Also. Insane to make a whole thing of how the Greeks violated âZeusâs lawâ towards the Trojans with the horse trick, but never mention Paris by name. Yâknow. The guy who kicked off the war by violating xenia first?
He kidnapped his wifeâs host. He violated the sanctity of marriage. Menelaus and Helen welcomed Paris as they would any Greek guest, and in return this foreigner bedded (raped) and stole the warlord King of Spartaâs wife.
This isnât to say what the Greeks did to the Trojans was justified â on the contrary, both sides of the war, in life and in death, in the Iliad and Odyssey and extended body of spin-off works, lament that there was so much death and destruction on behalf of one woman.
But the war very much wasnât just about Helen â it was about her kidnapping, and what it represented.
How could the Greeks let such a violation of xenia, such a barbaric act that spurned their most valued customs, go unpunished? They couldnât. That was why the Trojan War happened. And you canât ignore that, especially not in a retelling of the Odyssey, which is all about xenia and hubris and what happens when men do things they should not.
How lovely it would be if Christopher Nolanâs take cared about or respected any of those themes.
âEmily Wilsonâs critique was meanâ good. We need harsher critiques, we need to be more critical of what art we consume especially if itâs from Hollywood. Iâm tired of being nice we need to go apeshit.
I maintain that the best summation of my feminist beliefs are that men and women are not fundamentally different. There are a few quantifiable differences if you average out every woman and every man, but they are not qualitative. And most of them are socially constructed, and would be fixed if we started treating men and women the same. Neither is inherently smarter, neither is inherently kinder, neither is inherently more stoic or stronger or angrier or softer. Everyone is obsessed with the differences between women and men, with finding them and creating them and distancing themselves from the "other half". It's fucked up
This was the mainstream feminist belief like. A decade ago. Thats how hard weâve regressed within mainstream feminism and itâs mainly because of right wingers/radfems/TERFs deciding trans women need to die.
I think it's very likely that Julian & Henry were having sex. I absolutely think that Henry saw Julian like a father, and I also absolutely would not put it past Julian to try to be everything at once for Henry.
Tartt is consistently very deliberate in the details that she provides; almost all of the big reveals are hinted at much earlier in subtle ways.
Henry and Julian show an increased amount of physical affection when they're alone. You could argue that it's just father-son physical affection, but then why would it only happen when they're alone?
When Richard observes Henry & Julian talking about whether Henry should do whatever is necessary to achieve the proper mental state for the bacchanal, they're holding hands and Henry kisses Julian on the cheek. When Richard barges into Henry's private meeting with Julian to try to get Bunny's note away from him, he notices that their chairs are placed very close together.
After getting back from the trip to Rome with Bunny, Henry tells Richard that he spent the first several nights at Julian's house. While Henry and Richard are living together, Richard notices that Henry's often not home when he gets back from work and won't tell him where he went. Crucially, he's not spending time with any of the other Greek class kids because it's winter break and only Henry & Richard are actually at Hampden at this time. And so is Julian.
Richard is extremely prone to seeing signs of other people's abuse and reacting by looking away. He doesn't do this out a lack of empathy; he does it out of fear. But he still very much does it. Richard watched Julian & Henry's interactions in that overheard conversation where they were unusually physically affectionate, noticed it was weird, and promptly filed it in the cabinet of things he's never going to think about again.
When considering what happened between Henry and Bunny in Rome, Richard thinks that maybe Henry might have made a move on Bunny. This comes out of nowhere, and he proceeds to speculate about whether Henry might be gay, also out of nowhere. In this same line of thought, he also has the very brief thought that he thinks Julian might be gay too. What if this speculation about Henry's sexuality was never actually about Bunny? What if Richard was too afraid to have the thought that he was really trying to have?
It's worth noting that Richard has also had thoughts that maybe Camilla and Charles are sleeping together and dismissed them as products of his own perverted imagination.
I've said this about Richard many times: he is extremely intelligent. He has very good instincts and insights about what's going on around him and consistently chooses to ignore them out of fear.
I would argue it is far more likely than not that Julian was very much predatory towards Henry in a sexual manner too, in addition to everything else he did to him.
protect short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice.
protect fanfic writersâwho are kind enough to share their works with people to read for freeâfrom ai witch hunts, speculations and accusations.
âdonât like donât readâ also applies to any fic that is ai-generated and any fic you think is ai-generated by the way. if you donât like what youâre reading for any reason, you can always stop reading and exit the fic at any point. but harassment is never ever justified. no matter if you think youâve found a noble excuse to do it. and alsoâŠ
witch hunts, speculations and accusations harm the writing community as much as ai does. if not more. I donât want to see another innocent writer get driven away from the community because someone decides to harass and accuse them for using ai just because their fic happens to have âai telltalesâ â the same telltales ai got from having been trained on millions of human-made works to mimic how real humans actually write.
This is so important and occurs outside of the fanfic space as well. I've seen authors get rejected because their book sounded 'too AI' when they're just the type of writer who knows how to use em dashes. I've seen content writers and copywriters spend hours on assignments they submit for job applications that reject them for 'using AI' that they never used to begin with! All while those jobs hire writers who did in fact use AI and prompt it NOT to 'sound like AI' (because yes that is something you can very easily do), and publishers work with authors who have openly mentioned using AI for 'editing and brainstorming' while receiving little to no backlash for it.
Also, no you're not some holier than thou smartass for presuming everyone who does not have em dashes/'not x, not y, but z' writing is writing without AI and vice versa. I especially hate when people in power like publishers, employers, and professors use this presumption to make life miserable for writers who genuinely love writing
sorry if this is a stupid and/or weird question but your response to that anon talking about people experiencing orgasms during childbirth made me wonder if there's a certain point in development after which it'd be weird for pregnant people to have sex or masturbate, since after a certain point the fetus(?) can hear? like, should people do it quietly or does it just not really matter? sorry again but i am genuinely clueless
should. should pregnant people have sex quietly so their baby doesn't hear?
okay even assuming your unborn child can hear you fucking. it's like having sex in front of your stuffed animals or your dog, dude. they have absolutely no understand of what is going on. they don't give a shit. at no point is any person who has ever or will ever be born going to go "oooooh man I think hearing my parents fuck while I was in utero really fucked me up actually" that's not how anything works. they're too busy going "mmm yummy amniotic fluid" they do not know or care that sex is happening
I swear this is a consequence of the "life begins at conception" propaganda. Combined with the recurrent moral panic about "protecting children" (from knowledge).
Absolutely rancid combination of Christian morality with Christian morality.
I'm sad to say that the rise of fascism has been visible in my inbox for years as people become increasingly distrustful of their own bodies and pleasure. you see it in people's paranoia around becoming "porn addicts," their need for reassurance that a 24 year old isn't a predator for dating a 22 year old, their fears that they may have unwittingly committed assault by looking at another child's naked body when they were young, their insistence that consensual sex is impossible for anyone who has had a single drink or smoked a whiff of weed. people, especially young people, are doing a tremendous amount of work for fascism in terms of rigorously policing their own bodies and sexual expression, and they often don't even realize it.
Pairing - King Viserys Targaryen x OC!Elyse Celtigar
Warnings - None really lol it mentions death (Queen Aemma) but other than that thereâs not much in this chapter but in future chapters there will be smut/death/manipulation/coercion/targaryen incest and more.
The bells of Claw Isle rang in mourning, the raven had reached her fatherâs solar shortly before dusk, the lord of claw isle ordered that the bells would ring from dawn to dusk for three consecutive days in mourning for the Queen who had given so much to the realm only to be rewarded with blood and loss.
Lady Elyse Celtigar stood upon the castle walls her dark hair hung loosely down her back while she overlooked Blackwater Bay when the news spread through the keep, Queen Aemma Arryn was dead. So too was the son she had given everything to bring into the world.
For several moments, Elyse simply stared across the water, unable to speak. She had never met the queen, yet the tragedy struck her deeply, every noblewoman in the realm knew the burden Queen Aemma had carriedâthe endless pregnancies, the stillbirths, the babes lost before they reached their first moon, the whispered hopes for a living son, the pressure of bearing the future of House Targaryen and the realm. To die after so many sacrifices felt heartbreakingly cruel, Elyse Celtigar felt her heart breaking for the dead Queen, for the children she lost.
That evening, she lit a candle in the castle sept, not for the queen she had never known, but for a mother and for the child who had barely taken his first breath before the stranger claimed him as well.
When the Kings grief and heartache became the talk of every hall of every noble Lord in the kingdom, Elyse only prayed to the Seven that they would grant him peace in his time of misery, that they would also grant his daughter Princess Rhaenyra respite from the heartache that surely encompassed the red key and the royal family.
Elyse Celtigar tried to think no more of it, though she frequently found herself praying that a great grief like that would never find her or her home as she did not think she was strong enough to withstand that level of sorrow.
âž»
Her father summoned Elyse to the family solar just after supper, Lady Celine Celtigar sat beside her husband, Lord Aerion Celtigar and her young brother who had settled near a window looking out to the sea when Elyse entered.
Her father the Lord of claw isle held a letter with a broken Targaryen seal, a three headed dragon pressed in deep Crimson wax, his face remained mostly without emotion, though her mother who is seated beside him, had a crease in her brow which betrayed her face with the hidden anxiety she must have felt.
âThe king has announced that he will soon choose a new queen,â her father began. âThe great houses are already presenting their daughters.â His dark eyes held a mix of emotion, though she tried not to read too deeply into it, her father had always been a difficult man to read.
Elyse nodded politely, she had expected as much, the king, though he may wish it could not remain unmarried for long and though King Viserys had named his only child, Princess Rhaenyra as his heir, the Targaryen family would need more children to carry on the bloodline and many lords, including her own father had whispered about the young princess being a placeholder until the king had a son to take her place.
