando stood up and looked at Max. “The rules are the rules, and unfortunately for you the rules mean your sister needs to go into that closet with Charles.” Lando then towards Max and pushed him back down onto the floor where he was previously sat. A small laugh went through the group as they looked back at you and reminded you to go towards the closet.

The door was barely closed when the silence hit. Charles leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his green eyes scanning your face. "So," he said softly, his voice cutting through the stillness, making sure no one could hear, "seven minutes."

You swallowed, leaning against the opposite wall, unsure of what to say. It felt like the world outside had faded, the only sound was the steady thrum of your pulse in your ears. There was something unspoken hanging in the air between you, a tension that had been there for longer than you’d like to admit, but neither of you had ever dared to acknowledge it. Until now.

“Well,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper, “what do we do with them?”

The air inside the closet felt thicker than it should, the dim light from the hallway casting just enough of a glow under the door to catch the intensity in Charles’ eyes. Your back pressed against the wall, and you could hear your own breath coming a little too fast, the silence between you loaded with all the things neither of you had said until now.

Charles took a slow step forward, closing the distance, his presence filling the small space. He was not touching you yet, but it felt like he was everywhere, the heat radiating from him making your pulse race. His eyes flickered over your face, searching for any sign of hesitation, but you didn’t give him one. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the game, or maybe it was something you’d been pretending not to feel for a long time.

His hand came up, brushing lightly against your arm, sending a shiver through you. Then, in a sudden, fluid motion, he cupped your face, pulling you toward him. His lips crashed against yours, firm but not forceful, and it was like every thought in your head vanished, replaced by the sheer intensity of the moment.

You responded immediately, fingers threading through his hair as you kissed him back, your whole body pressing against his as if you were trying to make up for lost time. The world outside the closet didn’t exist anymore — it was just the two of you, tangled up in each other. His lips are soft but urgent, like he’d been holding this back for far too long.

He pulled back just enough for a sharp breath, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was rough, low, like he’d barely be able to keep it together. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that, mon ange” he murmured, his lips brushing yours again, making your heart skip a beat.

You smiled against his mouth, your voice barely a whisper. “Then why didn’t you?”

His hands slid down your waist, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck as he leant in again, his lips tracing a path along your jaw. “Didn’t think it was a good idea,” he admitted softly between kisses, his mouth now teasing the skin just beneath your ear, sending a jolt of heat down your spine. “Still don’t,” he added with a soft chuckle, but there was no trace of hesitation in the way he was kissing you now.

“Why?” you whispered, trying to suppress a moan as you tugged him closer, lost in the moment, your mind spinning, body pressed tight against his. The feel of his hands, the taste of whiskey on his lips, the way your bodies fit together in this impossibly small space—it was all overwhelming, intoxicating. Every kiss was hungrier than the last, his fingers gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away, but neither of you were going anywhere.

“Because now I’ve had you once, I’m going to want you forever.” He replied in a raspy voice.

The sound of footsteps passing in the hallway broke through the haze for just a moment, but Charles didn’t stop, his kisses trailing down your neck as his hands tightened their hold on you, and you realised how badly you’d wanted this too.

The footsteps faded, but the sound barely registered. All you could focus on was Charles — the way his lips moved against your skin, the heat of his hands gripping your waist like he’d been starving for this. Each kiss felt more urgent, more desperate, and you let yourself fall into it, the thrill of finally crossing a line you didn’t know you’d been tiptoeing around for so long.

Your fingers slid under his shirt, grazing the smooth skin of his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as his breath hitched. That small reaction sent a surge of confidence through you, and you pulled him even closer, wanting more, needing more. He groaned softly, his hands travelling up your sides, fingers digging in as if he was trying to ground himself in the reality of this moment.

“I didn’t think you—” His words were cut off by another kiss, deeper this time, his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in. You weren’t sure what he was going to say, but it didn't matter. The way his body was pressed against yours told you everything.