âThe Crown has requested our presence in Kingâs Landing.â Her motherâs voice sounded very tentative, her crystalline blue eyes, looking at her youngest daughter, with a mixed expression of anxiety, hope and something else that Elyse could not quite place.
A heavy silence settled over the room, Elyseâs younger brother looked between their parents, a hopeful expression on his youthful face, Edmund Celtigar I had recently celebrated his 11th name day but his eyes still glittered with a youthful bliss, and his face was still round as many childrenâs are before they begin the journey into adulthood.
Her mother slowly folded her hands, before unfolding them in letting them rest gently into her lap, a top the deep crimson gown that she wore. Elyse looked at the knee that seemed to be swallowing her mother whole, her eyes flickered to her father, and it was them that she began to understand. This wasnât only about a letter being sent directly from Kings Landing to them, this was about her father, hoping to place her within the eyes of the king, though she was certain, but never in a million years with the king choose her to be his bride, not when they were surely dozens of other highborn ladies vying for his attention.
âYou are of Valyrian blood,â he said. âYou are well-born, educated, and of an age to marry. House Celtigar has long stood beside House Targaryen.â His voice sounded proud and full of certainty that the king would surely choose his youngest daughter as his future bride and queen. Elyse let out the smallest laugh, not one of the amusement, but one of disbelief.
âFatherâŠâ Elyse began her voice soft, she looked at him, and for a moment was afraid of his reaction when he was sure to be disappointed.
âI am serious.â His voice rang clear, ambition and pride lacing his words, it took several heartbeats for Elyse to truly realize how serious he was about this.
She looked from him to her mother, hoping that she would say something to help lower his expectations, but her motherâs eyes remained cast to the floor, her fingers flexing in the soft silk of her gown.
âThe king will have daughters from Houses Velaryon, Baratheon, Lannister, Hightower, and perhaps even Tyrell placed before him.â She shook her head with gentle amusement. âWhy would he notice me?â her voice was gentle and tentative, she could feel her face flushing, heat, reaching her neck, cheeks and ears as she looked down to the same place upon the stone floor that her mother had been staring at for what seemed like ages now.
âHe might,â her father, began his voice, having an edge of desperation that she very rarely saw upon the man that seemed so confident in everything,
âHe wonât.â Elyse cut in, there was no bitterness in her voice only certainty, she was the third daughter of a respectable, but comparatively modest Valeryian house, she possessed neither the political influence of the Hightowers nor the wealth of the Lannisters, her family was not placed close to the crown as the Velaryons were, she had never sought attention and had never even been to the Red Keep.
The very notion of the king, choosing her of all people seemed entirely impossible.
Still, when her father continued speaking of suitable gowns and the honor of House Celtigar, she merely smiled. If believing such a thing brought him hope, she could not bear to crush it and so she played along.
Over the days to come she allowed the seamstresses to take new measurements, she endured her motherâs lessons in court etiquette, though she already knew them well, Elyse listened with practiced patience as her father speculated about audiences with the king and possible futures.
Whenever her father spoke about the potential future and her placed upon a throne, she would simply smile in an attempt to placate him.
She listened patiently as her father speculated about audiences with the king and possible futures.
Never once did she confess what she truly believed, that she was merely another noble lady amongst dozens of others with far more influence, that the king would likely choose a bride whose marriage could strengthen powerful alliances, that once his choice was announced, they would congratulate the new queen, return to Claw Isle, and once her fathers pride had recovered they would laugh together about her fatherâs impossible dream.
If pretending could spare him disappointment before reality arrived, then she would pretend gladly.
As their ship departed Claw Isle for Kingâs Landing, Elyse stood at the stern imwatching her home disappear beneath the morning mist, and standing there in a pale violet gown with embroidered silver dragons stretching across the tight bodice, she whispered a quiet prayerânot that the king would choose her, but that he would find someone capable of easing the sorrow left behind by Queen Aemmaâs passing.
Itâs astounding to me how many people donât get why Alicent grabbed the knife after Aemondâs eye was cut out and what a turning point that was. A Prince was just permanently maimed and Viserys and Rhaenyra not punishing Luke at all (it didnât have to be eye for an eye) sent a clear message to everyone that Alicentâs children donât matter to The King or his Heir, they can be harmed and there will be no consequences at all. That puts them in danger, you canât maintain power and safety as a royal if you can be harmed without consequence. Worse than that, Viserys actively threatened to further maim and permanently disable Aegon and Aemond when he said âAnyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyraâs sons shall have it removedâ. Even if you think Rhaenyra wasnât alluding to possible torture when she said Aemond should be âsharply questionedâ, Viserys undoubtedly, unambiguously threatened to mutilate his own children and Rhaenyraâs âThank you, fatherâ was her approving of grievous harm to Alicentâs children.
Alicent didnât go straight to wanting to cut out Lukeâs eye, she tried begging Viserys to treat her son as his son worthy of his protection and consideration but he wouldnât. It was only after absolutely nothing happened - not even an apology, Viserys halfheartedly tells them all to apologize when only one person is seriously harmed and even that didnât happen. Rhaenyra made no attempt to make her son even apologize and take accountability, instead claiming he was the victim and justified in resorting to physical violence and jumping a kid 4 to 1 when insulted (but according to the fandom, Alicent is the âboy momâ teaching her sons to not be accountable but also sheâs evil and abusive when she does scold them, okay). That was the turning point when Alicentâs worst fears were confirmed that Rhaenyra would maim and slaughter her own half-siblings. Whether thatâs what Rhaenyra meant to convey and whether that was true (I think it was more her complete lack of political awareness and self-centeredness than genuine intent to harm them) doesnât matter, that was the message not only to Alicent but to everyone else.
Thatâs also why this recent season is hot garbage pretending Alicent is just moderately resistant to killing her own sons because âoh no war is scary and I still have a crush on Rhae Rhaeâ, reducing her from a fierce, complicated mother who loves her children like her own heart despite having been forced to have them and struggling to bond to them, who grabbed a knife to avenge her son when no one else would despite having never held a weapon before, to pure victim whose only motivation for her actions was serving what she thought the dead man she was married to as a child wanted.
Summary: You had always been a readerâalways drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.
Word count:Â 4.7k
Warnings:Â Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to psychosis and related symptoms
a/n: Here we areee :) The story starts to really pick up (and the romance wink wink) after this. Reminder though that this is slow burnnn BUT I think it's worth it (I'm biased) okay ily ily bye â€ïž
Part One, Part Two
Main Masterlist âĄ
~~
You had read a book when you were young, though the title escaped you, that felt relevant in your current situation. Children had fallen into a different world, one more dangerous but more enticing. More alluring. You could recall creatures and magic and echoes of the past. The name was on the tip of your tongue, evading your memory each time you got close, but it wasnât as if remembering would help. That book was not a guide for your life, and if you thought hard enough, you could recall that readers had conjured up theories that the children hadnât actually gone to that strange fantasy world. Instead, someone had died, or someone had gone crazy, or someone was dreaming, and the story was merely told within that recollection.Â
It was somewhat comforting to know that even within fiction, there were those looking for a different answer. That you werenât second-guessing your every sense because you werenât able to accept reality, but because you were human, and thatâs what humans did. They hypothesized and doubted and fact-checked. They looked for logic because the world was mostly run by logic, and so you were human. You were not insane.
But you werenât human. Not anymore. Even if this were all a dream, or you were going insane, that was something youâd come to accept. You were no longer human.Â
Your refute of your fae form hung in the air, bed sheets crumpling between your fingers, expression distraught. There was no reason for them to believe you, though they werenât outright throwing you into the dungeons you knew lurked below. That had to be a good sign. Your lungs felt as if they were going to burst.Â
âI swear,â you repeated, only because no one had said anything. There was only blinking and dead air. âI donât even have any magic or special skills that would help me in an uprising. I didnât have this body a few hours ago. You have to believe me.âÂ
Something flickered on Rhysandâs face as your pleading faded. Another silent conversation then took place. He looked to Azrielâwho seemed to flinchâand Azriel gave him one stiff nod. The High Lord ticked his jaw and rubbed his hand along his chin.Â
âIt would be easier for us to believe your story,â Rhysand slowly replied, though his voice was void of the earlier suspicion. He sounded tired. âIf you did not sit in this room, emanating power.âÂ
You paused, brows furrowing. You looked within yourself for whatever he was talking about, but everything felt different about you, so it was impossible to pinpoint. You didnât feel powerful, and you certainly didnât feel emanating, but you were also interpreting a strange language and seeing colors you never had before, so your judgment was unreliable.
You grimaced. âI⊠am?âÂ
âItâs quite overwhelming,â Mor gently offered, hands clasped together in front of her waist. She brought her fingers up and pinched them. âMaybe even a little bit suffocating. So youâll have to forgive the third degree. There are many threats we have to look out for. Especially in recent months.âÂ
âSuffocating,â you whispered under your breath. âI didnât meanââÂ
âItâs all right,â Azriel interrupted as your fear began to grow once more.Â
You craned your neck up to look at him, still so close and imposing over the bed. He had a strange smile on his face that looked as if it was meant to be comforting, but it came across as pained and lingering. You blinked at him.Â
âWe could clear most of this up now if you were to let me in,â Rhysand posed, snapping your gaze away from the Spymaster. He tapped his temple and nodded towards you. âIt wouldnât hurt if you allowed me to look.âÂ
âLook?âÂ
âIn your mind. Iâm Daemati. I can confirm everything you say if you allow me in.âÂ
Right. Youâd read about that. You remembered. Youâd wanted him to look not too long ago, but that had been beforeâbefore the pain and fear and blubbering confession. Before you realized you were even more different than youâd thought.Â
âHow do I do that?â you posed, eagerly straightening on the bed. âCan I just say you can come in, orââÂ
âNo,â Rhysand shook his head. âItâs more contingent on that wall around your mind. The barrier. Itâsâvery strong. If you get yourself to lower it, or even just find a point for me to see in, that would be helpful.â
You blinked, searching your mind for the offending force. You shifted to sit on your heels, vaguely aware that youâd distanced yourself from the headboard as the conversation had gone on. If anyone were going to believe you, you needed to do this. You needed to remove the barrier and let RhysandâÂ
You paused, an airy breath escaping you.Â
Was this real?Â
It had to be.Â
You bit hard into your bottom lip and focused, but instead of a barrier, you passed by a thread. The same thread that had led you here, and the same one that elicited such a panic within you when you pulled at it before. You formed your thoughts around it, letting a few brush along its edges. A choking sound caught in the room. You searched harder for the barrier.Â
Your mind was like a physical space, unusual in its layout. You could see the wall Rhysand was referring to, but it didnât necessarily look like a wall. It was made up of fractured lines and letters that mixed into words you couldnât read. Alarmingly, the words were so familiar you almost had the ability to make them out, but the moment you tried, they would warp and become illegible.Â
Frustrated tears welled in your eyesâfrustrated and confused and scared. Each time you got closer to the wall, it would inch away, and you ran and ran until an ache permeated along your temples. You wouldnât allow yourself to fall into the abyss that panicked over this strange form of your mind. But you had never been able to see inside this way, soâno, this was real. You were going to approach everything as if it were real, because if you didnât, you would be crazy and in denial. You could only pick one. Could only accept one at a time.Â
There was a small dent in the wall. You could pick out where the letters wavered there, a small warped outline hovering just above the floor of the space. You were out of breath by the time you had an answer for Rhysand, the act of searching your mind more taxing than you had anticipated.Â
âI think there is somethingâa way for youââÂ
âI see it,â Rhysand quickly responded. He dove in before you were ready, a blinding panic filling you. It didnât hurt, but something felt wrong. Like he wasnât supposed to be there, and you supposed he wasnât, but it was more intrinsic than that. The discrepancy felt ancient.
You sucked in a breath and fell forward slightly, reaching to steady yourself and grasping at the first thing within reach. Fingers wrapped around your wrist and held you steady, and you clenched your eyes shut as the invasion continued.Â
Memories were tumbling around behind the wallâof New York, the busy streets when you went to the city, a few moments on a train as you scrolled on your phone. You felt each memory being observed by the High Lord, but those werenât all of your memories. You couldnât show him everything, even though you willed it. A blurry image of your reflection materialized in your mindâthe you from before. You fixed your hair in a floor-length mirror in a fitting room, ears rounded, features plain in the way any humanâs were. And then Rhysand was forced from your mind with that same ancient force, a harsh shove sending him stumbling back in the physical space.Â
You let out a shuddering exhale. The High Lord paled.Â
~~
You were left alone without much fanfare, though the several baffled looks thrown your way made you feel like a sideshow. Rhysand had been quick to share what he had seen, and the fingers gently holding you in place had let goâslowly, reluctantly but not. Mor had been the last to leave the room, a fleeting smile and a promise to grab you for lunch offered at the threshold of the doorâyour door, you supposed.Â
You werenât quite sure what was in store for you here. Oddities were not uncommon from what you could remember from the books, but this level of oddity was probably uncharted. There was also the frustrating fact that you couldnât just show Rhysand all of your memories at once, but that frustration was also paired with the harrowing realization that you didnât know everything that was kept behind that wall in your mind. As you had examined it, you had realized.Â
You rocked up from the bed for hopefully the last time that day, drifting to the window and then to the door. Youâd seen enough of the billowing clouds and unfamiliar foliage, and you wanted to prove more to yourself.Â
This was real. This was real, and you were left to interpret it, and now that you were not an alleged member of an unknown uprising, you felt more comfortable branching out.Â
The door to your room clicked open, silk flowing past your calves and the floor seeping a chill into the soles of your feet. Nothing creaked or groaned as you walked past the hulking door, though you could hear other things that you shouldnât have been able to. A wind whistling in a tree far off, the low murmur of speaking several rooms away, the rhythm of heartbeats all out of cohesionâit was all very overwhelming and rivaled the jarring nature of your sight.Â
Still, you trekked down the hall.Â
The House of Wind was similar to how your brain had conjured it up. Sprawling hallways made way for doors with intricate carvings, and you let your fingers trail along the stars and clouds in the wood. You felt the cold marble beneath your bare feet. You focused on just your heartbeat and tried to remember what your apartment looked like back home. Tried to recreate the dull hum of the refrigerator in your ears and pretend you were feeling the worn carpet that came with old apartments.Â
That all felt distant, somehow, but you knew it was there. You had been there, and now you were here.Â
You turned down another hallway and the window there was so large, so⊠revealing, you almost gasped. The city you couldnât see before was in perfect view from this vantage point, and your fae eyesâyou were fae, you had acceptedâcould make out each billowing chimney and the route of the winding pathways. You approached without meaning to, setting fingers on the window panes and nearly pressing your nose against them as well.Â
Velaris.Â
This was Velaris.Â
You felt yourself spiralling again, but the panic was interrupted. Someone cleared their throat, the sound purposefully gentle, but everything was startling, so you jumped, yelping and covering your mouth. When you spun on your heel, it was Azriel, and he looked pained again. You wondered if that had to do with his harrowing backstory, but you could remember that he was joyful in the books. At times.Â
âI apologize,â Azriel said with a slight bow of his head. âI didnât mean to scare you.âÂ
âEverything scares me,â you tried to brush off with a choppy, placating laugh, but Azrielâs expression only became more closed.Â
âI apologize for that as well.âÂ
Your eyes flicked behind him, taking in the massive wings that seemed glued to his back. They didnât move as you remembered they had before, the muscle looking stiff.Â
âItâs not your fault.â You blinked back to meet his eyes and held them for only a second before searching for a nondescript landing place. âIâm usually very good at adjusting to things. IâI think Iâm having difficulty coming to terms with this, though, so it may take me some time.âÂ
âYou said this wasnât real,â Azriel stated. You watched his hands flex at his sides. âDo you⊠still feel that way?âÂ
You nodded jerkily. âYes.â An audible exhale. âAnd no.âÂ
You looked off to the side, observing the way the light from the window reflected in broken streams along the wall. You couldnât tell what season it was here, but the clear skies may have told the story of Spring. There werenât very many colors in the trees when you had looked down. Perhaps it was Summer. None of that mattered.Â
âIs there anything I can doââ Azriel started, and when you looked up, he was leaning slightly, eyes ready to meet yours ââto show you that this is real? To help?âÂ
âI donâtââ He didnât know that you knew things about him. He didnât know that this was a book, a story, and that this would perhaps never feel real. Something told you to keep that to yourself. Your mind hadnât let Rhysand see that part. âI think I need time to adjust, maybe.âÂ
Azrielâs brow twitched, but he didnât give anything else away. He nodded once, eyes fluttering to the ground before pressing his mouth into the whisper of a smile. âLunch, then?âÂ
Walking beside him involved shadows. They whisked past you and trailed along their master, though he paid them no mind. You, on the other hand, eyed each of their movements, unsure what they were reporting back to him in their brief whispers. You shouldnât know that they told him things. You shouldnât know that he commanded them.Â
âThey will not hurt you,â Azriel reassured. He held out his hand and let one pool into the divot of his palm. âThey are like extensions of me, but their own beings. They collect information.âÂ
âShould you be telling me that?â
âPerhaps not,â Azriel hummed absent-mindedly. âBut you canât spread secrets to my enemies if I am one of the only three people you know.â
An unexpected laugh bubbled past your lips, the first real bout of humor to find you. You covered your mouth again, this time from pleasant shock, and continued to walk beside the Shadowsinger. He stared at you openly as you did so, only turning back to the hallway when you cleared your throat and pressed your lips together to hide the lingering smile.Â
âI suppose youâre right,â you agreed. âIâll have to meet more people.âÂ
âYou will regret wanting for that.â
âAnd what is that supposed toââÂ
You heard him before you saw him, a low voice asking several questions in the room over. He sounded serious and firm, but his words were trailing and seeking rather than demanding. It wasnât Rhysand, and the responding female voice was not Mor. You blinked to orient yourself to the onslaught of sounds as those two also spoke up in the conversation. Fourâfour people in the room and four heartbeats and four paced breaths andâ
âAre you all right?â Azriel asked, and you looked to see his eyes searching yours.Â
âOh, um, yes.â You glanced at the door where you were sure to enter. âIâm getting used to⊠hearing things. It's a lot.âÂ
âIf you need more timeââÂ
âNo!â you rushed out, settling yourself when Azrielâs brow furrowed. âNo, I just need a moment. I want to have lunch. I want to see more and see that this is real. My brain couldnât possibly conjure up something so large. I need to see that itâs big.â
Azriel seemed to contemplate. He glanced at the door and then back at you, tracing the outline of your face as the muscle in his jaw feathered. You had no idea what was running through his mind, so you guessed.Â
âI promise Iâm not a danger to anyone. It really is just the sound. Sometimes the colors and the light. Senses, I guess. But thatâs part of all of thisâthe proving. I donât have any plans to hurt anyone in there. If that was whatââÂ
âIt wasnât,â Azriel shot down. He moved his hand to the door. âIf it⊠if anything starts to hurt, we can stop. We can introduce you to things more slowly.âÂ
You felt the confusion show on your face. âHurt?âÂ
 âIf itâs too much.âÂ
âI donât think I understand.âÂ
Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. âI only mean that you can leave whenever you might need to. I didnât understand when you first woke up, but I do know. I understand that this is more than you are used to, but it doesnât have to be pain that makes things real.âÂ
Oh.Â
Oh.Â
Your face heated. âAzriel. Is this about the head thing?âÂ
He cleared his throat. âI wouldnâtââÂ
âI promise I will not slam my head into any walls or hard surfaces again. That wasââ
âRather terrifying.â
âRight,â you blunted. âI can imagine it wasnât pleasant watching a strange girl freak out and then try to put her head through a wall. But Iâm more settled now. I promise, this will help more than anything.âÂ
He searched your face for a moment longer, his mouth parted as if to say more, but he didnât.Â
You gave a sheepish smile. âSorry for being dramatic.âÂ
The door wrenched open before he could speak to the troubled expression morphing his face. A grinning, much larger Illyrian took up the doorway, his wings on full display and contrasting the small shape Azriel had been trying to shove himself into. This manâs hair was longer, his features more rugged and bright. When you startled, a habit it seemed, a sturdy chest connected with your back.Â
 âCassian,â the man greeted, raising his brows in an inviting motion. âHeard youâre not where you're supposed to be. Happens a lot around here.âÂ
Your gaze flicked down to his outstretched hand, and the size of it dwarfed yours as you hesitantly reached out to accept the shake. He rattled you with one firm, steady flip of his wrist, and the presence at your back seemed to become more imposing.Â
âCassian,â Azriel grumbled out.