It was electric — the feeling of his lips parting against yours, his breath mixing with yours as the kiss deepened, growing more intense, more heated. You lost track of time in the tangle of it all, your bodies moving together like they’d been waiting for this, like this is what they were meant for. Every second felt like it was teetering on the edge of control, the space between you disappearing as if it had never existed in the first place.

Charles broke away, panting, his forehead pressed against yours again. His voice is ragged, low and strained with want. “You... really have no idea how hard it’s been, pretending like this wasn’t... exactly what I’ve wanted.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt the heat rise in your chest as his words sank in. You reached up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your thumb, heart pounding in your ears. “Then stop pretending.”

Something shifted in his gaze, something raw and powerful. His lips crashed back against yours with renewed intensity, a fire now blazing between you, the last of any hesitation burned away. His hands roamed freely now, gripping, pulling, like he was making up for all the times he’d held back. Your back pressed harder into the wall, but you didn’t care. You were lost in the feel of him, in the way his lips trailed down to your collarbone, in the sound of his breath ragged against your skin.

Your name left his lips in a whisper, like a prayer, like it had been waiting there for years, and hearing it sent a thrill through you. You pulled him closer, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, wanting to feel every inch of him. His hands slipped under your shirt, his touch scorching as his fingers trail up your back, sending sparks down your spine as he played with your bra.

“You are heavenly,” he breathed against your neck, and you could feel the heat of his words, the truth of them, in every kiss, every touch. “Utterly heavenly.”

He’d said you hadn’t known how long he’d needed this but you did. Because now that you were here, with him, you realise you’d been wanting it too — maybe even longer than he had.

Just as his lips found yours again, there was a sharp knock on the closet door, startling you both. Daniel’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, cut through the haze. “Time’s up, lovebirds. Don’t make me open this door.”

You froze, breath caught, the spell broken for a split second. Charles chuckled softly, his forehead resting against yours again, his breathing still heavy. “Guess we’ll have to hit pause.”

Your heart raced as you untangled yourselves, but before you could step back, he pulled you in for one last lingering kiss, softer this time, like a promise.

“Don’t think this is over, mon ange,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours. “Not even close.”

You grinned, your pulse still pounding as you tried to pull yourself together. “I’m counting on it.”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, his voice low and husky. "You should probably go first."

You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

His eyes flickered down to himself, and he smirks, a little sheepishly. "Because if I walk out there like this..." He gestured toward his jeans, and you couldn’t help but notice the tension brewing once more. "Let’s just say it’s gonna be obvious what we were doing in here, and Max might not be too happy."

Heat flooded to your cheeks, and you bit back a smile. “Right.”

Charles stepped forward again, fingers brushing lightly against your arm, his gaze locked on yours. "Give me a minute, and I’ll meet you out there."

You nodded, still feeling the lingering heat between you, but you straightened your shirt and smoothed your hair as best you can, trying to act like you weren’t just tangled up with him in the small, dark closet. When you felt composed enough, you opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Immediately, all eyes were on you. Lando was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a grin on his face. “Well, well, look who’s back from heaven,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he took in your slightly dishevelled appearance. His eyes narrowed as he studied you, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You look... flustered, mini Verstappen.”

Your face burned, and you weren't too sure if it was from the kiss or from the fact that your brother’s friends could read you way too well. “Shut up, Lando,” you muttered, pushing past him, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

Just as you make it to the edge of the living room, Max’s voice cuts through, louder than anyone else in the room, as if he was just realising something. "Wait a minute. Where’s Charles? Why are you coming out first?"

You froze, and everyone turned to look toward the hallway. As if on cue, Charles stepped out a beat later, looking a little too composed compared to you, though he quickly raked a hand through his hair as if to play it off. His shirt was untucked at the back, and there was a slight flush to his face, but he managed to pull himself together.

Max narrowed his eyes suspiciously, looking between the two of you, arms still crossed. "You two weren’t... actually doing anything, were you?" He tilted his head, trying to sound casual but clearly fishing for answers.

Charles shot you a quick glance, his lips twitching like he was holding back a grin. "Don’t worry, man," he said, walking past your brother and clapping him on the shoulder. "We were just... getting to know each other better."

the end.

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