Cassian only clicked his tongue. âYeah, got it.â He gave you a conspiratorial look. âHe warned me not to be overwhelming. But you can handle it. And Iâm not overwhelming.âÂ
The casual air of his words had you blinking, your hand still connected with his. Everyone else in this world had been so formal with you. You knew the contrast to your world had a lot to do with the speech patterns and lack of modernization, but Cassian almost seemed modern. Like you could pluck him out of Prythian and smack him in the middle of Boston and he would adapt within hours. Maybe even pop onto public transit and yell at a curb-side vendor before asking any questions.Â
âRight. You have mastered the art of subtly, surely,â Mor spoke from around the door. She peeked her head over. âNow let them actually enter the room, Cassian.âÂ
Another wolfish grin directed at you, and Cassian seemed about ready to tug you into the quaint dining room by your hand, but a low sound at your back halted his almost-tug. Cassianâs grin turned teasing as he stared above your shoulder, and he raised his hands up in surrender, a low whistle humming in the air.Â
âOh, enough,â Mor murmured at him, smacking his chest. âLet them in.âÂ
Things were certainly different from when you had first woken up. The suspicion was gone from each look thrown your way, replaced instead with curiosity and knowing gazes that you couldnât place. The light mood you found in Cassian was contagious as you took in the room. Rhysand sat at a long table beside a woman you knew to be Feyre, the pair sharing a private smile and an even quieter laugh. He hadnât wanted you to be around Feyreâyou could remember him saying that.Â
You knew fae were territorial and protective of mates, and that plot point had been one of your favorites when you read the books, so for him to allow you near her so quicklyâÂ
âOh, hello,â a light feminine voice chimed out. The tone was similar to yours. Familiar but entirely not. âIâm Feyre.âÂ
You offered a nod. Your name. âNice to meet you.âÂ
She gave you a sympathetic look as you winced against shimmering light reflecting off the pebbled glass of several shining utensils. The entire dining room was alight. âWould you like to sit down? Iâm told you have had quite the journey. Iâd like to hear about it, if you would be open to sharing.âÂ
âI donât have very much to offer,â you replied, following her outstretched hand to the open chair at the table. âIn terms of the journey, I mean.âÂ
Mor took up the seat across from you, her gaze pointedly down, allowing you to speak. Feyre sat at your left side and Rhysand at the head of the table. There were people missing, even as Cassian found his own place and Azriel lingered near the opposite end. You wondered where the others were, and then cursed yourself for knowing too much.Â
On the table, the food was like the languageâforeign, but eerily familiar. Everything looked like something you had eaten before, but it also didnât. The colors were slightly off, the proportions skewed. You felt your brow twitch as you tried to make out the type of meat that rested on a bed of greenery, and then took a breath through your lips as your nose began to burn at the extra attention to scent.Â
âYou just woke up here?â Feyre casually asked. She had begun to eat, and so had the rest of the table. Azriel had sat down at some point, though, not directly beside you. Something about that felt unnatural.Â
âUm, yes. There was a pain in my stomachâlike a pulling. I passed out from it, and then I woke up in this house.âÂ
Feyre briefly flicked her gaze across the table before asking, âDo you still feel the pain?âÂ
âNo. No, thatâs gone.â
She hummed. Rhysand spoke. âTell us of New York.âÂ
He said the name with such lavish carefulness you almost snorted. âNew York is the state I live in. I guessâwithin the continent I live on, New York is very small, but many people live there. I moved there for school.âÂ
âIs that where scholars typically go?â Mor inquired.Â
âThere are schools all over the country. I wasâor amâgetting my degree in library science. Iâm going to be a librarian.âÂ
The switch to speaking in the past tense was unnerving, and you corrected yourself quickly. You shifted in your seat and picked up your fork, poking at the resemblance of a tomato.Â
âLibrary science,â Mor enunciated. âYou have to become educated in the study of the library?âÂ
âYes. Itâs very extensive. Libraries are crucial to conveying knowledge where Iâm from. Things are more digital now, which many people think makes libraries archaic, but we actually offer quite a bit in that realm.âÂ
âDigital.â Cassian repeated the word under his breath.
âYou are very passionate,â Feyre observed, a smile in her voice.Â
With a furious heat taking over your face, you replied, âI guess so.âÂ
âPerhaps it wasnât a coincidence that you landed in our library, then,â Rhysand hummed, his eyes shining violet over the rim of his glass.Â
Maybe this would be a good time to tell them; you were talking about books, about libraries, and this would be the time. You werenât sure how they would react, but it had been almost a full day in this world and no one had really tried to kill you. No, they were being⊠kind? Less doubtful? You werenât sure, once again, what any of it meant.Â
Instead of talking, you shoved a piece of spiced meat in your mouth and chewed.
The flavor of it was unlike anything you had tasted before. Your taste buds reacted neutrally, as if you had whatever this was hundreds of times, but your thoughts were driving the meal, and you couldnât connect your past to the present.Â
The meat became ash in your mouth. Your fork dropped unceremoniously on the table, and you pressed your fingers to the polished wood to stop yourself from spitting it out. Casual conversation had begun to flow amongst the group, but it quieted at the sound. Your face heated again. The metal clattering against wood still stung at your sensitive ears.Â
âThat bad?â Cassian jested.Â
You squeezed your eyes shut tightly and swallowed with considerable effort.Â
âShe doesnât like boar,â Rhysand drawled back. âNoted.âÂ
Noted. Noted?
âSorry. Iâm sorry,â you coughed. You reached for the intricately gemmed goblet at your seat and sipped at what you hoped was water. It was not. More choking ensued. Droplets of blood-red wine spilled over the lip as you placed the cup down unsteadily. âIs that alcoholic?â you wheezed.Â
From the other side of the table, Azrielâs chair scraped against the floor. He was moving things away and pulling out your own chair in a few swift movements. You followed him up only because your brain was in too many directions at once, the unfamiliar spices from the meat mingling with wine in the middle of the day, and then there were the concerned questions peppering the air from those around you, and this room was so bright. Why was every window in this damn house open?Â
âSomething plain,â you heard Feyre instruct as you were guided out of the room in a fit of dramatics. âAnd water. Do you want me toââÂ
âNo,â was all that came from the Shadowsinger beside you. The hallways became darker. Shadows were lining the walls. When you were alone, Azriel said, âIâm sorry. We shouldnât have assumed everything was okay for you.âÂ
âIt was a normal lunch,â you argued, fingers curling around nothing as you followed his slow steps. He had to be slowing them down for you. âAt least I can attest to the reality of this place even more now. Iâve never eaten anything like that in my life.âÂ
Though even as you said the words, you held a drop of doubt firm within you.
âFeyre had trouble adjusting to the food,â Azriel said. Mostly to himself. âWe should have prepared for that.âÂ
âFeyre?âÂ
âShe was human. From the human lands here. She became fae, as you did.â
But you already knew that. You nodded and bit into your tongue. âYou know, you didnât have to drag me out. I know everyone wants to ask me more questions.âÂ
âThey can ask you another time. You have had a very longââ his eyes flickered to the back of your head and trailed down to your twitching fingers ââstressful day.âÂ
âAnother time,â you repeated. If you woke up tomorrow and were still here, maybe. âDoes that mean you plan to keep me around?âÂ
âWhere else would you go?âÂ
âYou could send me away. I donât⊠belong here.âÂ
âYou are here now. You landed here. You will stay here.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
Azriel hesitated.Â
You asked again, âWhy would you all trust me so quickly?âÂ
âRhys saw inside your mindâsaw that there is truth to where you say you came from,â Azriel finally offered. âAnd with the state of the continent, there are many unknown variables.âÂ
The taste of the meat was still in the back of your throat and you swallowed hard. âDo you trust me?âÂ
You caught the underlying meaning in Azrielâs words. Maybe they trusted you, trusted that part of you that you were able to share, but you were also an unknown variable. You needed to be where they could monitor you, and you didnât blame them. If this were truly all real, all their world, you could pose a threat. But they were being nice, accommodating, and you couldnât parse out what all of the glances and hospitality meant.
âI want to,â Azriel said.Â
And then he pushed into the kitchen, you close behind within a trail of shadows.
Appearing on Brittany's youtube show The Royal Court, Harry cracks under pressure when confronted with a blurry, late-night paparazzi photo of the two of you at a diner.
MATERIALIST
The studio set for The Royal Court was an absolute masterpiece of a medieval court meeting the internet. Plush velvet thrones sat awkwardly beside modern studio lighting, cardboard shields hung precariously on the walls, and the entire room smelled faintly of the high-end catering pastries Brittany had been aggressively eating during the sound check.
As the digital series' reigning monarch, Brittany was in her absolute element. Wearing a massive, heavily jeweled plastic crown tilted slightly to the left, a velvet robe, and a pair of fuzzy slippers, she sat atop her central throne. Tonight, she had a single guest captured in her sight.
Harry sat in the lone hot seat beside her. He was doing a solo promotional run for the new season, and your publicists had explicitly warned him before he walked on set.
âOkay, Brittany is a wild card. She is the internet personified, literally. Harry, If you give her a single crumb of the romance rumors, she will build a thirty minute commentary video out of it, and believe me she will.â
For the first half of the episode, Harry was doing surprisingly well. He looked effortlessly charming in a relaxed linen shirt, playing along with the medieval bit by pretending to be a low-born squire answering to his queen.
Then it came, Harryâs doom, Brittany leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her heavy plastic rings clinking together as she narrowed her eyes at him.
"Alright, look," Brittany said, her recognizable Texas drawl cutting entirely through the playful bit. She gestured towards him with a heavy jeweled scepter. "Weâve done the courtly jests. Weâve talked about the boring swords and the dragons. But I need to talk about the little game happening in this room right now."
Harry blinked, his polite, public-facing smile freezing instantly. âLittle game, Your Grace?"
"Don't 'Your Grace' me, Collett, I see right through the velvet," Brittany declared, slamming the scepter down onto the arm of her throne with a dramatic thud. "I am a woman of the internet. I have read the scrolls. I have seen edits.â She mentioned pointing at him with her finger. âAnd I am currently sitting five feet away from a man who is radiating the kind of unspoken guilty energy that usually precedes a civilian uprising."
The studio crew behind the cameras let out a collective, muffled laugh. Harry shifted slightly in his seat, trying to maintain his composure.
"Brittany, I promise the rumors aren't true," Harry tried, offering a perfectly rehearsed, media-trained smile. âShe and Iâve worked together for three years now, very very close friends, so of course our chemistry on screen is jus--"
"Sir. Sir." Brittany cut him off completely, throwing her hands up in the air, her crown slipping slightly over her eyebrow. She looked directly into the main camera lens, her face twisted into a look of pure disbelief. "Do you hear this? Camera three, get a close-up of my face.â She deadpans. âHe thinks Iâm a fool. He thinks the Court is blind." She mentions pausing between every word.
Turning her attention entirely back to Harry, Brittany leaned back in her throne, crossing her legs. She didn't say a word as she picked up a large, ornate tablet that had been hidden beneath her velvet robes.
"Harry, Harry⊠If you are just 'very, very close friends,' explain this piece of royal evidence recently intercepted by one of the kingdomâs scouts"
Brittany spun the tablet around. Displayed on the screen was a slightly blurry photo taken at a tiny, late-night diner down by Harryâs old flat at four in the morning. The lighting was dim, the streets outside completely dead, but the subjects in the booth were clear as day. It was you and Harry. You were wearing his oversized, very wrinkled hoodie, completely laughing at something he'd said, while Harry was leaning entirely across the laminate table, his hand warmly and securely cupping your cheek as he smiled back at you. There were plates of half-eaten takeaway pastries between you. It was a scene of pure and undeniable domesticity.
Harry completely disintegrated.
He buried his face entirely into his hands, his shoulders shaking with helpless, mortified laughter as a spectacular, unmistakable shade of deep crimson flush traveled all the way down his neck. "Oh my god," he groaned into his palms, his voice muffled. "Where did you even get that? It was four in the morning. There was literally no one else in the diner" He mentioned with wide eyes, not believing what he was seeing.
"AHA!" Brittany shrieked, jumping up from her throne, her velvet robe billowing behind her as she pointed her scepter wildly at Harry like a judge closing a case. "THE SQUIRE HAS CRACKED! HE ADMITTED THE DINER IS REAL! LOOK AT THE HAND, THE HAND COLLETT! CAMERA THREE, ZOOM IN ON THE HAND POSITIONING! That is not very âcoworkerâ of you Harold huh?!â
Harry dropped his hands, his face completely flushed and his eyes shining with a mixture of sheer panic and intense amusement. He realized he had just entirely bypassed two years of strict PR training with a single, unguarded sigh. He let out a breathless laugh, throwing his hands up in total surrender.
"Alright, fine! Yes! We went to diner!" Harry protested, his voice cracking slightly as a massive, defeated grin broke across his face. "We were hungry, the streets were empty, and I wanted to take her out like a normal person! Are you happy, Your Grace? Is the court happy now?â
Brittany froze mid-stride. She slowly lowered her scepter, her jaw dropping as she stared at him. For the first time in the entire shoot, the loud, boisterous Internet Mom was completely struck dumb by the sheer honesty of the confession.
She slowly walked back to her throne, sat down and adjusted her crown with a trembling hand, she looked dead into the camera lens with an expression of profound, spiritual climax.
"My fellow peasants," Brittany whispered into her lapel microphone, her voice trembling with theatrical reverence. "We did it. We broke him. The public relations department is currently on fire in the hall, but the Royal Court has delivered justice. Put it in the edit. Print the scrolls. The date is indeed canonâ
The studio was completely dead for a beat, the crew behind the cameras staring in a mix of pure shock and hysterical entertainment before the director finally yelled, "And... cut!"
The heavy silence instantly shattered. Harry slumped forward in his throne, burying his face back in his hands as a long, theatrical groan escaped him. "Oh my god. My publicist is going to behead e in the courtyard. Iâm going to be exiled to the colonies."
"Exiled?!" Brittany shouted, ripping her heavy plastic crown off her head and tossing it onto the velvet cushions of her throne. She scrambled down the steps of the stage, her fuzzy slippers clicking frantically against the studio floor until she was standing directly over him. "Harry. Look at me. Look into my eyes. You just gave the internet the holy grail. Do you know what the edits are going to look like tomorrow? Theyâre going to put medieval court music over your face turning into a tomatoâ
Harry finally looked up, his cheeks still fiercely pink, a sheepish but entirely content grin breaking through his panic. "I didn't mean to blurt it out! Itâs just... there was a fucking photo. We really thought we were the only ones awake in London at that hour. What the fuckâ
"The internet notices everything, darling," Brittany said, her voice dropping from her loud internet persona into a tone of pure calmness. She clapped a hand onto his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "But for real, I am so incredibly happy for you two. The entire fandom is about to throw a festival in the town square. Weâve been fighting in the trenches for two years defending the 'platonic chemistry,' and you just ended the warâ
Before Harry could answer, the heavy double doors at the back of the soundstage swung open with a violent thud.
Sarah, his poor publicist, marched down the dark corridor of the studio, her phone clutched in her hand like a weapon. The expression on her face was a terrifying cross between utter exhaustion and professional calculation. The studio crew instinctively parted for her like the Red Sea.
"Harry," Sarah said, her voice dangerously calm as she stopped at the edge of the stage. "I have exactly four minutes before the network calls me to ask why our kid just admitted to a full romantic relationship on a digital comedy show. Do you want to perhaps, explain yourself? Mhm?â
Harry rose from his throne, offering her his most winning, boyish smile, the one that usually got him out of trouble on set. "Sarah. It was a tactical confession. Brittany had the evidence. She had a fucking photo, a photo Sarah, it was unblockable."
"The photo was blurry Harry, you could have claimed it was a trick of the light or a very intensive rehearsal!" Sarah sighed, though she couldn't completely hide the small, defeated smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She tapped her phone screen. "The producers are already asking if they can keep the confession in the final cut. They say the engagement metrics are going to be amazingâ
Harryâs expression softened, the playful defense melting away into something much more sincere. He looked from Sarah back to Brittany, stepping down from the stage.
"Keep it in," Harry said quietly, his voice steady and completely unbothered by the corporate panic. "We've been hiding it for months, sneaking around London and sitting five feet apart at panels. If the world finds out because I couldn't deny how happy I looked holding her face at a diner... well, itâs a better story than a boring press release anyway."
Brittany let out a dramatic, breathless gasp, clutching her chest. "Oh, stop it. Stop being a romantic squire, my heart cannot take it"
Sarah stared at him for a long moment, finally letting out a massive, heavy sigh that signaled her total surrender. "Fine. We keep it in. But you are calling them right now to explain why their notifications are about to explode. And Harry?"
Harry paused, looking back at her. "Yeah?"
"Next time you want to take her out for midnight pastries," Sarah warned, pointing a accusatory finger at him, "sit on the same side of the booth so the paparazzi can't get both of your faces in the frame."
As Harry walked off the set toward the dressing rooms, already pulling out his phone to call you and confess his absolute failure at media training, Brittany looked back at the main camera lens one last time, raising her scepter in a final, triumphant salute.
"Long live the diner date," she whispered.
The second Harry cleared the soundstage doors and made it to the quiet, dimly lit concrete corridor of the studio lot, he didnât even wait to reach his dressing room. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers flying across the screen as he hit your contact.
He didn't even give you a chance to say hello when you picked up.
"Right, so before you check literally any corner of the internet, pleaseâŠ,â Harry rushed out, his voice a breathless, high-pitched tumble of words as he paced the length of the hallway, "I need to explicitly state that I was under extreme, medieval-grade psychological torture.â
On the other end of the line, you paused, the distant sound of your own trailer's coffee maker humming in the background. "Harry... what did you do?"
Harry closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool concrete wall, a helpless, incredibly sheepish smile taking over his face. "You know how Sarah told me to keep my guard up because Brittany Broski was a tactical mastermind?"
"Yes..."
"Right. Well. She had a damn photo," Harry confessed, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears flared up to that familiar crimson shade all over again. "The one from our date, four in the morning down by the flat. The one where I looked like a completely besotted idiot while we ate those stale croissants."
You let out a stunned, breathless laugh on the other end of the line. "Harry, noâ You rubbed your temple. âPlease tell me you lied like a criminalâ
âLie? Y/n I completely disintegrated," he groaned, throwing his head back and looking up at the studio rafters. "I buried my face in my hands, I turned the color of a fire engine, and then...â He groaned âthen, because I entirely forgot how to fucking lie, I- I just told her I wanted to take you out like a normal person. I basically looked dead into the lens and handed the kingdom the keys to our castle."
"Oh my god," you gasped, your laughter bubbling through the line, completely unbothered by the sheer corporate catastrophe of it all. "Sarah is going to murder you. We are dead. Our PR team is currently organizing a hunt party⊠Actualy I hear them knocking at my door.â You teased him.
âOh stop it, Sarah already found me," Harry murmured, his tone dropping from frantic panic into that low, incredibly soft register he usually reserved for when the cameras were completely off. He finally stopped pacing, his chest rising and falling as a massive wave of pure relief washed over him. "But... we're keeping it in the edit. I told her that we were done hiding. I told her I'm tired of sitting five feet apart from you on panels."
The line went quiet for a heartbeat, the casual, easy warmth of your shared reality settling over the phone.
"You really told her that?" you asked softly.
"Word for word," Harry said, his voice steady, a brilliant, proud grin breaking across his face in the quiet corridor. "So... prepare your notifications. Within about forty eight hours or so, the entire internet is going to know that you are officially stuck with me and my horrendous taste in midnight cravings.â
"I think I can live with that," you teased, a soft smile evident in your voice. "Just make sure you buy the next round of croissants, squire."
"Consider it done, your graceâ Harry chuckled, finally walking toward his dressing room door, entirely ready to face the beautiful, viral chaos heading your way.
The game starts with harmless jokes, but quickly shifts to focus on you and Harry as the tweets call out your intense on-camera chemistry and mutual attraction.
MATERIALIST
The studio for Hot Ones was legendary, instantly recognizable by its minimalist black backdrop, the intense studio lighting that offered no place to hide, and the terrifyingly neat row of ten hot sauces lined up across the table like a culinary gauntlet. Across from you sat the iconic Sean Evans, sitting with the serene, unbothered composure of a man who had watched countless celebrities unravel in this exact room. You and Harry had signed up for a special duo episode of Truth or Dab, the high-stakes version of the show where standard media-trained evasion was entirely off the table. The rules were simple, you either answered a devastatingly personal, thoroughly researched question with absolute honesty or you took a substantial bite of a chicken wing doused in the infamous liquid fire.
âWelcome back to Truth or Dab,â Sean Evans said, his smooth, measured voice contrasting sharply with the chaotic energy vibrating on your side of the table. âI'm sitting here with the costars of the internet's absolute favorite romance, and guys, you've made it halfway through the gauntlet. Your eyes are watering, your faces are noticeably flushed, but against all odds, you've managed to answer every single question so far. Let's see how long that streak lasts.â
Harry wiped a visible bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, letting out a breathless, slightly strained laugh. The capsaicin was clearly beginning to take its toll, making his pulse visibly race against his collarbone. âI'm not going to lie to you, Sean, this is currently dissolving my stomach lining as we speak. But we're a team. We came into this together.â
âAre you?â Sean asked, a terrifyingly calm smile spreading across his face as he reached down to pick up the next prompt card. The crisp sound of the paper unfolding felt like a death knell in the quiet studio. âLet's find out. This next question is for both of you.â You braced yourself, your fingers tightening around your glass of milk like a literal lifeline, your heart doing a sudden, erratic thud against your ribs.
Sean leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, his eyes locked onto yours. âSix months ago, during a location shoot in a small coastal town in Scotland, multiple locals reported seeing the two of you at a quiet, candlelit corner table in an intimate seafood bistro on a rainy Tuesday night. There were no crew members, no scripts on the table, and one witness claimed you were holding hands across the basket of bread. Romantic." Sean paused, letting the weight of the rumor hang in the air. âThe internet has debated this for half a year. So, for the absolute truth, was this an official, off-set date? Or... do you want to take a bite of the Last Dab?â
The studio went completely, agonizingly silent. The casual, polite smile you had practiced in the mirror froze entirely on your face, and your throat went completely dry. Scotland. The tiny bistro with the foggy, condensated windows where you both thought you were entirely safe from the public eye. Panic swirled in your chest as you looked down at the question card, then over at Harry, the back to the card.
Harryâs reaction was instantaneous, and it completely bypassed every shred of pr training, media caution he possessed. His eyes widened in a flash of genuine, frantic panic. He didn't look at the cameras, and he didn't even look at Sean. His gaze snapped entirely to you, observing the slight tremor in your hand as you reached tentatively toward the wing on your plate, clearly prepared to take the hit to save your privacy.
Before your fingers could even brush the food, Harry lunged across the small space separating your chairs. âNo, no, no,â he muttered rapidly, his voice cracking with a raw, protective urgency that shattered the polished, lighthearted veneer of the show. âDon't touch it. Don't eat it.â
âHuh? Harry, I can just do it, it's fine...â you started, but he was already moving with a frenetic, desperate speed.
In one swift, reckless motion, Harry snatched the bottle of The Last Dab directly off the table. His hands were shaking slightly from a combination of the heat and sheer adrenaline as he unscrewed the cap and aggressively shook a massive, violent dollop of the thick, mustard-colored sludge directly onto his own wing, far exceeding the standard drop required by the game.
âIt's too hot,â Harry insisted, his voice dropping into a frantic, hushed whisper meant entirely for your ears, completely forgetting the six camera setup recording his every move. âSeriously, your spice tolerance is horrendous, you'll actually pass out on the chair. I'll just do it. I'll take the hit for this one.â
"Harry, you really don't have to do thisâ"
"I'm doing it, its fine" he interrupted, his jaw set in a line of absolute, unyielding determination despite the flush on his cheeks.
Without giving himself another second to overthink the chemical warfare he was about to inflict on his body, Harry picked up his heavily coated wing and took a massive, agonizing bite. He chewed furiously as the liquid fire instantly assaulted his senses. Within seconds, his face turned a spectacular, terrifying shade of deep red. His eyes watered instantly, a stray tear spilling over his eyelashes and tracking down his cheek as he choked down the meat, coughing heavily into the crook of his elbow.
âOh, wow,â Sean said, looking genuinely impressed, a rare look of pure awe breaking through his usual stoic demeanor as he watched Harry frantically reach for a fresh jug of milk. âHarry went straight for the ultimate sacrifice play, didn't even let you consider answering the question.â
You watched Harry chug the milk, his shoulders shaking as he tried to survive the voluntary poisoning. Your chest tightened with a sudden, overwhelming warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with the hot sauces on the table. It was the most public, loud confession he could have possibly made, choosing intense physical suffering over the slightest risk of you having to publicly deny, or in the worst case, confirm what that rainy night in Scotland had actually meant to both of you.
âAre you alright?â you whispered, entirely ignoring Sean as you placed a comforting, steadying hand on Harry's trembling forearm.
Harry put the milk carton back down onto the table, breathing heavily through his mouth, his eyes bloodshot but fixed entirely on you. âYeah,â he wheezed out, offering a pathetic yet incredibly soft little smile. âtotally fine, completely worth it.â Behind the cameras, the entire production crew was grinning like madmen, undeniable domestic panic of the moment hanging heavy and sweet in the studio air.
When the episode finally aired the following Thursday, the internet completely ignored the hot sauce rankings, poor Sean, and the rest of the interview. The clip of Harryâs frantic, protective meltdown was clipped and microanalyzed within the hour. The fans didn't even need the answer to Sean's question anymore, the sheer vpanic of Harry's refusal to answer was the only confirmation they would ever need. The headlines in the gossip columns and celebrity centered podcasts kept repeating the same conclusion.
âSean asked if they went on a secret date, and instead of just saying âno,â Harry Collett practically swallowed a spoonful of liquid fire just to protect their private weekend. If that isn't a physical confession of love, I don't know what is.â
Part V of the interview series -> Architectural Digest
poly!azris x Hewn City!reader who is apparently their third [3.9k words]
p1 | p2 | p3 | p4 | p5
summary: Azriel stumbles upon a half-dead fae in Hewn City when the bond snaps, rushing him to get you help. Except he already has a mate, Eris, who comes and confirms that you are, indeed their mate. Except you aren't aware of this. Except you kind of resent the Inner Circle. Except you're terrified of the Night Court and their allies. Except you're quite sure you're not of sound mind.
CW: brief mention of injuries but they're not described, reader was "beaten and assaulted" but neither are described, don't worry about the back story ok?, reader tries to yeet herself off the cliff....twice, Eris being a condescending fuck (but in a hot way), honestly this is mostly crack/fluff I think? it sounds way more intense than it actually is
âYouâve got to stop with the pacing, brother.â Cassian groans, watching dizzily as Azriel paces his one hundred and thirty seventh step into the hallway outside of the door you're sequestered behind.Â
Azriel merely grunts in response, continuing in his pacing. His head is a flurry of thoughts, questions, contemplation. Two mates? Two? How is that possible? Is it even possible? Has Azriel simply gone mad? Has he been dreaming this entire time and this is just the climactic finale of some torturous nightmare?
âWell,â Eris huffs out with a definitive breath as he retreats from your room, Azriel unable to even steal a glimpse of you before the Autumn heir closes the door behind him, âitâs true.â
âIt canât be.â Cassian denies immediately, standing from his position on the hallway floor and stretching his wings out after the time spent bent over.Â
Eris sneers at him. âAre you suggesting Iâm lying, General?âÂ
Cassian snorts, clearly on the verge of following up with some quip of his own, likely decidedly far less polite when Azriel beats him to it.
âSheâs our mate.âÂ
Not a question, but a clarifying statement; Azriel wasnât crazy, he really did feel the bond snap when he stumbled upon your lifeless form in the underbelly of the Court of Nightmares.Â
âIndeed.â Eris drawls, appearing bored for all intents and purposes, but Azriel knew better; could see the lingering tension in his shoulders, the way Erisâ gaze remains distant as he considers their new reality.Â
âSoâŠwhat now?â Feyre asks aloud, breaking the silence and encouraging Rhys to straighten himself from where he leaned casually against the wall.Â
âWellâŠwe let Madja finish up, first of all.â He offers with a weary sigh. âThen I guess we try to find out more about her.â
âWho is she?â Nesta starts from the opposite end of the hallway.
âWho did this to her?â Cassian continues.Â
âHave there been other instances of a fae having more than one fated mate?â Feyre hums thoughtfully.Â
âWhere will she stay?â Lucien wonders, and it appears Eris feels this is a conversation worth having immediately.Â
âI do not want her in Autumn.â He states plainly, the determination in his tone stoked by the fire in his eyes. âI want her far away from Beron and his cronies.âÂ
Azriel canât help but agree and thanks the stars that Erisâ first mating bond to him would shield the scent of a new, additional one from his horrid court.Â
âAnd I donât want her here.â Azriel concurs, Rhys turning to look at his spymaster bemusedly.Â
âSheâs safe here, brother, I-â
âSheâs too close.â Azriel growls in response, wings flaring as he glares at his High Lord, the mating bond thrumming with protectiveness in his chest.Â
The Moonstone Palace is too close to Hewn City, too close to the miscreants and sycophants who lurk in the Court of Nightmares, too close to whoever beat and assaulted you and left you for dead.Â
âI understand what youâre feeling, Az, I do. But we do not know what sheâs involved in or what sheâs seen. There very well could be a reason that-â
âRhysand, if you try to stand here and tell me that there is any appropriate reason that a female should have been beaten and assaulted to the extent that she was before being left to die â least of all my mate â I will burn your entire court to the ground.â Eris replied smoothly, evenly, coldly.Â
âIf it was good enough to keep my mate safe, it is good enough for yours.â Rhys replies darkly, standing straighter when this elicits a serpentine smirk to grow on Erisâ face as he gives Feyre a smarmy once over.Â
âAgree to disagree.âÂ
âHow much damage can one female on the brink of death cause your home, brother?â Cassian offers quickly, if not on Erisâ behalf then on Azrielâs; an attempt at peacemaker. âSurely no more than you and me after a night of drinking.âÂ
âIt is not the property I am concerned about,â he hisses at his General before returning his glare to Eris, âshe may be your mate but this is my court and family, and right now she is a risk to us all.âÂ
âWell, okay. But she doesn't exactly have the best odds, does she?â Lucien offers evenly. âSheâs wildly outnumbered.âÂ
âIâve seen what fae resort to in final acts of desperation.â Rhys retorts lowly.
Eris shoots him a smile that doesnât meet his eyes. âThen it sounds like youâre more than well-equipped to handle her.â
âEris-â
âRhysand, keeping your mate here might have worked when there were few who knew of her presence, but we donât have that luxury. Besides, if you think Iâm letting that fae out of my sight you are sorely mistaken; thereâs no risk here of my mate running off to trade all of your secrets to her Spring Court lover.âÂ
Rhys takes a threatening step forward at that, blocked by both Azriel â protecting his mate â and Cassian â protecting his High Lord from himself.Â
âMother above, itâs like you want to die.â Cassian sneers over his shoulder before turning back to Rhys. âThe prickâs got a point, though. The situation is hardly comparable.â
âI say let them bring her to Velaris.â Nesta drawls, clearly growing bored of the conversation. âIf youâre so worried about one measly female in the face of two of Prythianâs most notorious warriors, the General of the Autumn armies, trained Valkyries, two daematiâs, andâŠwhatever Lucien is-â
âThanksâŠâ Lucien huffs under his breath.
â-then you have bigger concerns regarding your court.âÂ
Rhys and Azriel hold each otherâs gazes, a silent stand off between the two males.
âIf you do not want her in Velaris then I will take her to one of the cabins outside of the city, but it will be far harder for me to keep her safe and thus leave her more of a risk to your court, as youâre so worried about.âÂ
After a few more moments, Rhysâ jaw twitches. âSo help me Cauldron, Azriel, if I live to regret this-â
âYou can take my wings.â He agrees readily, earning him a concerned look from his mate and a raised eyebrow from Cassian. He doesnât even know you, but he already knows he would lay down his life before letting any more harm come of you, would happily lose his wings if it means keeping you safe.
He just hopes it doesnât come to that.Â
The first thing you notice as you wake up is an overwhelming sense of calm and safety.Â
Which is weird, because you have no idea where the fuck you are.
How were you alive? Why were you alive? Because you shouldnât be alive which means someone made sure you survived.Â
The sense of calm and safety vanishes the second you open your eyes only to be accosted by the sight of an unfamiliar room. An unfamiliar, decadent room; dark woods make up the majority of the furniture and crimson stone walls were adorned with paintings and metalwork alike.Â
You hardly have a moment to panic before two, identical, wraith-like beings appear before you. Neither smile at you â though neither appear all that imposing, either â as they approach the bed and lift the blanket from your form.Â
They take quick stock of your wounds â if theyâre healing properly, they do not say â before one of them turns to gather clothing for you.Â
If you were of sound mind, you think you might have put up a bigger fight; formulated questions, demanded answers, insisted you could dress yourself.Â
As it is, you do no such thing, blindly allowing them to braid your (clean) hair and dress your (bandaged) body before they escort you out into a hallway.Â
The walls of the hallway are hewn from the same, imposingly red stone smoothed to perfection, fae lights refracting off of the polished surface and making the high walls look that much higher.Â
Now, itâs important to note that â again â if you were of sound mind, you might have wondered where these twins are taking you; you mightâve been bold enough to ask them, even. Perhaps youâd even have the wherewithal to grab a heavy candelabra from one of the tables lining the hall in an effort to have something â anything â to defend yourself with.Â
As it is, the twins flank you on either side and silently guide you toâŠ
A dining room?
A very large dining room; grand, opulent. But your focus is not on the gilded chandelier nor the priceless table with matching chairs big enough to seat an army of giants. No, your gaze is caught on something that simply does not compute in your brain
Large frames hold artwork so realistic, so incredibly vivid, that you can almost swear the stars dotted in the sky wink at you and the lights of a beautiful city flicker in the scene below.Â
And then you notice it; a large door, open, gauzy curtains blowing in with a gentle breeze.Â
A breeze.Â
This is not a wall of artwork; this is a wall of windows. Windows looking out into a night sky and a village teeming with life and-
âItâs nice to see you looking so well,â a voice startles you out of your quickly mounting panic, only to throw you into an even quicker panic when you find The High Lord of Night smirking at you from the doorway leading in from what appears to be a study, âI have to admit, I didnât like your odds.â
âAwe, come now, brother,â a large hand lands on the High Lordâs shoulder with a resounding smack before the Illyrian General itâs attached to appears behind him, âI had full confidence in her.âÂ
With this, who you knew to be Morrigan and the Night Courtâs Spymaster materialize from another door way â son of a fucking bitch, this place is a maze.Â
The wraiths disappeared at some point from your side without warning or your knowledge, finding you staring down the majority of the Night Court from the opposite side of the table.Â
Morrigan and the Shadowsinger stand near the head of the table to your left, the High Lord and the Lord of Bloodshed standing in front of you with nothing but a table â surely simple kindling to the likes of an Illyrian warrior â standing between you.Â
The doorway you had just been directed through is to your back, though you arenât keen on turning around; not sure where it would take you nor who waits on the other side of it.Â
The only direction left is to your right; towards the wall of windows and an open door.Â
An open door.
An open door to the outside. To fresh air and wind and the night sky and freedom.Â
You bolt.Â
It was perhaps a foolish attempt on your part, one made out of desperation and not much else. But, as youâve said, sound minds and whatnot.Â
The Lord of Bloodshed catches you easily, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he hoists you up off the ground with little-to-no effort on his part and hangs you in air jail.Â
You squeal and kick and thrash with everything you have which is, admittedly, not a lot considering your current state. Youâre not sure how long you've been unconscious, how long youâve gone without food or water, nor what kind of injuries you sustained and are still healing from.Â
Still, you didnât go down without a fight the first time; you sure as hell arenât about to go down without one this time.Â
The General merely transfers you from one thick arm to the other, pinning your arms to your side as an invisible force holds your ankles together, exceedingly gentle despite the circumstances and the Illyrianâs ironclad grip on you.
âCassian.â A low warning sounds from the open door you just fled through.Â
âWell what would you have me do, Azriel?â Cassian spits, exasperated. âWould you have preferred I let her fling herself over the railing?â
âYouâre frightening her.â Morrigan sing-songs with a nervous grimace.Â
âDâawe Iâm not frightening you, am I, doll?â Cassian asks as he jostles you in his arms, craning his neck in an attempt to meet your gaze.
You donât â canât â meet his gaze, keeping your eyes pointed at the endless night sky past the mountains on the horizon that you canât see through the quickly pooling tears as your breaths come out in short, panicked spurts.
How the fuck did you find yourself in the presence of the High Lord and his Inner Circle? How in the ever loving hell did you make it out of Hewn City?
Youâre supposed to be dead; you should be dead. They wanted you dead!
They wanted you deadâŠ
Oh, gods. Thatâs why youâre here. They shipped you off so someone else could finish the job, wanted you to fall at the hand of Prythianâs most ruthless fae.Â
The Shadowsinger carries enough knives on him to make it easy; fun, even. Though youâve seen the High Lord cut down large males without even a shift in his expression. And they donât call the male whose arms you currently find yourself in The Lord of Bloodshed for nothing. There are others in there too, waiting. You just know it. Wherever the Lord of Bloodshed is, Lady Death shanât be far.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
âMy, my.â A lilting voice sings, stealing your attention away from fruitlessly trying to pry Cassianâs arms off of your form in favour of looking at the newcomer.Â
Striking auburn hair â two heads of it â appear from behind the Shadowsinger and the High Lord, Morrigan having disappeared back into the dining room while you were distracted.Â
âWhat do we have here?â
âAn escape attempt.â The High Lord of Night huffs, though his eyes carry a softness that threatens to disarm you.Â
He smirks at you, and you frantically check your mental shields to ensure he hadnât heard you; they were still up from before you fell unconscious.Â
âBefore dinner?â The same voice adds, stepping further out onto the veranda as he considers the way Cassian is holding you aloft. You knew of him; recognized him. Heir to Autumn, Eris Vanserra. âThatâs a touch rude, darling.âÂ
âSâprobably not her fault.â A female huffs as she appears with a glass of wine in hand; Lady Death. âMost do run when they see that big olâ bat.âÂ
Her mate merely snorts at her.
âI donât blame her. Youâre rearranging her organs with how tightly youâre restraining her.â Eris deadpans.Â
âAnd what would you suggest I do instead, Eris?â Cassian sneers. âLet her go?â
âPrecisely.â
âNot a good idea.â The High Lord chuckles. âThe little fae clearly has a death wish; the first attempt wasnât successful so sheâs opting to take matters into her own hands.âÂ
Is that motherfucker in your head? NoâŠno. Whether or not you are currently of sound mind notwithstanding, your mental shields are intact.Â
You notice then that Lady Death and the youngest Vanserra male had retreated back into the dining room leaving you alone with the High Lord, his General and Spymaster, and the heir of Autumn.Â
âYou wonât run, will you darling?â Eris purrs; a trap wrapped in tissue and topped with a bow.Â
Your eyes flicker over to the Shadowsinger whose stoic face betrays absolutely nothing, though his shadows seem to writhe and titter around him, vibrating with an invisible energy youâre not sure you would ever associate with the spymaster.Â
Something about his steadfast gaze, though, gives you a delusional sense of calm and safety.Â
You are definitely not of sound mind.
Still, you turn your gaze back to Eris and offer him a careful nod of your head, praying to the Cauldron you appear even remotely genuine.
With a subtle nod from Eris, Cassian cautiously lowers you to the ground and releases his hold on you.
You hold your breath, standing stock still as you wait for Cassian to step away from you and give you some space to breathe.
And then, sucking in a deep breath, you take off in the direction of the railing.Â
Your fingers donât even have a chance to meet the stone balustrade before you slam into a solid figure and are enveloped in warmth.
âWell, see, now youâve made me look like a liar.â Eris tsks, turning you by your shoulders and ushering you towards the doors that Cassian and the High Lord have disappeared through, though the Shadowsinger remains, wings and arms both unfolded as if ready for a fight.
You try to dig your heels into the ground and twist out of Erisâ grasp but the male merely sighs tiredly before he hoists you up, tucking you under his arm like you were merely a sack of sugar.Â
âLet me guess,â the High Lord drawls impishly as the three of you enter the now full dining room; every seat taken save three in the middle, âshe made another run for it.â
âShut it.â The spymaster groans.Â
The second Eris tries to lower you into the middle of three empty seats, you reach for the sharpest utensil you spot only for your entire place setting to disappear.Â
âVery well,â Eris sighs again, plopping you down onto his left knee as the Shadowsinger sits beside you, shadows flitting forward to swipe the two steak knives set at each male's plates and disappearing with them.
Conversation pulses around you as though having a strange fae sat upon the lap of a future High Lord at dinner is a commonality around here.Â
Cassian tried to ask you your name.Â
Morrigan asked who had attacked you.
The High Lord asked why you were attacked.Â
The High Lady asked you how you were feeling now that your injuries were healing.
Amren asked you if you were hard of hearing or just dumb; Azriel let out a warning sound from your left.Â
Eris asked if you were hungry.
Every question goes unanswered. They donât seem to mind too much, happy to talk around you and eat their delicious smelling, decadent dinner that could have fed half of Hewn if rationed properly as you stare out the windows.
Windows.Â
Twice throughout the meal, Eris tries to bring the fork up to your lips. The first time you merely turned your face away from him; a mistake, seeing you meet the hazel gaze of the Shadowsinger next to you. Â
âI know youâre hungry, sweetheart.â Eris purrs into the shell of your ear. You hitch your shoulder to shoo him off, earning you a chuckle that vibrates in his chest before he carries on with his meal.Â
The second time, though, you dare to swat his hand away.Â
âIâd be careful if I were you.â He murmurs lowly, repositioning you on his lap so your hips fall between his thighs and you are forced to lean back into his arms. âNeed I remind you that youâre playing with fire?âÂ
âBe nice, Eris.â The Shadowsinger chuckles quietly, though he seems almostâŠshy when your gaze turns to him.
âIâm being very nice.â Eris huffs petulantly, earning him a scoff from across the table.Â
âYouâre not nice.â The Youngest Vanserra counters.Â
âI am lovely.âÂ
Dinner carries on with a lively debate on whether or not Eris can be described as lovely, and before you (and your empty stomach) know it, the group is moving to a sitting area.Â
Eris stands â you still within his grasp â and moves towards a loveseat as your eyes track the doors longingly, watching Morrigan shut them with a click of finality.Â
Whatever end you were to find yourself in would be at the hands of the Night Courtâs Inner Circle, it seems.Â
âAzriel, hold this for me, please.â Eris demands, holding you aloft as though he was merely passing the Shadowsinger a book.
Azriel huffs a quiet laugh but makes room for you between his legs before accepting you from Eris.
âOh come on, Vanserra,â Cassian slurs, quickly descending into drunkenness as the night wears on, âI think she can handle sitting by herself now, no?âÂ
âNo.â Eris responds, clipped. âSheâs lost her sitting-independently privileges.âÂ
Honestly, you canât exactly fault the male for his rather astute statement; he had given you the opportunity to prove yourself trustworthy and you had, indeed, squandered it.Â
You also have to hand it to him for his foresight. If given a second chance to fling yourself off the balcony, you absolutely would have taken it.
Between the Illyrianâs wingspan and the thick thighs he parted to make room for you, the entire loveseat is occupied. No one else seems to mind, though; Cassian and the High Lady even opting to sit on the floor as they imbibe.Â
âSo, youâre seriously not going to say a word?â Lady Death snarks, her piercing gaze forcing you to look at your lap in shame.Â
Movement registers in your periphery and you flinch, hard. Hands rising as you cower towards the next closest thing, which happens to be the male whose lap you are seated in.Â
Azriel stops breathing for a beat, chest halting as his entire body turns rigid, before slowly raising his hand to accept the glass of liquor Eris was handing to him.
âNo one here is going to hurt you.â Azriel murmurs softly, a gloved hand cupping your elbow before his thumb begins trailing soothing stripes against the skin there leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shiver, a few shadows slithering up from their master and weaving themselves around your arms; you start to tremble.
âThey wonât hurt you either,â he promises, the warmth of his body against yours and the warmth of his breath against your cheeks so at odds with the misty tingles of the shadows along your skin.Â
Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the shadows weave and wind through your fingers, up your arms, through your braid and then back again. The weight of the last few days catches up to you, and you donât even have the time to mourn the fact that youâve only managed to stay awake for about three hours before succumbing to exhaustion, hunger, and your healing injuries.Â
Azriel barely dares to move his chin when he feels your head hit his shoulder, looking down at your sleeping form in his arms.Â
This is his first time gazing upon you â his mate â without you being on death's door or utterly terrified and panicked. While he wonders when he might get to see you smile or even, he doesnât know, learn your name, he canât help but smile down at the image of you sleeping somewhat peacefully, tucked safely into his arms.Â
âAwe, would you look at that.â Eris comments from behind, forcing Azriel to crane his neck back as the heir of Autumn leans over the back of the loveseat, âshe tuckered herself out.â
Azriel huffs a breath from his nose, the roll of his eyes accompanied by an exasperated shake of his head. âYouâre such an ass, Eris.â
Eris hums in acknowledgement, gaze softening the longer he keeps his eyes on your sleeping form. âYeah, probably.â
I watched an insane amount of TikTok and other short form videos for the story I'm writing right now. I gotta say, afterwards, I found myself picking up my phone and opening the apps, almost unconsciously. I was walking and I thought about watching some vids at the same time. I was on hold to the ATO... maybe some videos.
I also happen to specialise in gambling addiction (although I'm not practicing in that area right now), and all I could fucking think about was how these fucking apps were conditioning me in the same fucking way gambling apps do. To be constantly plugged in, consuming. To not even think about just picking it up and having a look. To feel bored when I wasn't watching them, to think about watching them when I wasn't watching them....
That shit is fucking evil.
I deleted it. I'm not exposing myself to that.
That shit will fry your dopamine/reward system so fucking bad you will never read a book or watching a movie again without it.
Love yourself and your potential enough to put that fucking shit away. Watch longer form things that require focus and engagement. Listen to podcasts and audiobooks. Read books. DO ANYTHING BUT CONSUME SHORT FORM CONTENT IN AN UNSTRUCTURED WAY.
If you MUST consume it (I'm sure people will be like 'but my classmates' or 'but my own channel'.... etc), do it in a siloed and structured way. 30 minutes between x time and x time on x day. Focus on it. Don't eat and do it. Watch each short form video to completion. Engage critically with the content. ANd never watch them first thing in the morning or last thing at night.
PLEASE. From a gambling professional, short form videos ping your SAME circuitry and you will fuck up your life and your brain so badly if you don't put up guardrails for yourself.
